Extra 25 · Ink Paste

I.

The rain over the Chentan shop had not stopped.

Liu Zhijiang spread the surviving fragments of the Wenji Hexiang Lu on the counter; the pages had absorbed the damp, and the corners curled slightly. Wang Guanshu flattened them gently with a bamboo lifter, while Qu Huaisha examined the seal impression of the half seal by lamplight.

"Fen," Qu Huaisha said. "Chu-style seal script. The character 'fen' is composed of 'eight' and 'knife,' with the knife within the eight—it means to divide and judge."

He turned further into the fragments and stopped at the section "The Ritual of Dividing Incense."

For all incense division, first stamp the formula with a seal; each formula receives one seal, and every seal bears the character "fen." The ink paste uses cinnabar soaked with agarwood; the agarwood shavings are taken from those nurtured by the mother agarwood, and are changed once every three years.

"Cinnabar soaked with agarwood," Liu Zhijiang read aloud. "The shavings are taken from those nurtured by the mother agarwood—the mother agarwood is Ranjatai. That piece in the Shosoin."

"So this ink paste is not ordinary cinnabar," Wang Guanshu said. "It must use agarwood shavings nurtured by Ranjatai, mixed into cinnabar, ground fine, and blended into paste. Only when the formula is stamped with it does the formula count as 'divided.'"

Qu Huaisha closed the fragments. "That fits. Boss Wen said the iron box was missing an ink paste box—not missing some miscellaneous item. Without this box of ink paste, the incense-division ritual cannot be performed, the formulas cannot be sealed, and the six incenses remain in a posture of 'gathering.'"

II.

Wang Guanshu turned the fragments to the back cover. There was a hard lump between the layers of mounting paper; she picked open a corner with tweezers, and a thin sheet of paper slid out.

Wen An's handwriting, tiny regular script, the ink faded to grayish brown.

The ink paste is in the book. The book is in the book.

The four of them gathered around and for a long moment no one spoke.

"The book is in the book," Liu Zhijiang repeated. "The previous note said 'the incense is in the book,' referring to the inserted page in Dongjing Menghua Lu. What about this one?"

Qu Huaisha asked, "How many old bookshops are left on Bookstore Street?"

"The one where Uncle Wen dug out the iron box during demolition was his own family's," Wang Guanshu said. "But Bookstore Street has more than the Wen family. Going east, there is another shop selling rubbings and steles, also surnamed Wen, a distant branch."

"Two Wen families on the same street," Qu Huaisha said. "The iron box came out of the old Wenji site. If the ink paste box was not in the iron box, then it is in the other 'book'—the other bookshop."

Liu Zhijiang wrapped the fragments up again. "Tomorrow we go."

III.

That night, Liu Zhijiang ground cinnabar under the lamp. The shop kept half a box of old cinnabar; he took one qian, then poured a few grains of agarwood shavings from a small porcelain bottle—fragments of the mother agarwood brought back from Nara the year before last, kept sealed in a wax pill all this time.

"You are testing it?" Wang Guanshu asked.

"Testing the ratio. The fragments only say 'cinnabar soaked with agarwood,' not how many parts to how many. When Wen An blended this box of ink paste, there must have been a number."

He ground the cinnabar fine, ground the shavings separately, combined them, added a few drops of aged tea oil, and stirred evenly with a bone hairpin. The paste was dark red, not bright, like dried blood.

"Stamp one," Wang Guanshu said, handing over a sheet of waste xuan paper.

Liu Zhijiang took the half "fen" bronze seal, dipped it in the paste, and pressed it onto the paper. When he lifted it, the seal impression was clear, but the edges were fuzzy—the paste was too dry.

"Too little oil," he said.

"Or too many agarwood shavings," Wang Guanshu said, leaning closer. "Mother agarwood shavings are very oily; too many makes it less adhesive instead. Wen An's craft would not leave fuzzy edges."

"So the recipe for this box of ink paste must be more detailed than what the fragments say," Liu Zhijiang said, putting the test impression into a drawer. "Once we find the original box, we will know everything."

IV.

The next morning, Wen Ye called first.

"Someone in the Kaifeng antiquities market is selling a Republic-era box of ink paste," Wen Ye said, his voice even. "The bottom of the box is carved 'Wenji,' and inside the lid is a handwritten label: 'For dividing incense, 23rd year of the Republic.' The seller says his ancestors ran a bookshop on Bookstore Street and that it was pulled out of a wall crevice during demolition."

Liu Zhijiang glanced at Wang Guanshu. "What is the asking price?"

"No asking price. The man does not know what it is and is selling it as old stationery, fifty yuan." Wen Ye paused. "I have already told the local comrade not to alarm him. If you want it, I will have him buy it at the original price and handle it as a normal acquisition."

"We want it," Liu Zhijiang said. "But do not open it first. Do not pry off the lid. Wait until we get there."

After hanging up, Qu Huaisha came in from outside, the tip of his umbrella dripping.

"The ink paste is in the book," he said, having heard the latter half. "The book is in the book—the second Wen family bookshop, the wall crevice. The 23rd year of the Republic: Wen An was long gone by then. Who hid this box of ink paste?"

"Wen An's son," Wang Guanshu said. "Or someone else in the Wen family. In any case, the people of Wenji knew that 'fen' ink paste could not simply be thrown away."

Liu Zhijiang closed the shop door and locked it twice.

"Let's go," he said. "To Kaifeng. Until the ink paste box is in hand, that half of the Hexiang Lu does not leave this room."

The three went out; the rain had already lessened. Water gathered on the plane tree leaves at the mouth of the lane dripped down drop by drop. After a few steps, Liu Zhijiang suddenly turned and looked back at the sign of the Chentan shop.

"What is it?" Wang Guanshu asked.

"I was thinking," he said. "Wen An wrote 'the ink paste is in the book' because he feared later generations would not find it. But he hid the iron box and the bookshop in two separate places—the iron box underground at the old site, the ink paste in someone else's wall crevice. Who exactly was he guarding against?"

Qu Huaisha did not turn back; his voice came from under the umbrella: "Against the people who would gather the six incenses into one place."

In the sound of the rain, Liu Zhijiang's phone rang again. Wen Ye sent a photo: inside the lid of the ink paste box, beside the label, there was another line of very faint pencil writing, blurred by water but barely legible.

Orchid shavings three qian, cinnabar one qian, oil half a fen.

Below it was another line in even smaller writing:

In the compartment at the bottom of the box, there is something.

—To be continued · Extra 26