The response from Cen Bosheng came faster than I expected.
Not a formal response. Not a letter or a message or any form of official communication. What came instead was a visitor.
He arrived at the household gate on a cold morning eleven days after the submissions had been delivered, presenting himself as a representative of a merchant guild that had, as far as I knew, no business with our household whatsoever. The name he gave the gate steward was not his own. But the description the gate steward gave me was specific: late forties, heavy build, very careful eyes, a small scar along his left jawline.
I had Shen Bao's description of Cen Bosheng's personal assistant memorized. The match was close enough.
I agreed to see him, but not in the study. I brought him to the formal reception hall instead—a room designed for official meetings, with space and formality built into its proportions. The kind of room where you could not pretend you were having a casual conversation.
