The Pickpocket Shoved a Fragrant Sachet into My Cloth Bag

Outside the spring examination grounds in Jincheng, Jiang Wu crouched beneath the stone steps, sorting through discarded incense sticks and wax. Steward Zhao planted his leather boot on her cloth and said, "Incense picker, smell this boot and tell me which workshop it came from." Jiang Wu replied, "The third furnace at the Zhu family's workshop. The lingering scent is mixed with wisteria to cover the stink." But Steward Zhao bent down, grabbed her bundle, and tipped it upside down. From among the scattered broken bits, he picked out a finished incense stick, black and gleaming, its golden edge not yet fully formed. It was worth at least fifty cash. He asked her, "You didn't steal this, did you?" Jiang Wu's pupils contracted. It wasn't hers. A moment ago, when she had bent down to pick up an incense cake, a hand had reached out from the crowd and touched her bundle. She hadn't thought anything of it at the time. The poor folk watching all laughed. After laughing, Steward Zhao's expression darkened. He called for his men, and two incense guards twisted her arms behind her back and slammed her face against the stone steps. She immediately tasted iron in her mouth. "The incense guild's rules say thieves must be punished. Since you're only a girl, we won't send you to the incense prison. We'll break one of your hands and let you go." Someone gasped. With a hand ruined, an incense picker couldn't gather incense or sort shells. A seventeen-year-old girl in Luoxi Lane wouldn't survive the winter. Jiang Wu didn't plead or cry. She turned her face slightly against the stone steps so she could open her mouth and say one thing: "Test the incense." The incense guard's hand paused. The golden edge of the finished incense stick in Steward Zhao's hand glinted in the sunlight, while the hand that had planted it had already withdrawn into the crowd. A speck of wisteria powder clung to its sleeve.