Weimo gripped the wolf-hair brush, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Thank you for the reminder, old sir."
She remained perfectly still. The old Hanlin’s brow twitched, but then he watched as she dipped the brush into the inkstone, saturating the bristles with the remaining ink. Her wrist, held high, suddenly became as steady as a rock, as if gripping a sword instead of a brush.
Weimo tightened her grip, then relaxed her fingertips in an instant. The brush hovered over the rice paper for a heartbeat before descending; as it struck the page, the sound was like an army breaking through enemy lines, a sharp, metallic ring filling the air.
Chapter 42