Sect Year 2 · eighth month · day 28 · the Qingliu fork, before dawn
He woke with the sense of a sound that had stopped a moment before he opened his eyes.
The loft was dark. The shutter at the far end let in a thin grey line of light, and the straw under him smelled of horses and dust. Lin lay still and listened. There was nothing to hear but the breathing of the carriers below in the stable, and the small creak of the post-house settling on its beams, and the wind moving over the tiles. He lay with his right hand flat over his navel and felt the warm hollow move under the palm, a beat and then a long wait and then another beat.
The pull was stronger than it had been on the hill. It didn’t come from any direction he could name. It was a weight on a line that ran north out of his chest and into the dark beyond the shutter, so that when he turned his head he could feel the line tighten and loosen, as if someone at the far end had begun to pull it and then thought better of it.
