Chapter 13: The Spoon on the Table

Ruoxi did not turn around.

She looked at the decree, at the round young hand and the plum blossom seal.

"Please," said Mingzhu, behind her.

"Only let me say it."

"Was the pear soup safe?"

"Ruoxi."

"Was it? I tasted it. I wrote 'safe' in the ledger. I want to hear you say it was safe."

"Every dish was safe," Mingzhu said, and her voice broke on the last word.

"Every one, for eight years."

Ruoxi turned then.

Mingzhu stood with one hand on the doorframe.

Her comb sat crooked, her robe was tied on the wrong side, and her eyes were red.

She looked younger than she had looked in the lamplight.

She looked sixteen.

"You could have told me," Ruoxi said.

"On any day. In any of the six years."

"You would have left."

"You don't know that."

"No," said Mingzhu.

"I never dared to find out."

The room was very quiet.

Ruoxi untied the white cord from her waist.

She had never taken it off in daylight, and her fingers did not know how.

Then the knot gave, and the little porcelain spoon swung free.

She laid it on the decree, on the line that said the post was a pretext.

"There," she said.

"It's a spoon for tasting. There is nothing left to taste."

"Ruoxi, I was going to tell you."

"When?"

Mingzhu opened her mouth and shut it.

"That is what I thought," said Ruoxi.

She walked toward the door.

Mingzhu stepped aside, flat against the frame.

"I won't stop you," Mingzhu whispered.

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