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Anthony Garcia, age six, sat hunched on a bench, his tiny fists clenched in his lap. A tutor loomed over him, nostrils flared.
The boy’s voice quivered. “Th-the rabbit’s death g-grieves the fox—”
Ella’s nails bit into her palm. This was the moment she’d rehearsed in the shadowed hours—the fragile thread that once snapped Garcia loyalty to the throne. She stepped forward, silk slippers crunching gravel. “Master Liu. Aren’t you overpolishing jade? The lesson’s essence matters more than perfection, no?”
Anthony peeked through tear-clumped lashes. Ella knelt, ignoring the grit staining her emerald skirts. “Let’s play a game, Anthony. What if we rewrite the boring old sayings? ‘When the cunning rabbits die’—” She plucked a pebble, dropped it into the fountain. Plink. “—‘the hunting dogs are cooked.’ Catchy, yes?”
“—A children’s rhyme?” Ella arched a brow. “Precisely. Memory sticks better with mischief. Don’t you agree, Master Liu?”
She turned his palm upward, placed two cherry blossoms in it. “Clever boys know when to whisper truth. What’s your favorite dessert?”If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
“Mm. If I told the baker to swap his sugar for salt, would your tongue notice before the first bite?”
Lord David Garcia set down his brandy snifter, its facets catching firelight like trapped stars. “Explain yourself, Anthony. Who taught you this… variant proverb?”
“That… maybe the foxes shouldn’t cry for rabbits. Because if the rabbits are too sneaky, the dogs get eaten next?” Anthony yawned, rubbing one eye. “But dogs eat rabbits anyway. Can I have dumplings now?”
“Bao!” he barked. A servant materialized in the doorway. “Take Anthony to the kitchens. Double portions.”
The physician pressed two fingers to David’s wrist. “Your pulse… it’s remarkably irregular, my lord.”
“Alas, I’m unfit to oversee the grain tax reforms.” David let his eyelids flutter. “Advise His Majesty I must resign for treatment.”