The Ashbluff estate came into view as the aircraft dipped toward the private landing strip: long, low buildings of pale stone, gardens laid out in careful terraces, nothing shouting for attention. The Empire built its palaces to be looked at. The West built them to be lived in, and let you work out the cost on your own.
Jin was on his feet before the engines had finished winding down. "Terrace," he said. "Before you call Paul."
"You don't trust my decision?"
"I don't trust anyone's decision made ten thousand metres up with a notebook on its knee." He held the door for me. "Humour me."
The terrace looked out over the gardens, where the paths were lit by small glowing flowers that opened as the light went. A servant set down tea and vanished. Jin dropped into a chair, stretched his legs out, and nodded at the notebook under my arm.
"Go on, then. What is it?"
