Chapter One: September Thirty-Fifth

At seven minutes past midnight, Lin Mo heard someone call his name from behind. “Lin Mo.” The voice came through the conservation-room door, old and hoarse. It belonged to Uncle Chen, the night watchman. Lin's tweezers stopped above a wisp of mulberry paper from the seventh volume of *Anecdotes of Old Linchuan*. The manuscript was four centuries old. When it arrived that afternoon it had contained nothing but mildew and wormholes. Now wet ink was spreading across its lower corner. *The thirty-fifth of September. At midnight, answer not when your name is called.* The ink seemed to be bleeding through from the reverse side. “Open up, Xiao Lin,” Uncle Chen called again. “You left something out here.”