Two people, still damp from the water, slapped a tattered volume onto the counter at Yanji and asked to leave it there for three days. The moment Zhuang Chi took off the leather wrapping, he saw that the third, fourth, and fifth pages at the center of the book were missing. Their edges were perfectly straight, as if someone had pressed a ruler down and cut them. The book had been rebound according to the old style, its stitching even neater than the original. He then noticed the seal was made of new paper, its surface fibers still rough, yet it bore a lump of old sealing wax that had been stored away for nearly twenty years. New paper attached to old wax: they wanted him to believe the book had only recently come into their possession, while also making it seem like an old object, having it both ways. He called them out: at least three people had been involved in cutting the pages, rebinding the book, and handling the wax. The deposit was a lie; framing him was the real goal. He shoved the package back and sent them away. When he fixed his gaze on the two fresh rope marks on the back of one person's hand, the only thing they said was, "People with too good a memory rarely live to old age."
