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墨書 Inktalez
It was not the natural wear and tear of years, but rather as if someone had deliberately smeared or torn it, leaving behind a large, indistinct mark. It seemed that there had once been tiny annotations written in fine script, now fragmented and difficult to decipher.
The position of those annotations and the extent of their blurriness felt like a form of intentional destruction, conveniently erasing the most crucial information.
By some strange twist of fate, I took out an embroidery hoop and silk thread.
My embroidery skills were not merely for leisure in the boudoir; my mother had taught me that fine stitches and silk threads could sometimes be used to repair the most fragile paper, even to restore those nearly vanished traces.
With threads finer than a strand of hair, I carefully filled in the damaged edges bit by bit, securing them as if I were mending this tattered page, piecing together the torn truths.
Relying on my photographic memory, I faintly recognized the direction of the blurred strokes. Combining this with context, I speculated on the missing phrases and used extremely fine stitches to "embroider" them back into place—not real words, but outlines traced with silk thread, like a silent restoration.
This was not only a test of skill but also a challenge to my intellect and, deep down, a yearning to touch the truth.
A few days later, a note was quietly delivered to the courtyard, inviting me to meet at a place called "Fragrant Study" in the southern part of the city. There was no signature, but the direction of the ink on the note bore an astonishing resemblance to the bamboo pattern on the title page of "Discourses on Salt and Iron."
Fragrant Study clearly had something to do with Xie Yao's well-known affinity for crafting incense.
I brought along the embroidered page—or rather, that fragment I had "restored" with silk thread—and arrived punctually for our meeting.
The study was small yet elegant and serene, with a faint scent of agarwood wafting through the air—the very fragrance often associated with Xie Yao.
The shopkeeper led me to a secluded corner where an ancient wooden table stood. In the center of the table was an intricately carved wooden screen that divided it into two halves.
I understood in my heart that this was to avoid suspicion or to create an atmosphere of secret communication.
I sat on one side of the screen, and across from me, I could faintly hear the sound of fabric brushing against itself, along with the familiar scent of Agarwood.
"The books have arrived. Do they meet your expectations?" A clear and cool voice came from behind the screen, devoid of any discernible emotion.
I placed the "restored" fragment of the "Salt and Iron" treatise on the table and replied softly, "The 'Salt and Iron' is profound and extensive. I, Liu Liu, am rather shallow in understanding, but I do have some confusion regarding the section on the Equalizing Method." I did not mention the "Nine Chapters on Mathematical Art," nor did I bring up the reason for his delivery of the books; I went straight to the point.
There seemed to be a brief pause behind the screen before Xie Yao's voice emerged again, tinged with a hint of barely perceptible interest. "Oh? The Equalizing Method aims to regulate prices and stabilize the market. What insights does Miss Liang have on this?"
I took a deep breath, organizing my words as I began to articulate what I had read in the book, weaving together information from my remarkable memory and what I had heard in daily life. "While the Equalizing Method certainly has its benefits in smoothing out price fluctuations, excessive intervention or using it for personal gain could lead to monopolies, exacerbating inequalities—those who benefit will benefit more, while those who suffer will suffer even more. Especially with commodities like salt and iron that are vital to people's livelihoods and national interests, once monopolized, the consequences could be dire..."
As I spoke, my fingers unconsciously traced the outlines of the annotations I had just "restored" on the table.
The person behind the screen did not interrupt; they simply listened quietly, occasionally responding with a soft sound as if encouraging me to continue.
The more I spoke, the more fluidly my thoughts flowed. I connected those obscure clauses with real-life observations, even mentioning my father's position in the Ministry of Revenue and its relation to salt distribution. Though vague, my implications were quite clear.
As our discussion deepened, it felt as if the atmosphere behind the screen had grown a few degrees warmer.
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