Chapter 11: The Letter

Her old tutor came to the Tang house three days later with a basket of persimmons.

He was a stooped man of sixty-five, with ink on his cuffs and a habit of apologizing before he sat down.

"Forgive the intrusion, Miss Tang," he said, in the parlor.

"I heard your family was kind enough to keep me on the pension list, and I wished to thank you."

"You're welcome, Master."

"And to say how pleased I was to be asked."

Shuyao stopped with the teapot in her hand.

"Asked?"

"The gentleman from the prince's house." He beamed.

"He called last week."

"He said His Highness admires fine hands, and has a collection of copybooks by gifted young ladies."

"He asked to borrow yours."

"I have a great many of them, so I let him have the oldest dozen."

The tea in the pot was cooling.

"What did he look like?"

"A clerk, I think. Ink on his fingers. Very polite." The tutor blinked. "Is something wrong?"

"No, Master. Thank you for telling me."

She sat with him another quarter hour and ate two persimmons without tasting them.

Then she went and found Qin in the stable yard.

He was currying her brother's horse, with his shirtsleeves rolled and a streak of dust on his jaw.

He looked up when her shadow fell on the stall.

"I need to tell you something," she said. "You may not believe it."

"I have not believed anything you've said yet. I believe the swords."

"Then believe this."

She stood a pace away with her hands folded.

"The Third Prince's clerk is collecting my handwriting. My old copybooks."

"Why?"

"To write a letter in my hand. Addressed to your father."

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