The gold-stamped invitation lay silently on the cold stone table like a glowing red iron brand, silently scorching the air of the small courtyard on the autumn afternoon. The shadow of the scholar tree was elongated, pressing diagonally across the bluestone slab without moving an inch. Even the wind had stopped.
Qin Lie stood under the tree, his back to the stone table, his figure appearing somewhat blurred in the mottled light and shadow. He had maintained this posture for a long time—so long that Uncle Fu, carrying a freshly brewed bowl of medicinal soup, walked to the courtyard entrance and quietly retreated, not daring to disturb him.
Every single word of that "gracious invitation" from Li Mubai was tipped with poisoned needles. Well-versed in archery and horsemanship? A man of letters? Afraid of running out of words? Hoping he wouldn't waste the fine day? Not wishing to force him?
Chapter 60