Fan Xian had no time to explain. "I talk; you write," he ordered with a smile. There was no time to grind down an ink stick. He picked up a goose-feather brush, dipped it in ink, and gave it to his sister. He closed his eyes tight and began to recall all of the complicated and scattered pathways that he had taken through the imperial palace.
Fan Ruoruo's face got paler and paler as she wrote. The amount of effort Fan Xian was expending on recalling his memory also made him increasingly pale; both brother and sister turned white as a sheet. With difficulty, Fan Ruoruo traced out the pathways of the imperial palace. Finally, she couldn't stop herself from asking in a low voice, "Brother, you do know that this is conspiracy to treason, don’t you?"
