By the time mid-morning light filtered through the silk-draped windows, I had already bathed, dressed, and sent three letters.
Each was written in a different hand.
Each was delivered by a different person.
None of them would be traced back to me.
"I don't need assassins," I murmured, stretching my legs out along the edge of the chaise as I leaned back on one elbow. "I need gardeners."
Shi Yaozu stood near the screen wall, arms folded, eyes scanning the room like he was expecting it to erupt into flames.
He still hadn't spoken much since the night before. I knew he had questions, but I also knew he wouldn't ask them—not unless he thought I needed them answered. That was the kind of silence I valued most.
