( Strange, at times, to remember: a woman, who loses her footing, is not one owed his hand. Not one who requires his rescue. Zhou Fei took a sword, however fettered. She fights with dignity. To reach for her now and break her fall would bloom shame in her cheeks in ways Lan Wangji would not forgive, were their circumstances reversed.

Rubble screeches and shifts and rearranges itself in organic geometries at his feet. He feels, for the first time since awakening — tranquil. As if the sudden chaos they have inflicted on the many lines of drying clothes that wail in a dulled wind, or the children's chalk drawings they have stepped on and thwarted — as if spoiling the grounds has put Lan Wangji's world right.

Before, he was unwinding. Now, the yard has unwound beside him. His shoulder, rolling, feels stiff and pulled. His chin tips up. )

Mistress. ( The arc he sketches with Bichen, until she sits as if she were a natural extension of his extended arm, is flinched. Parallel to the ground, the sheathed, bound blade appears to jut perversely, bereft of her arrogant elegance. )

Have we more anger left to drain between us?

( Like pus from a wound, stench foul and unpleasant. )