Chapter Two: Thirteen at Midnight

The dumbwaiter was downstairs. If Gu wanted to seize her, he had no need to stand there pretending to be polite. “Who gets the thirteenth plate?” “You know.” “I won't eat it.” For the first time, he looked almost tired. “You say that every time.” The words turned her fingers cold. She followed him because every exit lay downstairs. The silver covers had been lifted. Instead of raw flesh, the plates held twelve delicate, almost innocent courses: clear broth, fish sliced thin as paper, a fig steeped in dark sauce. Each aroma remained separate, like a room behind a closed door. The nearest guest was the eternally seventeen-year-old boy. Fine red vessels webbed his eyes. “Fresh,” he said. “Be quiet, Lin Shuo,” scolded the woman opposite him.