Wei Changsheng still sat perfectly still.
He hadn't lost yet. I knew it. So did he.
Because what does proving that someone ground a shop's mark off a box actually prove? It proves somebody wanted to hide something. Who was that somebody, and which ledger says so?
The ledger burned.
"Your honor," I said. "I ask leave to read the book."
The prefect frowned. "You are not going to—"
"Not the eighth month, your honor," I said. "I ask leave to read from the beginning."
I began.
I read from the first page of the first volume, the fourth year of Yuanyou, the day my great-grandfather hung the board.
One plough. Pawned by Zhang Da. Three hundred cash. Redeemed after eleven days.
One padded coat. Pawned by Mistress Li of West Lane. Eighty cash. Not redeemed.
I read.
The courtroom was silent. The prefect was silent. The spectators were silent.
I read thirty years.
I read the silver bangles, the padded coats, the ploughs, the earrings, the carpenters' chisels, the books of poor students. I read names, dates, sums, and how many cash of interest my father let go.
I read it in the voice I read in every evening, beside a lamp, to a blind man.
My father sat beside me with his head slightly bowed, and at every line he nodded once. Very slightly.
Two people. One book, burned to ash.
I read into the tenth year of Jinghe.
Fourth day, third month. The Tongyuan Trading House pawned a pair of bronze candlesticks. Advanced sixty taels.
I read on.
Eighteenth day, fifth month. The Tongyuan Trading House redeemed the candlesticks. Repaid sixty taels, with two taels four in interest.
I paused for a beat.
"Two taels four," I said.
"Two taels six."
The whole courtroom turned.
Wei Changsheng sat in his chair, the string of beads still swinging in his hand.
He had just opened his mouth.
And he had just realized that he had opened his mouth.
I didn't look at him.
I only said it, quietly, loud enough for the room:
"You're right, Uncle. Two taels six."
"I read it two taels short."
Nobody moved.
The prefect set his teacup down, slowly.
"Master Wei," he said. "You just corrected her."
Wei Changsheng did not answer.
"Three generations of the One Word House ledgers," I said. "Burned the night before last. There are two people on this earth who know that book: my father, and me."
"I never showed it to you, Uncle. My father certainly never did. You asked three times to buy the shop and three times my father refused you — you have never once had your hands on that book."
I turned and looked at him.
"So when did you learn it?"
Wei Changsheng sat very straight.
His face didn't change. The beads in his hand had stopped.
"Three years ago, three men came into my father's shop in the middle of the night. They didn't knock. They had a key."
"They sat in that shop a long time. They were looking for one page. To find one page in three generations of ledgers, a man has to read."
"You read all night, didn't you, Uncle?"
I heard my own voice break on the last word.
"You read my family's book all night. And in the morning you took my father's eyes."
Wei Changsheng looked at me.
He looked for a long time.
Then he did a thing I still dream about.
He smiled.
Not a sneer. Not contempt.
He smiled exactly the way he used to smile when I was thirteen and had haggled him down on something — the smile of an old man watching his girl grow up.
"Two taels six," he said. "I can't abide a discrepancy, A-Zhen."
"I taught you that."
