Recovering her composure, Madam Su let out a forced, musical sigh and gracefully sat on a velvet stool opposite his chaise lounge.
"You wound me, Butterfly. I only came to deliver wonderful news," Madam Su purred, unfurling a delicate silk fan. "The eldest daughter of Minister Zhang—the one who just inherited the southern silk trade routes—has requested your presence for her private autumn banquet tomorrow night. She has already paid a five-hundred-tael deposit just for you to sit behind the bamboo screen and play the guqin for two hours."
Butterfly didn't even blink. He reached out, delicately picking up a peeled grape from a silver bowl.
"Minister Zhang's daughter has sweaty palms and breathes like a dying pug when she drinks," Butterfly drawled, examining the grape. "I am not spending two hours in a stuffy room listening to a politician butcher classical poetry. Send Willow-Mist. He likes the attention."
