“We’re here,” Qi announced from the front.

Lu stared at her, then shook his head.

Then the doors to the limo were opening, and they were stepping out onto the red carpet, Zhi’s hands momentarily working to keep her gown from tangling in her feet; then, hand in hand, huge smiles on their faces, free hands upraised, the most popular couple in all of China, were greeted by a throng of thousands of fans, just because they were here.

Bo Jintao held back the curtain of this private room in the Beijing Opera House, looked out onto the street beyond, the hubbub of activity. These people were his charges. It was his job to protect them, to continue the nation’s rise in strength and prosperity, while avoiding all the pitfalls and exponential risks that threatened all they’d achieved.

Yet here he was, at the opera.

“The media personalities are about to arrive, Premier,” Gao Yang said, from behind him.

Bo Jintao grunted at his aide’s voice, then spoke. “We’ve become too dependent on them, Gao.”

“As the Premier says,” Gao replied.

Bo Jintao chuckled at his aide’s deference. Respect was one thing. But becoming Premier didn’t change his need for frank input. “You disagree?” he asked, turning.

Gao lowered his head briefly, then looked back up.

“They’ve been useful tools, Premier. Effective in shaping public sentiment.”

Bo Jintao nodded. “Yes, they have. But tools can become crutches,” he told his aide. He was grooming the boy. Teaching him. The family connections were lacking, but the mind was sharp. There was potential here. Potential to serve the nation. “Never become too dependent on just one.”

Gao nodded again.

“Go then,” Bo Jintao said. “Greet our guests. Bring them to me.”

Zhi Li smiled and waved at the throng gathered to meet them at the Opera House, Lu Song’s hand in hers, as he waved to the crowd on his side.

A lean young man in a dark suit stood on the red carpet itself, a few deferential steps away from their limo, a polite smile on his face.

He stepped forward now.

“Honored Zhi Li and Lu Song,” he said. “I am Gao Yang, an aide to Premier Bo Jintao. It’s my honor to meet you both, and to escort you to him now.”

Zhi smiled, lifted the hem of her gown slightly with one hand, and linked her other though Lu Song’s offered arm. Then they walked down the red carpet and to the new ruler of China’s private box.

The opera was a world premiere, intended to be poignant, stirringly patriotic, a paean to a simpler age, a call to arms to slice through the nonsense of modern, convoluted, adrift society with the sharp blade of the wisdom passed down from prior ages.

Zhi Li found it insufferable, misogynistic, and insulting to the intelligence of its audience.