Sect Year 2 · first month · the twenty-third life: the Reincarnation Hall, Qiao’s eleventh year
The roll came up from the cellar in a case lined with grey felt. When the steward drew it out and laid the first length across the copy-table, the paper kept going. It ran past the table’s edge and hung down toward the floor, sheet after sheet joined by a fine thread, and it was the soft cream paper the Hall used for nothing else. Each sheet held a column of names. Beside each name there was a date, and beside most of the dates a second mark, written in a smaller and more careful hand, that Qiao could not yet read.
“You will copy it,” the steward said. “Every line, as it stands. The Master wants a second roll for the stair chamber.”
“Why a second?”
“In case of fire.” The steward went away before Qiao could ask him anything more about it.
Little Quan sat at the next table with a board across his knees and a pot of ink at his elbow, checking. He ran one finger down each character Qiao had written and stopped at every one that leaned. He said nothing through the whole of the first column. Then he took the brush out of Qiao’s hand, looked at its grip, and gave it back.
