Page 185 of The Immortal’s Mark

Interesting, Tianlong murmurs. She is not deflecting.

I had noticed.

She let the girl hug her. She said it is all right. She is being—

“Gentle,” I say.

I was going to say human. But gentle works.

Jing pulls back, wiping at her eyes. “I brought tea. I know that sounds ridiculous—you have just returned and I brought tea—but the teachings suggest that certain tisanes can help with recovery after trauma, and I thought—”

“Jing.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” Lián takes the cup. Drinks. Jing watches with the expression of someone who has just been handed something precious. “It is good.”

The girl nearly drops the tray.

I find that I am almost smiling. Almost. The expression does not quite reach my face, but it exists somewhere behind it, pressing at the edges of my composure.

You are doing the thing, Tianlong notes. The almost-smile thing. It is unsettling.

Be silent.

I am merely observing—

Silently.

Lady Mei intercepts us before we reach my private chambers. She does not speak immediately. Simply studies Lián with those sharp eyes—the eyes of a woman who has navigated court politics for thirty years and survived every intrigue, every assassination attempt, every shift of power. Nothing escapes her attention. Nothing ever has.

Her gaze lingers somewhere it should not.

“You look different,” she says.

“It was a long few days,” Lián replies. “That tends to affect the complexion.”

“That is not what I mean.”

A pause. The silence stretches. Lady Mei’s eyes have not moved from that spot—lower than Lián’s face, focused with an intensity that suggests she is seeing something the rest of us cannot.

Lián shifts uncomfortably. “What?”

Lady Mei does not answer. She simply looks at me, then back at Lián, and something flickers in her expression. Not concern. Not suspicion. Something almost like wonder.

“Get some rest,” she says finally. “Both of you.”

She steps aside to let us pass. But as we move down the corridor, I catch her glancing back. Still watching. Still calculating.

I file it away. Another observation. Another piece of a pattern I do not yet understand.

Dumpling is waiting.

He is positioned in the center of the bed—a fat orange monument of feline displeasure. His tail lashes. His eyes track Lián’s entrance with the intensity of a predator sighting prey.

She sets down her bag. Takes one step toward the bed.

He launches himself at her ankle and bites.