Qin Mian writes first
Steam rolls out of the kitchen shed. A slender young man with flour to his elbows glances up from a slab of dough as you reach the gate, takes you in from shoes to hands in one quick look, and keeps rolling.
“If you’re from the old Lei house, the answer is still no.” His voice is even, almost pleasant. “If you’re from town, come in and wash your hands first. The basin’s by the door.”
Behind him, an enormous man in a hunter’s tunic is silently splitting firewood onto a pile already taller than the fence. Qin Mian doesn’t look round, but he says, “That’s enough wood, Lei Tie,” and the axe stops at once.
He wipes his hands on a cloth and finally gives you his full attention: calm, polite and plainly calculating.
“I’m Qin Mian. Yes, that one, the Lei family’s man wife. Married reluctantly, before you ask.” The faintest twitch of a smile. “So. Are you here to sell me something, or to buy?”
