Steward Bao arrives at exactly noon, flanked by two attendants and a face arranged into the exact right amount of sympathetic concern.
Wren clocks the timing immediately.
Noon means good light.
Good light means nothing to hide behind.
This woman knows what she’s doing.
“Your Highness.” Bao’s bow is perfect.
Practiced.
The kind that means nothing at all.
“The Dowager Consort sends her concern for your welfare.”
“How thoughtful of her.” Wren keeps her voice small.
Tired.
Just enough gratitude to seem genuine, not enough to seem suspicious.
“We manage as best we can.”
Bao’s eyes are already moving.
Cataloguing.
The garden beds, deliberately scruffy at the edges.
The single visible chicken, pecking at dirt with theatrical poverty.
The roof, patched but not too well patched, one section left rough on purpose.
Good, Wren thinks.
Take it all in.
See exactly what I want you to see.
“May I look around?” Bao asks, already stepping past the gate before Wren can answer.
“Of course.” Wren gestures vaguely, like she’s too worn down to care.
“There’s not much to see.”
There is, obviously, a great deal to see.
That’s exactly the problem.
Bao moves through the garden with sharp, careful steps.
Touches a scallion leaf.
Studies the well.
Wren trails a few paces behind, narrating in her head the whole time like she’s filming a very tense episode of a show nobody will ever watch.
And here we see the predator, assessing whether the prey is worth the effort of a second visit.
Stay small.
Stay boring.
Do not, under any circumstances, mention the tools currently buried under a tarp in the shed’s least convenient corner.
“You’ve managed to grow food,” Bao observes, tone light.
Too light.
“A little.” Wren rubs the back of her neck.
Exhaustion, real and performed, blurring together nicely.
“Enough to not starve, mostly.
“I imagine so.
Alone, in a place like this.”
“Not entirely alone.” Wren nods toward Mei, who has arrived at exactly her cue, dragging her feet, dark circles she absolutely did not have yesterday shadowed under her eyes with a smear of ash.
“My servant’s been a great help.
We manage.”
Mei bows, slow and heavy, the picture of a girl worn thin by circumstance.
Wren makes a mental note to compliment her later.
Genuinely impressive commitment to the bit.
Bao’s gaze lingers on Mei a beat too long, then moves on, sweeping the yard, the shed, the crooked fence line.
“And the smoke,” Bao says.
“Seen rising rather steadily, these past days.”
There it is.
The real question, dressed up as small talk.
“We cook what we can,” Wren says.
“It’s cold at night.
A fire’s the only comfort we’ve got left.” She lets her voice catch, just slightly, on the word left.
Not too much.
Just enough.
Bao’s expression softens, fractionally.
Whether from genuine sympathy or professional satisfaction at a theory confirmed, Wren can’t quite tell.
Probably doesn’t matter either way.
“And visitors?” Bao asks, almost careless.
“The Dowager heard rumors.
A prince, seen near this wing.”
Here it is.
The real reason for the whole visit, finally out in the open.
Wren lets herself look genuinely baffled.
Doesn’t have to fake much.
“A prince?
Here?” She glances around at the sagging fence, the single visible chicken, the general air of managed decline.
“I think someone’s confused this wing for somewhere important, Steward Bao.
Nobody important comes here.
That’s rather the point of exile, isn’t it.”
A small laugh escapes Bao before she can stop it, quickly smoothed back into composure.
“Of course,” Bao says.
“My apologies for the question.”
The inspection lasts another twenty minutes.
Peers into the well, deep and unremarkable.
Asks Mei a few quiet questions Wren can’t hear, and Mei answers each one with the exact right amount of tired, careful loyalty they rehearsed.
By the time Bao turns to leave, something in her posture has changed.
Less predatory.
More like someone filing away a mildly interesting report to close out.
“You’ve done well,” Bao says at the gate, and there’s something almost like respect buried under the formal words.
“Considering the circumstances.”
“We survive,” Wren says simply.
“That’s about all we’ve managed.”
Bao nods, bows again, that same perfect, meaningless bow, and leaves with her attendants trailing behind, and Wren watches the gate swing shut and doesn’t move a muscle until the sound of footsteps fades completely into the distance.
Then she exhales, long and shaky, all the careful stillness dropping out of her at once.
“That,” Mei says, dropping the exhausted posture like a coat, “was terrifying.”
“That was a masterclass,” Wren corrects, grinning despite the leftover adrenaline still buzzing under her skin.
“You were incredible.
The ash under the eyes was a genius touch.”
“You told me to do it.”
“Doesn’t make it less genius.” Wren flops down onto the garden bed’s edge, letting the last of the performance drain out of her all at once.
“Okay.
She’s gone.
She bought it, mostly.
We’re not in the clear, but we bought time.”
Casimir slips through the gate not ten minutes later, having clearly been watching from somewhere close enough to see Bao leave, tension written across his whole frame.
“Well?” he asks.
“We survived a very intense round of pretend poverty theater,” Wren says.
“Mei deserves an award.
I deserve a nap.”
“What did she ask?”
“About you, mostly.” Wren watches his jaw tighten and holds up a hand before he can spiral.
“Relax.
I told her nobody important ever comes here.
Very convincing, if I do say so myself.”
He doesn’t relax, not fully, that careful watchfulness still sitting behind his eyes.
“This buys us time,” he says.
“Not safety.”
“I know.” Wren looks toward the gate, toward the palace beyond it, toward whatever the Dowager decides to do with today’s report.
“But time’s all we needed.
For now.”
Somewhere behind them, Duchess lets out a loud, indignant squawk, apparently displeased at having been used as a poverty prop all afternoon, and the sound breaks the tension just enough for all three of them to laugh, short and exhausted and real.
Round one, survived.
Wren has a feeling it won’t be the last.