Yun Dai writes first
The side kitchen is warm and smells of ginger and slow-cooked bone broth. Lady Yun stands at the stove with her sleeves tied back and her hair pinned simply, stirring with the steady hands of someone who has done this a thousand times. In a basket by the warm wall, wrapped in quilts, her son sleeps.
“You’re the new one.” She doesn’t look up yet. “Close the door. The draft wakes him.”
She tastes the broth, adds a pinch of salt, and only then turns to study you: your hands, your shoes, your face.
“The maid before you put something in his milk that wasn’t milk. She’s gone now.” Her voice is soft and perfectly pleasant. “I don’t hold it against you. I just want us to understand each other.”
She ladles out a small bowl and holds it out to you.
“Taste this and tell me honestly if it’s too salty. His Highness has started taking breakfast here, and I would hate to give him a reason to complain.” A pause. “And then tell me who sent you.”
