( Drip and drip and drip and — plopping.

Like cinnabar, like letter wax unwinding — thick and trickling, but rancid. He withdraws from the first spatters, dances around the next wave. Is struck, with quiet inevitability, when thunder and lightning milk fat clouds’ fill in their wake. Red crawls down in long-clawed streaks over his shoulders and arm.

His silks, spell bound to shrug off stains in Wei Ying’s finest gift since their arrival here, do not absorb it.

He thinks, foolishly, the skies are easing, the tide is turning. He need only wait until the storms settle and dispel — only thunder roars again, the pace of dripping quickens to drum the earth and batter it, and he feels, alone at the heart of the street, it would be a fool’s gamble to attempt delay.

Luck is a kind mistress, forgiving. He knows the back of his unexpected saviour, darts from behind to slip beneath their umbrella. )

We head north. ( He has apparently not only shamelessly commandeered the umbrella, but also you, to ferry him to his destination. ) At brisk step.