( The child-princess is grudgingly coaxed, if easily delivered. They are numerous those in their party who understand the grievances that might be inflicted on a young girl, a would-be saint, one destined for sacrifice. She is packaged as a refugee, smeared with the paints of poverty: her red cheeks greyed with ash, her clothes swapped, the soles of her shoes thinned. In the caravan, the princess barely spoke, even once the last of Lan Wangji's sorcery dwindled, and her voice returned to her.

Terror, he knows, the tragic misapprehension that the man who rescued her from servitude to her brother's cause intended her harm. That another girl now wears her face in her quarters, claiming her name.

Another girl whom Lan Wangji returns to, breath halved, sweat dropping sour on his nape, excusing himself like a shadow between rows of guards. He does not knock, does not greet Yuri, does not introduce himself — only clicks the great-groaning door behind himself, and delivers the girl the princess' ancient shawl, murmuring — )

Choose another face. It cannot be hers. The guards will cut path.

( It is as dangerous now to be Cle-Florens retreating, as it was to be Yuri, slipping in. )