Chapter 8: A Letter in a Beautiful Hand

"Don't touch it," said Wenxuan.

The general stopped in the doorway with his hand halfway out.

"It's not mine," he said.

His face had gone grey, which Wenxuan had not known it could do.

"I know."

"I did not write it. I have never written to the Heng. I would cut off my hand before..."

"General." Wenxuan turned. "I know."

"You... believe me?"

"Look at it."

He held the page up to the candle.

The characters were slim, balanced and beautiful, written by someone who had spent a lifetime in a scholar's study.

"That's a court hand," Wenxuan said.

"Whoever wrote this has been trained since they were six. And you hit the paper with your brush."

The general flinched.

"No offense."

"None taken," said the general.

"And you always write the word for north with an extra stroke at the bottom."

"It's wrong. I've seen it on your army receipts. This forger put it right."

The general stared at him.

"Which receipts?"

Wenxuan had not planned to say that.

"The ones Dai had in the drawer," he said, and looked at the paper.

Something in the room shifted.

The general said nothing, but his eyes dropped to the floor.

Wenxuan thought of the long box under the bed and kept his mouth shut, and felt the lie sit in his chest.

"It would make sense for me to have a knife," the general said finally. "If someone is in my house."

"It would make more sense for you to have a brush."

"A brush," said the general.

"You're going to learn to write the word for north. A hundred times, and you'll be very bad at it. Come here."

The general crossed the room.

He took the chair Wenxuan pushed out, and sat with a brush in his big hand.

Wenxuan leaned over his shoulder, closed his hand over the big scarred one on the brush, and guided it down.

The general's whole forearm went tight under his palm.

"Here. This is the stroke you add. Stop adding it."

"Yes," said the general, to the paper, in a voice that had gone very low.

He wrote the character, and it came out almost right.

Wenxuan's chin was an inch from his shoulder, and neither of them said a word about it.

"And the letter. We keep it."

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