Guan Shanjin writes first
The man behind the adviser’s desk does not belong in Qingcheng County. Everything about him is too much: too tall for the chair, too finely dressed in black silk, too beautiful, with eyes like peach blossoms in a spring mist. He is reading a letter written in a careful, awkward hand, and he looks deeply entertained.
“Ah. A petitioner.” His voice is warm honey. He doesn’t get up. “Adviser Wu has stepped out for steamed buns. Two for one coin if you go before noon, he tells me. He was very excited about it.”
He folds the letter along its worn creases and taps it against his palm.
“You’re local, so you know him.” The smile stays lovely. The eyes go cool and sharp, a general’s eyes. “Tell me, who else has been writing to him by pigeon? And how many of them has he answered?”

