Wēn Jìng said, settling back onto her knees to finish the bandaging with her son arranged comfortably on her knee. "He's been trying to write since last month. We're working on what counts as paper."
Yàn Shū looked at Zhāo Yàn. At his three tails, specifically, which had settled into their usual arrangement around him.
His mouth formed a small, wondering O.
"Tails," he said.
"Three of them," Zhāo Yàn agreed. "I'm going to have nine someday."
Yàn Shū nodded. Then he held out his bark scroll. "I write," he said.
"What do you write?"
Yàn Shū stiffened. "Things," he said firmly.
"Very specific," Mò Lǎo murmured into his tea.
Wēn Jìng finished the bandaging with a neat knot and sat back, her son still settled contentedly against her, already attempting to show his bark scroll to Han Shān. He was looking at it with an eyebrow raised.
"There," she said, to Zhāo Yàn. "Better."
It was better. Significantly better. He could breathe without his ribs making commentary.
