The land records told a story that Min Wei had clearly hoped no one would read carefully.
I spent three mornings at the archive that week, arriving before the clerks had finished lighting the lamps and leaving when my eyes refused to cooperate with the faded ink any longer. Yam, who had initially greeted my continued presence with the professional resignation of a man who has accepted that some troubles simply recur, eventually began leaving tea at the corner of my reading table without comment. It was a small gesture. I noted it.
What I was finding, slowly and carefully, was a pattern.
