The formal proceeding against Shao Junyuan was scheduled for the following morning.
This was not public knowledge. The date had been set with the particular care that attended proceedings of this nature — chosen for logistical reasons that would be visible only to those who understood the architecture of how such things moved, communicated through channels that left minimal record. Wei Zhengnan had told me the night before, in the study, after the lamps were lit and the household had gone quiet.
"Tomorrow," he had said, setting down the last of the files. "The ninth hour."
I had understood what he meant. I had folded the understanding away with the care I applied to everything that arrived in that room, in that lamplight, from that voice.
Now it was the evening before, and we had done everything that could be done, and there was nothing left to do but wait.
