"Waters, jasmine incense or ​white paste, sweetened." Limpid, past the stagger of a ship recovering balance, the rightness of its pose, then her course. He partook of little past the one course imposed on them by courtesy, for foolish reticence: a man should not accept his meal alone, his family divided. Superstition sullies the feeding. A frowns crosses him, tides, recedes. "Perhaps the serving knife."

He cut of his confection, a mere, tentative morsel. Poison might have slept beastly on the blade.

No matter. The lesson, humbly learned, as if he were a disciple: trust nothing, no man. Not his table, his allies. Not his shadow.

He walks with the certainty of a man facing his noose, knowing the seas of people part for him — pity, glistened in dark eyes, mellowed by candlelight. Enough of the child rests still in his soul to find appeasement, when he teases a brazier down from its walled perch, in passing.

The kitchens, a worm's gut of stranded noise and claustrophobia, the rush of servants. Walk the line. He balances, one foot, and the next, until the simple exercise of function, past shock, takes the mantle of him. Rumour lives in this world, spreads like living flame. Already, some semblance of word has gone shared, for the knowing, pitiful glances thrown Lan Wangji's way like pearls in beggars' hands. At least, they step aside for him, and he neglects their mercy. Five. Focus only on the boy.

"You may have first turn with the findings." A bribe, know it so, sickly and saccharine. "My son need learn nothing."