Chapter 9: The Fitting

Rule nine was that a Jiang is measured and never guessed, so on the twelfth of October Linchuan took him to a tailor.

The shop was on Pingjiang Road, up a narrow stair, over a shop that sold silk fans.

An old man with a tape round his neck came out from behind a curtain and stopped dead.

"Young Master Lin," he said. "In thirty years you have never brought anyone."

"This is my cousin," said Linchuan. "He needs a dark suit by the sixteenth."

"A cousin." The old man looked Anzhi over from head to boots. "Stand there. Arms out."

Anzhi stood on a little wooden box in front of three mirrors and held out his arms.

He did not look at himself. He had his own opinion of what he looked like in a mirror.

The tailor ran his tape over the shoulders and called a number to a girl at the desk.

"Broad," said the tailor. "He lifts."

"Sacks," said Anzhi.

"It shows. Chest. Waist." The tape slid and tightened. "Hm. Master Lin, hold his jacket back. My hands are not what they were."

Linchuan came and stood behind him.

He took hold of the old grey jacket at the collar and drew it down off Anzhi's shoulders.

His knuckles settled against Anzhi's back, between the shoulder blades.

They stayed there.

The tailor measured from nape to hip. The tape hung against Anzhi's spine, and a hand, warm through the shirt, lay flat over it.

"Hold still," said Linchuan, above his ear.

"I am."

"Your breathing is not," said Linchuan.

"You're standing on my tape."

"I am not standing on anything."

In the middle mirror, Anzhi saw Linchuan's face over his own shoulder.

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