Rain that had acted as a soundtrack to the night before had continued to fall well past noon the next day.
It was straight and thin, like threads pulled through silk. By evening the palace tiles shone black as lacquer, and the gutters along the inner court murmured like low voices refusing to rise.
In Mingyu's study the lamps were trimmed small, their wicks careful and obedient.
The room wore quiet the way a sword wore polish. Shadow slept by the door, his chin on his paws, tail making a slow half-arc whenever thunder walked the roofs.
Deming leaned against the bookcase to the left of the desk, his arms folded in front of him, the habit of a soldier who had learned to stand comfortably through hours of other men's talk.
Yizhen had claimed the chair with the loose leg and made it look deliberate; he spun a small fan on his palm as if testing the ceiling's patience.
