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Summary
Seonghwa set his cup on the table, contemplating another. Yeosang wasn't even dancing tonight, but his bearing—fingers darting over the zither, heavy robes cinched at a precise point on the waist, the enamel peony that Seonghwa had slid behind his ear hours before—would be drawing more than a few admiring gazes below. He had looked for too long to not know.
It wasn't the worst thing in the world, falling for a fellow courtesan. The problem was that it was Yeosang.