The Xue residence sat behind red lacquered gates that had watched generations come and go without ever feeling the need to impress anyone. The stone walls surrounding the compound carried the wear of decades, their bases darkened by Beijing winters that had long since become part of the house's history.
Inside, the household had been awake since before dawn.
Servants crossed the courtyards carrying tables, linens, and flower arrangements, weaving around one another with the ease of people who had done this countless times before. Nobody wasted movement. Nobody wasted words. The family dinner happened every year, but that never seemed to make preparing for it any less complicated.
Under the osmanthus tree in the second courtyard, Margaret Xue watched the activity over the rim of her teacup.
For a while she said nothing.
Then her eyes drifted toward the older wing, and her expression immediately soured.
"I swear this courtyard gets smaller every time I come back."
