The night before a state banquet is never fully night. Lanterns burned low under the palace eaves like drowsy moons; kitchen courtyards ticked and hissed as braziers were tested, lids lifted, spices counted aloud. Pages jogged lists from memory. Eunuchs moved like quiet currents through cloisters, arms full of scrolls and lacquered trays. Even the carp in the ornamental ponds swam slower, as if the entire compound were holding its breath.
Beyond the inner walls, where the tiled roofs thinned and bamboo took over, the air was freer, colder. A fox barked in the distance; someone's wind chime fussed in a stubborn draft. And just outside the East Watch Gate, where dead leaves piled up against an old stone lion, a small gathering of the unbreathing had been in raucous spirits for hours.
