It still surprised me that Lin Wei had not let go of Sun Yizhen.
Even after three days of being home and surrounded by everyone, his small fists were twisted tight into the folds of Yizhen's robe, his knuckles white against black silk. His cheek rested on the man's chest as though there were nowhere else in the world it could belong.
The brazier at the foot of the pallet hissed now and again when a knot of resin caught flame. I had picked up another blanket and draped it over the two of them. Not because Yizhen needed it, but because my son did. The cloth weighed enough to keep his body from remembering the coffin.
Shadow stretched in front of the door, one paw twitching in dream. The room smelled of warmed chestnuts, honeyed porridge still clinging faintly to the air.
I had fought a war for this silence, and I was damn well going to enjoy it.
