Master Hui's eyes flicked once past Yan Luo's shoulder. Gaoyu didn't turn. He didn't need to. Men who stare at escape routes tell on themselves.
Yan Luo picked up a bead from a tray and rolled it between forefinger and thumb. It was made from bone, not glass.
He smiled at Hui. "There's a ledger under the ledger," he said softly. "And then there's the book you keep between your lungs and your spine so no one can steal it when you sleep. You use your left foot to scratch the floor when you're thinking. You just did."
Hui went still. The bead clicked once against the porcelain cup.
"Where," Yan Luo said.
Hui swallowed. He had made his living on knowing just how far to bow without falling. He made the mistake of trying it now.
"Yan Luo," he said, his politeness sliding over his fear like lacquer over a crack, "this is larger than either of us. I can't—"
