Sect Year 2 · eleventh month · day 2 · the Qingliu fork post-house, the stove in the front room
The letter had come up with the first runner of the month and had waited in the mail sack behind the counter ever since. Lin had walked past the sack twice since he came back to the fork, and had not asked for it. He had found reasons to be in the yard instead. That morning the post-house boy came in from the road wet to the knees, reached up into the mail sack and worked one sealed sheet out of it by its corner. Then he held it up between two fingers.
“Azure,” he said. “The one with the thumb.”
Lin knew the seal before he could read the outside. It was plain wax, pressed by a thumb and not a stamp, and the print in it had the whorl of a hand that had closed a great many letters the same way. He took it to the stove.
The front room was warm and smelled of wet wool and boiled millet. The carriers were still out in the yard. It dragged their bundles in from the stable, and the only other person by the fire was the old man in the far corner, his coat buttoned to the throat, who did not look up.
