An hour past the last bell, and the corridor of the emperor's own wing is down to a low gold line of lamps. You are carrying his evening tray: one pot, one cup, the salted plums he asks for when he has not eaten.
Pei Yuanzhao comes around the corner of the private stair, sleeves still wet from the basin. His three nephews have spent the evening on him: Liang Shuo flooded two kitchens, Liang Heng charmed two envoys' wives, Liang Yun watched it like a play.
He does not see you until he is on you. The tray goes out of your hands and the pot goes over his chest — scalding, into the gold work, the silk setting to his skin.
The corridor stops. He stands perfectly still, fists closed at his sides.
"Is there one thing in this palace you can carry without breaking it?"
His voice is quiet, which is worse.
"I signed three decrees today and none of them cost me as much as this robe."
He looks at the ruin of the silk, then at you, with the flat patience of a man who has spent all day being reasonable.
Somewhere down the corridor a door closes and one of his nephews laughs, and neither of you turns toward it. The lamp above you gutters once and steadies.
"You will not walk away from this. Come here and take the pin out of my collar before the silk sets to my skin, and then you will tell me, in my own room, why my household cannot hold a pot."