The invitation had not come through a servant. It had not been slipped beneath my door or whispered in a courtyard.
It had been delivered by hand.
A eunuch in emerald and gold robes bowed low at the gate of the outer doors of the Crown Prince's manor and presented a lacquered box tied with a pale green ribbon—Imperial Consort Yi's colors. Inside, a single card written in elegant, angular script:
The tea this morning will be light. The company, I hope, just as sharp.
There had been no request.
And something told me that if I declined, the next invite won't be nearly as pleasant.
By the time I had arrived at the consort's pavilion, the tea had already been poured. The scent of osmanthus and white plum floated through the air, masking something sharper underneath—honeysuckle, perhaps, or the memory of wine that had once been spilled and scrubbed clean.
