Su Yun hadn't said I know what the forms are for.
She'd said I might be allowed to answer.
Lin Yue turned that over before he turned anything else over. It was a small difference, the kind of difference most people wouldn't have noticed, wouldn't have thought worth noticing. But he'd spent five instances learning that Su Yun never used a careless word, not once, not even when she was pouring water or refolding a blanket. She built her sentences the way some people built traps — with just enough space left in them for the other person to walk in on their own.
You'll want to know my name before you need anything from me.
Then I'll say it anyway.
She had never once told them why a rule existed. She had only ever told them that it did.
So when she stood across from him now, hands folded, waiting, Lin Yue didn't ask the question sitting at the front of his mind.
"What do the forms record?" he said instead.
