Moonlight filtered through the paper window, spreading a layer of silver frost across the floor. As Pi Yanlin followed Gu Qinghuan into Miss Liu’s boudoir, the toe of his shoe caught on the threshold—this was the third time he had noticed this half-finger-high wooden sill. Previously, he had dismissed it as a simple anti-rodent board, but now, it reminded him of the barbed iron chain in the secret passage.
"Give it to me." Gu Qinghuan held out her hand, her knuckles pale and cold in the candlelight.
Pi Yanlin did not hand over the sachet immediately; instead, he brought it to his nose and sniffed. The embroidery pricked his nose, but the faint scent of Submerged Aloeswood was indeed laced with a subtle, bitter stench—very much like the odor he had picked up from a rotting corpse when writing a petition for someone at the public mortuary last month.
Chapter 17