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墨書 Inktalez
He needed the architectural plans for the examination hall, documents that only a few officials from the Ministry of Revenue and the Ministry of Rites could access.
My photographic memory came in handy once again. Drawing from a vague recollection of a blueprint I had seen in my father's study, I worked day and night, stitching with the finest needlework on a small embroidered handkerchief. I outlined the general layout of the examination hall, including key entrances, corridors, and potential hidden spots.
In one inconspicuous corner, I marked a special location with different colored threads—an area I inferred might hold important items based on my father's fragmented remarks.
The handkerchief was exquisitely crafted; to outsiders, it appeared to be an ordinary trinket from a young lady's chamber. Only those who truly understood could decipher the hidden secrets within.
Three days later, at the hour of Wei, I arrived punctually at the ancient temple in the south of the city with the handkerchief in hand.
The temple was bustling with activity, filled with incense and visitors—a perfect place to relay messages without drawing attention.
I waited by the designated prayer wheel, where the air was infused with a faint sandalwood scent, reminiscent yet distinct from the agarwood fragrance that surrounded Xie Yao.
I spotted him standing unobtrusively on the other side of the prayer wheel, dressed in dark attire. His fingertips brushed against the cold metal.
He didn’t look at me; instead, as I approached, he deftly slipped a rolled-up note into the crevice at the bottom of the prayer wheel.
I understood immediately. Pretending to be engaged in a sincere prayer, I turned the wheel. Just before the note slid into my palm, I discreetly tucked my embroidered handkerchief into the same crevice.
In that fleeting moment when our fingertips brushed against each other, a chill coursed through me as if an electric current had passed between us.
I quickly withdrew my hand, concealed the note, and after completing what seemed like a routine act of worship, turned and left.
The note was soaked in a familiar scent of sandalwood, its edges marked with bamboo patterns.
I returned to a secluded spot and unfolded the note. A few sparse strokes were enough to make me clench my fist tightly.
It contained a new location, a new date, and… a name I least wanted to confront.
Following the instructions on the note, I arrived at "Futai Rice Shop" in the northern part of the city, a layer of persistent shadow hanging over me, for that name seemed intricately linked to this rice shop.
Inside the shop, voices buzzed like a hive, the air thick with the scent of rice and dust, mingled with an old mustiness that starkly contrasted with the refined embroidery workshop I was familiar with, causing me to instinctively frown.
Pretending to be a woman selecting rice, I pinched my handkerchief over my mouth and nose, carefully observing the customers and workers coming and going, searching for any clues that might be hinted at in the note.
Soon, I noticed a detail: several farmers who came to sell rice received banknotes that appeared pristine on the surface but gave me an inexplicable sense of dissonance, like meticulously crafted fakes lacking the soul of genuine articles.
With my photographic memory, I recalled some official silver notes my father had handled; their patterns and paper were exceptionally unique, imbued with a weighty essence. The ones before me felt like they were missing something, like distorted echoes.
I found an excuse to ask a worker for a cup of tea, claiming thirst. Then, discreetly, I dipped my fingertip into the tea and lightly touched one corner of the banknote, my movement as subtle as a needle falling from an embroiderer’s hand.
In an instant, faint patterns emerged on the paper, nearly invisible to the naked eye, resembling ink spreading on wet paper. Indeed, it was fake.
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