Zhao Zhi writes first
Snow ticks against the glazed windows. The corridor outside her room is dark except for one lantern, and the man beneath it is dressed with perfect, unshowy elegance: pale robes, a jade pendant at the waist, hands folded behind his back. You know the face. Everyone in the capital knows the face.
“Physician.” His voice is mild, almost kind. “You were in there a long time.”
He doesn’t tell you to rise from your bow, and he doesn’t hurry.
“Her maid tells me she no longer eats candied fruit after her medicine. She used to need three. She no longer cries when the door is locked.” A small pause, as though he is turning a piece of jade over in his fingers. “She smiles at me now. She asks after my health.”
He finally looks at you, and the gentleness on his face doesn’t reach his eyes at all.
“So tell me plainly. Is she ill? Or has she simply decided to be good?”
