"The master expresses his awe," the translator crooned. "He has never seen such a beautiful representation of the phoenix throne close enough to count the feathers."
Yizhen's lashes made one shadow on his cheekbone. Then he smiled, a very small smile, the kind that made dockside boys change their minds about stabbing someone after dark. The kind that made grown men change their minds about stabbing someone ever.
"I like your translator," he says, pleasantly. "He makes your breath sound sweet. I wonder just how honest he is."
The Jackal gives him an insult for that, a very short, very ugly word.
"The master is humbled by your impression of him," the translator beamed. "And he assures you that everything I say has been approved by him first."
It would be funny if it weren't stupid.
Xinying moved at last—not forward, not back.
