The pine tube sat on the slate slab beside the sputtering animal fat candle.
Pei Jing didn’t rush to break the wax seal. He washed his hands in a wooden basin of cold well-water, dried his skin on a clean linen towel. Then he checked the deadbolts of his door.
Only when the iron latches were firmly engaged did he pick up his steel scratch-awl.
With the sharp edge of the tool, he cut through the red beeswax seal. The wax crumbled in clean, dry flakes, releasing a faint scent of mortal clover honey and aged ink. He slid the wooden cap free and tilted the tube over his palm.
A tightly rolled metal tube of fine mulberry paper slid out into his hand.
The paper was thin, tough. Then it smoothed by calendering stones—the expensive writing stock used only by the executive clerks of the Great Yan country merchant guild.
Pei Jing unrolled the scroll across his knees.
The characters were carried out in a crisp, elegant, razor-straight accounting script, written with a fine wolf-hair brush and carbon ink that resisted moisture. He recognized the hand instantly.
