The carriage left the Song Residence and traveled half a street before Wei Nisheng spoke:
"Cui Fu, stop the carriage."
Cui Fu reined in the horse. "Young master?"
"Go into the market," Wei Nisheng said.
"Find a paper shop and buy a box of blank calling cards. Chengxin Hall Paper, mind you. Then find a good inkstick."
Cui Fu blinked. "Young master, are you..."
"Go." Wei Nisheng lifted the curtain and stepped out.
"I'll wait for you at the tavern up ahead."
The sun was sinking, and the heat was gentler than at noon. Voices bubbled like boiling water along the long street.
Though his belly was full of questions, Cui Fu asked none and darted off toward the market.
Wei Nisheng strolled into a roadside tavern, chose a table by the window, and ordered a pot of warm wine. He did not drink, only watched the bustle outside.
People came and went before the jiaozi exchange, the paper shop's banner fluttered in the wind, and a storyteller's lilting voice drifted from a teahouse.
The Capital was always lively like this.
But that liveliness belonged to other people.
Wei Nisheng had waited less than a quarter of an hour when Cui Fu returned, carrying a box of writing paper, an inkstick, and a small inkstone.
"Young master, the shop assistant said Chengxin Hall Paper was expensive. I picked the whitest box."
Wei Nisheng took it, unfolded a sheet, and ran his fingertips over its surface. It was indeed as fine and smooth as satin.
He nodded, ground the ink on the tavern table, and lifted his brush. By the sunlight outside the window, he began writing, word by word.
Cui Fu stood beside him and watched. At last, unable to hold back, he asked quietly,
"Young master, there's something I