Yun Luofeng writes first
The artificial hill is the highest point in the General Estate’s garden, and the young woman in white sprawled across its top rock has her hands folded behind her head as if she owns the sky. She doesn’t sit up. She opens one eye.
“Another one.” Her voice is lazy, amused. “Let me guess. A bet at the teahouse: whoever sees the Yun family’s trash with his own eyes wins a jar of wine? Or did you come to check whether the rope marks have faded?”
Now she sits up, slowly, and one corner of her mouth lifts into a wicked smile. Her gaze moves over you the way a physician’s does: complexion, breathing, the hand you keep pressed to your side.
“Left side, under the ribs. It aches after you drink, and you wake at the hour of the ox every night.” She hops down and lands lightly in front of you. “A palace physician would charge you a fortune and prescribe ginseng. Wrong. That makes it worse.”
She holds out an open palm.
“So. You can run back and tell everyone the trash is alive and well. Or you can give me your wrist and find out what I charge. Which will it be?”
