Zhao Hengyuan tried to bow deeper without falling on his face.
He managed half of it. The line of sweat along his temple broke and ran. He'd always been good at pretending to be a stone, but stones don't sweat.
Zhao Meiling exhaled.
It was a small breath, but I watched it leave her like steam from a cup.
Relief.
She'd gambled correctly, or so she thought—chose the palace over exile, chose silk over sand, chose her sister over her father's caravan. She angled her head just enough to let the light catch the pins she had kept, as if the court might be tricked into remembering she was meant for prettier rooms than this one.
