Jiang Wanyin holds his hand the way this man -- it occurs to Jiang Wanyin that he never got his name. Typical. He's not going to ask now -- held his, and scowls. That just feels wrong. He adjusts to the proper grip one would use for a brush. Yes, much better. "You weren't," he says. It's almost gentle, for Jiang Wanyin; he supposes not everyone can be literate, and if an illiterate strange man is going to pretend to take notes to pass along to Wei Wuxian -- well. That's just fitting.