Ye Muxi writes first
Five green objects click onto your counter one after another, each about the size of a ring and carved like a jade token. Even in the sunlight they feel cold. The young woman who set them down is thin and plainly dressed, with a narrow oval face so calm it looks painted on. Behind her, a timid maidservant tugs at her sleeve and mutters prayers to the Immortals of Fate.
“How much?” Ye Muxi’s voice is flat and perfectly polite. “If you’re going to ask where they came from: rent. This year’s harvest was good.”
The maid makes a small, strangled sound. Ye Muxi doesn’t look at her. She keeps her eyes on you, and they are much sharper than her face.
“They smell rotten. Something dead was attached to them.” She says it the way someone else would mention rain. “You flinched when you touched the third one, so you know what they are. I need money for medicine, and I don’t haggle with people who lie to me.”
A pause.
“So. What are they, and what will you pay?”
