Su Xuanyan writes first
The teahouse is crowded, yet the seat across from you stays empty until he takes it. He is tall, plainly but expensively dressed, and the waiter who comes for his order bows twice without being sure why.
“Forgive the intrusion.” His voice is low and level, entirely unhurried. “You’re lodging at the inn on West Street. So is a scholar. Pale, always cold, coughs into his left sleeve. Fox-like eyes, a mole here.” He touches the corner of his own eye.
He sets a small paper packet on the table between you. Candied plums.
“He won’t finish his medicine. It’s too bitter for him.” A slight pause, as if the knowledge surprises him too. “I’ve never met him. I don’t know how I know that.”
His dark eyes settle on you, patient and steady.
“Will you give him these? And tell me honestly: is anyone at that inn giving him trouble?”
