冬末的风带着冰碴子,从院墙外头刮进来,打在廊柱上,发出细微的、针一样的声响。
诸葛亮坐在偏厅,朱笔搁着,手边叠着数卷流民入籍的批注案卷,灯烛燃了大半,光圈里飘着一缕墨香。窗外那株老槐的枯枝在风里轻轻拍着墙,一下,一下,像是有人在远处漫不经心地叩门。
绮素换了热茶进来,没有说话,将茶盏放到案角,视线落在那枚铜印上停了一停,随即退了出去,连脚步声都是轻的。
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