"Name the law," Mingyu pressed, not moving from the space between Zhao Hengyuan and Xinying's couch. "Quote me the line that lets a minister place his daughters in my bed by volume."
The Left Prime Minister Zhao Hengyuan's mouth worked. "Rites… precedent… the stability of—"
"Not one of those are written in law," Mingyu cut across, even as a blade laid flat. "That's just greed."
The old man flushed again.
Zhao Meiling shifted behind him, the movement small and miserable; her eyes slid to Xinying as if there might be mercy there.
Instead of mercy, Xinying lifted her tea and blew once across the surface as though the room weren't trying to set itself on fire.
Deming eased a half step to Xingying's left, which was him staking ground without announcing it.
Yizhen leaned his shoulder to a pillar, fan shut, gaze bright with the kind of interest that ends with someone losing a hand.
