Home #2
Mei’s office smells of paper and cold tea and something faintly metallic that I have learned not to ask about.
She sits behind her desk with her hands folded and her expression so carefully neutral that I cannot determine whether she is furious or entertained.
Both, possibly. With Mei, they are not mutually exclusive.
“Your Majesty.” She inclines her head. “The mission was successful.”
“Honeymoon,” I correct.
She looks at me with a blank face. “Tomor is prepared for sentencing. Lord Shen remains in custody pending your decision on his release. The evidence against him has been thoroughly disproved.”
“Good.”
“There is also...” She pauses. Mei does not pause. “A situation.”
“Beyond the ballad?”
“Related to it.” She produces a sheet of paper from her desk—a tally of some kind, rendered in her precise hand. “There is a betting pool.”
I take the paper. Scan it. Read it again.
“This is a wager on when they will ‘admit their feelings.’”
Lián takes the paper from my hand, scanning the columns with the focus she usually reserves for tactical assessments. “The odds on the long shots are terrible. Who’s running this book?”
“You are not betting on my agents.”
“I’m evaluating the market.”
Mei’s expression does not change. “The kitchen staff favor the winter festival. The archivists are optimistic about next month. The guards have split between ‘never’ and ‘secretly already happened.’”
“They are both married,” I say. “To women. Ailun writes to his wife constantly.”
“This has not dampened enthusiasm.” Mei’s face remains perfectly composed. “The junior ministers have begun taking sides. Chancellor Ling’s assistant has a substantial wager on ‘tragic separation followed by dramatic reunion.’“
From behind me, Wei speaks. I had not heard him enter, which means he wanted me to know he was there without announcing himself.
“They performed well, Your Majesty. Whatever else may be said about them, their professional competence is not in question.”
“Good.”
“Also.” He shifts his weight—the closest Wei comes to expressing sentiment. “It is good to have you back, Your Majesties.”
From Wei, this is an emotional outpouring.
“Thank you, General.”
He nods once and assumes his customary position near the door—not quite in the room, not quite out of it, ready for anything.
An hour later, I am walking the gardens with Lián when we come across Ailun sitting on a bench. Her expression shifts to one of profound scholarly interest. This cannot end well.
“Your wife,” she says, settling beside him. “What does she think about Tairui?”
Ailun considers this with the same careful attention he would give a tactical assessment. “She has never met him.”
“But you have mentioned him? In letters?”
“I...” He frowns. “I suppose. He is my partner. I mention work.”
“How often?”
“Most letters, I think. We are together constantly. There is usually something to report.”
“And what does she say? About him?”
“She says he sounds intense.” Ailun’s brow furrows. “I do not understand why she would say that. He is simply thorough.”
Lián’s lips press together. I recognize this expression. She is trying very hard not to laugh.
“And does your wife find it strange that you write about him so often?”
“Why would she find it strange?”
“No reason.” Lián rises as I reach them, her face the picture of innocence. “Thank you, Agent Ailun. This has been very illuminating.”
“I do not understand what was illuminating about it.”
“No,” she agrees. “I do not imagine you do.”
She takes my arm as we walk away, and I can feel her shaking with suppressed laughter. “His wife,” she manages. “Thinks Tairui sounds intense. He writes about him in MOST LETTERS.”
“You are making this worse.”
“I am making it funnier. There is a difference.”
We round a corner and nearly collide with Tairui, who is pacing the corridor with the energy of a caged animal. He sees us and stops.
“There is a version in the barracks,” he says without preamble. “A barracks version. It has different lyrics. There is a verse about—” He breaks off. Swallows. “About ‘eyes that speak.’“
“So I heard.”
“My eyes do not speak. I have normal eyes. They observe things. That is what eyes do.”
“What do they observe?” Lián asks. “When you look at Ailun?”
“A man I work with. Who is OBLIVIOUS. To EVERYTHING. He did not notice the innkeeper’s daughter. He did not notice the archivist. He did not notice the village girls with the BARN.”
“But you noticed.”
“Of course I noticed. I have EYES.”
“The eyes that speak.”
“I am going to walk off a cliff.”
“There is something about a cliff and a sunset in verse seven, I think.” Lián says, her voice turning thoughtful.
Tairui’s face does something complicated and defeated. He bows stiffly, mutters something about checking the perimeter, and retreats down the corridor at a pace that suggests flight.
I like her, Tianlong observes. I have always liked her, but I like her more now.
You are both terrible.
Yes. That is why we are entertaining.
I catch Lián’s eye. She is watching me with something like warmth—the expression she wears when she thinks I am not looking. I am always looking. I cannot help it.
“You are enjoying this,” she says.
“I am tolerating it.”
“With visible enjoyment.”
I do not dignify this with a response. The corner of my mouth betrays me anyway.
The cells are cooler than the rest of the palace, and they smell of stone and dampness and age.
I walk the corridor alone—or nearly alone.
Lián follows three steps behind, close enough to witness, far enough to give me space.
She understands without being told that this is something I must do myself.
Lord Shen is in the third cell. He sits on the narrow bed with his hands folded in his lap and his back perfectly straight, maintaining the posture of a nobleman even after three weeks of imprisonment. They have not treated him poorly—I gave explicit orders—but they have not given him
luxuries either. His robes are clean but worn. His face is thinner than I remember.
He looks up when I enter. His expression does not change.
“Your Majesty.”
“Lord Shen.” I stop outside the bars. The guard who accompanied us waits at the corridor’s end, out of earshot. “You were framed. The evidence has been traced to Tomor. He was Xiang’s contact within your household.”
Shen absorbs this. His face remains stone, but something flickers in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. Understanding. Not surprise.
“Tomor.” His voice is flat. “I trusted him for seven years.”