Morning light filtered softly through the paper windows of the Empress's courtyard, landing in pale stripes across the long wooden table where skeins of thread lay arranged in rigid order. Every color was placed with precision—white, pale blue, muted peach—none chosen by Lian An herself.
Madam Qiao had chosen them.
And Madam Qiao was not a woman who allowed mistakes.
"Sit straight," the old woman said coldly.
Lian An immediately corrected her posture, spine straightening as if pulled by an invisible string. Her hands rested on the table, fingers already sore before the day had truly begun.
The crochet hook lay between them like a weapon.
"Today," Madam Qiao continued, voice flat, "you will repeat yesterday's pattern. Again. And again. Until your stitches are even. Crochet is not brute strength. It is patience."
Lian An nodded. "Yes."
She picked up the hook.
