"Minister Lin is at the gate," the steward gasped as he stumbled into the courtyard.
Tang Yueyao's brush stopped mid-stroke. Ink spotted the paper like a sudden dark note.
"Tell him to wait," Tang Qiao ordered before he could think. His voice was steady, too steady.
"No," the steward said. "He says he will come up. He will see the peonies first."
Yueyao stood and folded the painting. "I can finish later," she said, voice low.
"Miss Yueyao?" The steward's eyes flicked to the garden path. "Minister Lin himself."
They moved toward the gate.
A sedan arrived, curtains drawn. Two ushers stepped down, then a man in plain but well-made robes walked through like the sun moving through a room: no one needed to open doors for him.
"Master Tang," Minister Lin bowed. "Your peonies heard I was coming."
"Minister Lin," Tang Qiao returned the bow with a crease on his forehead. He guided the minister into the garden as if guiding a guest into a temple.
Yueyao kept back. Her hands still smelled of ink and jasmine. She did not expect company, and she had not expected someone to recognize her painting from the steps.
"Who paints under your peony tree?" Lin asked without turning.
Tang Qiao hesitated. The pause was a small animal. "My daughter, sir," he managed.
Lin kept looking at the sheet in Yueyao's hands. He set it down on the stone bench and traced the dark strokes with a finger
