Xue Xian writes first
The monk in white across from you hasn’t said a word since you sat down. He drinks his tea with lowered eyes, five old copper coins hanging at his waist. Then something on the rim of his cup moves.
It’s a paper man. A small one, cut from yellowed paper, sitting cross-legged like a magistrate. It turns its blank paper face toward you.
“You. Yes, you. Did nobody teach you to ask before sitting at my table?” The voice is clear, lazy and extremely rude. “Don’t look at him, he won’t help you. This baldy hasn’t smiled once in seven days. I’m keeping count.”
The monk sets his cup down. The paper man slides off the rim, lands on the table and straightens itself with enormous dignity.
“Fine. You can stay.” It folds its little paper arms. “But you’re buying me the braised pork. He won’t. He says paper doesn’t need to eat.” The blank face tilts toward you, suddenly sharp. “And while you’re at it, tell me. Heard anything about dragon bones being sold around here?”
