May the Heavens be long, prosperous and good, a power overwhelming. May they stretch gargantuan and all-seeing, forgive his hurts and wants, may they take mercy upon him, may they keep Lan Wangji in their grace. May they lend him patience, the roll of his eyes an obscene exertion of muscles he did not think he possessed to roll his eyes in new and incredibly persistent rotations.

His husband, so often a menace, is now merely a storm of stubbornness. Very well. Where Wei Ying cannot be troubled to entice his temporary kin and kind, Lan Wangji inserts himself neatly in the empire of fern and nettle and the great waxed spread of lotus leaf clinging to his feet, where leaves have shored, taking the knee to loom large and ominous over the lake's side.

One hand holds the toad in his collar close to heart — toads eat other toads, and they've dripped in proximity — and he plays out a song from the arsenal of plaintive, syrupy, astringent melodies that so often coax interest and kindness from living things. The Lan are not only of Clarity, for all Wei Ying has decided their purpose. The songs of the dead do not suit animals, but the honeyed start of a melody appears to drag the toads out for investigation. Some croak back. A few hop forward, on sunken claws of trees, on hard leaf.

"How many within leap's reach?"

He cannot stop, cannot look up, cannot be seen to watch until he is ready to strike. Now, Wei Ying...