Gu Chenzhou loathed the smell of the theater from the bottom of his heart. The cloying scent of face powder mingled with the mustiness of old wood and the sweat rising from the crowd, sticking to his nostrils. Onstage, the singing flowed like water, while the strings and pipes wound around one another in a soft, languid melody that had no vigor to it at all. He sat in the best private box on the second floor, dressed in a crisp military uniform so stiff it was like a shell of iron, utterly out of place in this decadent, ostentatious setting. His adjutant stood silently behind him, not daring to breathe too loudly. He could only feel the heavy chill emanating from the Marshal, pressing down on him until his spine...
