The second letter from House Min arrived six weeks after the first.
This one was not from Min Soyon.
It bore a different seal — the same house sigil but differently executed, the ink slightly heavier, the impression less precise. A man's hand, I thought. Someone who sealed letters the way they signed their name: with authority rather than care.
I opened it at the breakfast table, which immediately became a mistake, because the contents were not appropriate for a morning that had otherwise been pleasant. The forsythia was gone now, replaced by the riotous deep green of summer proper, and the air through the window smelled of warm earth and the roses that had appeared, apparently unbidden, in the corner of the garden where no one had planted them.
"Wrong," I said, setting the letter down.
Kaien looked up from across the table. "Scale of one to ten."
"Seven. Possibly eight."
He set down his own tea. "Read it to me."
I read it.
