The comb waited on his palm like a secret he wasn't sure he had the right to keep.
Deming stood half in the light of the east corridor, half in shade, boots quiet on the lacquered floor.
Shadow lifted his head from the pallet inside, considered him with solemn approval, and let his muzzle fall back to his paws. Beyond the screen, soft porcelain sounded once; water touched clay.
The hour had not yet found its voice, and only the servants were walking on tiptoes through the palace.
He breathed once, slow, to quiet the soldier in him who always counted exits before he counted anything else.
When he felt like he had finally reached a certain level of calm, he eased the screen aside and stepped into the room that had taught him, too late, what wanting felt like when it wasn't about survival.
Xinying didn't look up right away.
