( What a simple thing to barter a delicate afternoon tryst with a lover committed, a sure thing, their affection syrupy and slow. Nothing endangers this: not the whim of stray, crackling magic, not the stormy turn of Wei Ying's cruel whims. He allows himself, distantly, to taste the flavour of pining guaranteed a felicitous ending, no different than teasing a healing bruise with the press of his fingertips.

And he nods, at long last releasing Wei Ying's hand, allowing him to bloom into the chips and fragments of refined posture and lift himself serenely. )

Within the shichen. ( And what can a man procure in such a tight timeframe? Even the least ambitious dressmaker will want time to take Wei Ying's willow, imperfectly slim measures and tighten their wares. Still, there are greater miracles his husband has worked. )

You take half my soul. ( A strange farewell, yet he has grown accustomed. ) Go.