The envelope was heavy, the kind of weight that felt more like a burden than a delivery. It sat on the polished surface of my mahogany desk, its wax seal—the deep, authoritative crimson of the Ministry of Revenue—looking like a fresh wound against the cream-colored paper.
Ru Songyi had delivered it personally, his face unusually grim. He hadn't stayed for tea. He hadn't even stayed for a polite exchange of pleasantries. He had simply placed it there, bowed low, and retreated, his footsteps echoing with a finality that made the hair on my arms stand up.
