Xinying's lashes dropped slowly.
When she opened them again she wasn't looking at him. She was looking past him to the back wall where a careless hand had hammered a plank over a gap. Dry air leaked around it in a ribbon. She didn't move her chin. "You should save your breath."
"Why," he smirked.
"Because you'll need it," she murmured.
The braid-woman stood abruptly, impatience snagging on the edge of her discipline. "Enough. Put her on her feet. Tie him to the post. He writes or she bleeds."
Three men moved at once. The one with the too-new boots reached Xinying first, hand closing around her upper arm with the proprietary grab men use on women they don't think can remove it.
Her body flowed with the pull, loose as a cat rolling to show a throat.
She let him guide her up. Let the second man come in with the knife to nick the rope near her wrists, as if they meant to reposition rather than free.
