Chapter 11: The Uneaten Supper

Shuqiao brought three books to the general's room and placed them face down.

He didn't want Yunting reading their titles.

One concerned rhetoric, another ceremonial conduct, and the third contained love poems of highly variable quality.

The general appeared with a tray of supper.

Shuqiao had imagined a more imposing entrance.

He hadn't imagined steamed buns balanced against a bowl of radishes.

"Mingzhong said you ate almost nothing at lunch," Yunting said.

"He has an extensive network of witnesses."

"He washed your full bowl."

The general set the tray down between the books.

A radish slice slipped onto the poetry collection.

Shuqiao rescued the book too quickly.

Yunting looked at its cover.

Then he looked at his spouse.

"Would you prefer I came back in rhyme?"

Shuqiao put the collection beneath the rhetoric manual.

"I was checking what to avoid."

"The radishes?"

He threw a folded towel at his husband.

Yunting caught it and laughed.

The sound helped Shuqiao sit down.

He wanted this night fiercely enough to feel clumsy about ordinary actions.

He'd straightened the lamp twice and moved the same cup around the table.

His little finger caught beneath a book corner.

Yunting noticed him rubbing it.

"An old injury?"

"A door," Shuqiao said.

"I was too busy correcting someone to move my hand."

He offered the crooked finger for inspection.

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