The Lotus Palace. Jeannie Lin

propping up the broken screen that covered the bedchamber entrance as best she could. The inner rooms she left to be sorted out later.

      She was right to move quickly. It wasn’t long before one of Mingyu’s patrons came to call, even though it was only the middle of the morning. Apparently, the earthquake had woken up the city and everyone was eager to gossip.

      Taizhu, an appointed court historian, was an occasional visitor to the Lotus, though he had been coming to speak with Mingyu quite often lately. There was a touch of gray to his beard and his face was creased with more laughter lines than frown lines. For an academic, he was an ox of a man with thick shoulders and arms. The indigo color of his robe spoke of his elevated status as a member of the Hanlin Academy.

      Yue-ying went to set a clay pot onto the tea stove in the inner chamber. It took her a moment to light the charcoal inside it. When she returned, the elderly scholar was already standing beside the wall with ink brush in hand.

      Taizhu wielded his brush like a swordsman, writing onto the wooden panels in black ink. Afterward, he stood back to admire his handiwork and read aloud:

      

      

      “‘A new Son of Heaven takes the throne. Who is it now?

      Hard to say, when each one seems like the last.

      But this time the Earth has chosen to pay homage.

      Should we all fall to our knees?’”

      

      

      With a coy look, Mingyu took the brush from the historian’s hands. She presented an elegant contrast to Taizhu’s warrior pose, with one hand holding her sleeve, her brush flowing in small, graceful movements. The old scholar generously read her addition once she had finished.

      

      

      “‘This humble servant thanks the kind gentleman for precious words.

      From a revered talent who has studied the Four Books and Five Classics.

      But the tea has not yet been poured,

      Is common courtesy no longer taught in the Hanlin Academy?’”

      

      

      He burst out laughing. “Lady Mingyu thinks I’m a grumbling old man.”

      It was a common game in the Pingkang li, the dueling of words back and forth. Yue-ying slipped past them and headed back to the inner chambers to see to the tea. She had little grasp of the sort of language the scholars enjoyed.

      The water was ready. Yue-ying measured out tea leaves into two cups and set the pot beside them on the tray. Another guest arrived as she returned to the parlor and she nearly ran into him, tea and all.

      Bai Huang was a well-known fixture of the entertainment district. He was a night owl, a flirt, a spendthrift and an eternal student, having failed the imperial exams three times. He was dressed in an opulent blue robe and his topknot was fixed with a silver pin.

      “My lord—” She started to mumble out an apology while trying to keep from spilling the tea.

      She was met with easy laughter as the young aristocrat reached out to steady the tray. His hand closed over hers and her pulse did a little leap, despite itself.

      The corners of his mouth lifted, gracing her with a sly smile, before turning to the others. “Only tea?” he asked with disappointment. “Where’s the wine?”

      Taizhu waved him over. “Ah, the young Lord Bai is always good for a few laughs.”

      Bai Huang carried the tray over to the party himself, forcing Yue-ying to follow him in an attempt to retrieve it. Her ears were burning by the time she managed to wrest the tray from him, but the nobleman was oblivious.

      “When I was awoken this morning by the earthquake, my immediate thoughts went to you, Lady Mingyu,” he said. “I worried for your safety and could not be consoled until I saw with my own eyes that you were unharmed.”

      Taizhu snorted. “Your poor suffering heart.”

      Mingyu placed a warning hand on Taizhu’s sleeve, but Bai Huang merely accepted the remark with a chuckle. He remained deaf and blind to insult, like a contented frog in a well.

      Lord Bai had taken to openly courting Mingyu over the past few months, composing effusive poetry about his loneliness, his sorrow, his aches and his pains, which he would publicly dedicate to Mingyu, reciting verses whenever present company allowed.

      If he never had to speak, then Bai Huang and Mingyu would have been perfectly suited. He was the picture of masculine beauty with prominent cheekbones and a strong, chiseled jawline. His eyes were black and always able to catch the light, highlighting the perpetual quirk of amusement on his lips. He bore the high forehead that was considered a sign of cleverness, but anyone who had come across Bai Huang knew better.

      Yue-ying made her own effort to keep the peace by pouring hot water over the leaves and setting out the cups. There was no better reminder to be civil than tea. She had to fetch another cup for Lord Bai. After preparing his drink, she glanced up to catch him watching her. The look was there for only a moment before he took his tea.

      “Up so early, you scoundrel?” the old scholar taunted. “After last night, I thought you would still be pickled in rice wine at this hour.”

      “Your concern touches me deeply, Lord Bai,” Mingyu interrupted in a soothing tone.

      He looked obliviously pleased. Taizhu shook his head, fingers pinched to the bridge of his nose. Yue-ying went downstairs to fetch a plate of red bean cakes from the kitchen as it seemed the men would stay awhile. When she returned, the old historian had turned the conversation back to the imperial court.

      “This is an opportunity to advise the Emperor that he must change course. Heaven has given us a sign. Earthquakes and floods have been known to topple dynasties,” the historian pointed out sagely.

      Bai Huang was already shaking his head. “A sign of what? It sounds more like superstitious doomsaying,” he said with a bored look.

      “What does it matter if it’s superstition or not? If such a disaster gains the Emperor’s attention, then it can be used as a means to an end,” Taizhu argued.

      “This morning’s disaster serves as a better excuse for a couple of friends to complain over tea,” Bai Huang contended, lifting his cup. He attempted to drink, then frowned and peered into it, finding it empty.

      As Yue-ying bent to fill the empty cup, Bai Huang startled her once again, halting her movement.

      “What do you think, Little Moon?” he asked.

      Mingyu’s mouth pressed tight at the casual endearment. Yue-ying glanced at Bai Huang. Dark eyebrows framed his face, giving him a serious expression that was contrary to his usual carefree manner. The nobleman had never spoken directly to her in such company before.

      “Has the earthquake provided you with any signs?” he persisted.

      The room fell silent. Old Taizhu affected a shallow cough and sipped his tea in silence. Bai Huang was the only one unperturbed. He continued to look at her, smiling crookedly as he waited for an answer. His gaze on her was insistent, but not unkind. Yue-ying looked nervously to Mingyu before answering.

      “I was frightened at first,” Yue-ying admitted. “But sometimes rain falls and sometimes the earth moves. That was all it seemed to me.”

      “Yue-ying.” The courtesan’s command was soft, yet somehow sharp. “There is no need for you to remain here. You are free to continue with your other duties.”

      Yue-ying immediately set the pot down without refilling Lord Bai’s cup and retreated toward the door.

      Mingyu regained control of the conversation quickly.