The letter arrived on
a Tuesday, though Ridwan Chowdhury would later insist it had been a Wednesday,
for Tuesdays in his memory had always been ordinary, and nothing about that
letter, or the house it summoned him to, was ordinary in the slightest.
It came sealed in wax the colour of dried blood, bearing a crest he did not
recognise: a heron standing over a drowned man. Inside, in handwriting so
cramped it seemed to be hiding from itself, an advocate named Halder informed
him that his g...
