The Golden Mirror
The jade is warm, Yan Li, warmer than the flesh beneath it, and you know this is not right, not in this cold, damp hall where the air smells of stale rice wine and the wet wool of twelve hundred coats. I stand at the edge of the table, my hands clasped behind my back, watching my son Wei, who is only twelve, clutch the pendant against his chest as if it were a living bird. The Chief Inspector,...
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