Prison
Spring Warmth
My father was a treacherous official.
The man who raided my home was my fiancé.
When he slipped the iron chain around my neck, his touch was even more tender than the year he placed a flower wreath upon my head.
On the day my father was beheaded in public, I was calmly picking lice off my mother. I remarked, “If I had a fire, I could stir-fry these lice and pair them with a pot of wine.”
Unexpectedly, my words drew a laugh from the young general in the neighboring cell, despite the hooks driven through his collarbones. Was it that funny?
The Man Behind the Curtain Is Like Jade
I am the best cook in the capital. No one has ever said my food was bad.
That is, until my noble ex-fiancé-the one who broke off our engagement-ate a meal I prepared.
“This tastes awful. It’s a good thing I didn’t marry you.”
I calmly packed away the bowls and chopsticks. “It’s your Last Meal Before Execution. You’re still being picky?”
That’s right. I am a cook who specializes in delivering the Last Meal Before Execution to death row prisoners.
