The next morning, Suyin met them at the ferry dock. She introduced Ruo, the ferry hand who would take them across to the second village. He looked older than her father, though his movements were quick and his laugh came easily.
“Your hall sent mainland guests to ask about the weather share,” he said as they stepped aboard. “That means the rest of us will be asked what we remember.”
“Only if you want to tell us,” Qinghe said.
Ruo pushed off. The ferry slid out from the dock, and the cliff path curved above them. He rowed in a steady rhythm, glancing at the sky between strokes.
“My great-grandmother refused a contribution after her sons left the island,” he said. “The hall suspended one branch of the family share. The rest kept paying. I heard it at every winter meal.”
“Do you know what she signed?” Qinghe asked.
“No. I inherited a story, not the contract.” He turned the ferry around a shelf of rock. “People say she was ungrateful. Maybe she was. Maybe she just did not want her sons’ names tied to a ward they could no longer see.”
Suyin rested one hand on the gunwale. “Would you ask the council to review your family’s line?”
