Chapter 7: The Prisoner

The Third Prince's carriage reached the Tang gate before dawn.

It came with an escort of palace guards in blue, and a torch at every corner.

Wei Chengjue stepped out in a fur-lined cloak with his hair neatly bound.

He looked like a man called from a warm bed who had come at once.

"I heard there was trouble," he said. "I came as fast as I could."

Shuyao stood at the top of the steps with her grandmother.

Her hands had been washed, and her hair was pinned up with a plain wooden stick.

She had not slept.

"You are quick, Your Highness," she said.

"Your gate bell rang in the night, and a neighbor sent word to my palace."

"It did."

"Then it is I who should apologize." He climbed the steps, looking grieved.

"Thieves in the Marquis's house, while the Marquis is on the road."

"The palace guards will take over. Everything will be handled."

"Everything," said Shuyao.

"Is anyone hurt?"

"My brother's arm. A cook. The gatekeeper is dead."

"A tragedy."

His eyes went to the five bodies laid under sheets in the yard.

They stopped on none of them.

"May I see the survivor?" he asked.

"Which one?"

His smile slipped, just a hair.

"I was told there was one."

"By whom?" said Shuyao.

Nobody answered.

Wei's smile came back.

"A guard. It does not matter."

Behind him, the palace guards had fanned out across the yard.

They were looking at the sheets, the doors, the grass.

They were not looking for thieves.

They were looking for something to carry away.

"Grandmother," Shuyao said in a clear voice. "I think we should show His Highness the survivor. In the courtyard, with the household watching."

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