A corner of her mouth lifted with wry humor. “My father does have a penchant for the grandiose.”

The walls were lined with artwork, from classic Chinese brush art scrolls to Italian oil paintings. Built-in alcoves displayed vases, enameled boxes, or jade figurines. All originals, I had no doubt. Her house was like a museum.

“It’s beautifully done—he has good taste.”

“My father likes acquiring beautiful things,” she said. “I think my mother was one of them.”

She said it offhandedly in a casual tone, as if she were divulging some mundane fact. I lifted my eyebrows, wondering again what her relationship was like with her father.

Daiyu paused in front of another set of curved double doors, this one with a variety of birds etched into the pale wood. Surprisingly, it didn’t require a palm scan, she simply turned an elaborate silver knob and pushed the door open. “Welcome to my bedroom,” she said.

That was easy. I’d thought I’d have to persuade her.

It was more like a suite. Or the size of an apartment for a mei family of four. The far side consisted of three tall, arched windows opening onto views of the gardens below. A large canopied bed was set in the middle of the bedroom, draped in pale gold and green silks. The bed was strewn with cushions, and it wasn’t made. She sat on the edge of it and slipped off her heels, flexing her feet. “These damned things hurt.” She stretched her arms overhead like a languid cat, and I had a hard time not picturing the two of us helping each other out of our clothes.

A message popped up on my Vox, and I glanced at it discreetly, glad for the distraction. My femtocell had found a device near—Daiyu’s Palm. Lingyi messaged two seconds after: Give me fifteen minutes. I slipped both my hands into my trouser pockets and took my time strolling around the large room. Bookshelves were built against one wall, filled with hundreds of titles. Curious, I glanced at the spines. It was obvious some were required reading from school, the usual classics, otherwise her tastes ran eclectic: mystery, fantasy, romance, and horror.

Random trinkets were placed on the shelves: a plastic unicorn with a rainbow tail woven into a braid, a fist-size pinecone, a jade figurine of a goat, and another one in gold.

“It figures the lit major is more interested in my books than he is in me,” she said from the bed.

I laughed. “I thought I was getting a tour of your house.” A long rosewood table carved with chrysanthemums was set near the shelves, serving as a desk. “But you’re right: I can’t resist looking at people’s books.”