We reached the counting room and didn't bother with courtesy. Two trestles. Three abaci. Ren on a stool looking older than he'd decided to be this morning.
A porter at one end, proud of his bruise. The scribe at the other, proud of nothing. Deming stood with arms crossed, a door pretending to be a man.
Meiling slipped in behind us, head modest, step measured. Aunt Ping must have chased her with a broom; the girl still smelled like thread.
She kept her eyes down as she approached the table and then performed the little bow that says "see how obedient I am" to men who like that sort of theater.
"Papers," I said.
Her hand went to her sash. When she drew them, she also drew the excuse: a second packet, thinner, tied in pink cord meant to look like a woman's private letter.
I watched her choose which pile to offer first.
