The scent of breakfast drifted through the hall in slow, deliberate waves—warm grain, broth, faint sweetness from steamed fruit. It was the kind of smell that suggested routine rather than celebration, nourishment rather than indulgence. We sat together for the meal, arranged in familiar places, bowls and plates aligned with quiet precision.
Everyone ate with relative calm.
Even Miss Li Hua.
That alone felt unusual. She moved with her usual composure, yes, but there was a gentleness to her motions, as though she were measuring time instead of consuming it. What stood out more, however, was who wasn't there.
The woman in purple had not appeared since the first encounter.
No one mentioned her. No questions were asked. Her absence sat among us like an unacknowledged chair—visible only if one chose to look directly at it. And no one did.
"Congratulations on your achievement," Miss Li Hua said at last, lifting her spoon and pausing mid-motion. "Both of you."
Her voice was even, neither warm nor distant. She took a sip of her soup afterward, as if the words required no emphasis.
Dōngzhí and the others had already congratulated us earlier that morning, with varying degrees of enthusiasm and exhaustion. Now they merely glanced up briefly, expressions somewhere between polite interest and quiet relief, before returning to their meals. Praise had been satisfied. Hunger remained.
"Thank you very much, ma'am," we replied together, bowing our heads slightly.
The clink of porcelain resumed.
Heiwa stared at Miss Li Hua for a moment longer than was polite, her chopsticks stilled above her bowl. Then she spoke.
"I received a letter from the capital," she said slowly. "It says my brother is to step down as provincial governor."
Her tone was careful—too careful.
"Why?" she asked.
The room fell quiet.
Even chewing stopped, save for one of the girls at the far end of the table who seemed blissfully detached from the gravity of the moment, still eating with determined focus.
Miss Li Hua finished chewing before answering. She dabbed her lips, then spoke as though discussing weather patterns.
"From what I can infer," she said, "it is due to the province's recent economic growth."
Heiwa frowned.
Miss Li Hua continued, eyes shifting to her. "Their wait-and-see approach has made them appear… ineffective."
Heiwa's brow knit. "He followed protocol. He did exactly what was expected of him."
She gestured faintly with her chopsticks. "How does that make him deserving of removal?"
Silence returned, heavier this time.
"That is one way of interpreting it," Miss Li Hua said evenly, placing a few vegetables onto her plate with deliberate care. "But their reasoning bypasses effort entirely. Results are all that remain."
The words landed where they were meant to.
"The cat and the fox should represent this province now," Heiwa said after a moment, lifting her gaze. "Because this land is already theirs."
"Correct," Miss Li Hua replied, taking a sip of milk. "And you understand why now is the appropriate moment."
Heiwa hesitated.
"The timing feels…" She searched for the word. "…ominous."
A faint smile touched Miss Li Hua's lips—not reassurance, not dismissal. Something sharper.
"The province has progressed," she said. "And power, once visible, attracts gravity. Authority belongs where authority is already exercised."
Her gaze shifted briefly—intentionally—to Victoria.
The room quieted again.
Then Miss Li Hua spoke once more, folding her hands lightly atop the table. "You should pay a visit to the Marquis' son."
Heiwa blinked. "My brother—"
"Will be absent," Miss Li Hua finished calmly. "And unable to fulfill that obligation."
Heiwa's chopsticks idled, gently poking at her food without intent.
"Hm," she muttered.
Breakfast concluded without ceremony. Bowls were emptied, tea poured, conversation carefully redirected toward trivialities. And yet the decision had already been made, hovering just beneath the surface of polite exchange.
We were to make the formal visit.
"But why not you, Miss Li Hua?" I asked as we prepared to leave. "You could easily serve as a stand-in."
She did not answer me directly.
Instead, she settled back into her chair, serene and immovable.
"It would be better," Heiwa said quietly, repeating Miss Li Hua's unspoken response, "if we do it."
Outside, the sun had climbed higher, warmth spreading evenly across stone and tile. The day looked peaceful—deceptively so.
In that calm, quiet light, decisions were fermenting. Not loudly. Not violently.
But with patience.
And patience, I was learning, was where real change began.