The wind was mad, the waves deranged. The sky was a rag soaked in ink, pressing down hard on the sea. Wang Bo clung to the railing, his nails digging into the slick wood grain, his knuckles frighteningly white.
“My lord! Back to the cabin!” The boatman’s shout was torn apart by the wind.
Another wave crashed down, and the ship groaned under the strain. The draft of Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng in Wang Bo’s arms was soaked with briny seawater. Ink bled across the silk like the clouded pupils of a dying man.
