Surely in a world so vast there lie yet stones unturned— slippery things smalled for his spindling fingers to unearth.

Tang Fan is not a simple man, by any means.

Given such a tender gift, how can Seimei not tease him?

His house has been so quiet without the volume of Tang Fan's life filling it, these last days.

It is the sacrilege of it all, maybe, he thinks: men like him are not meant to lay eyes on the Son of Heaven like this, in the quiet moments he strays too close to human.

"Tang da-ge," she presses, trying to reel him back for a final snatch of constructive conversation before he sets off into the wilderness of his own head again, "who was that handsome gentleman?"

"So familiar." Tang Fan's preening at her address persists as far as them both toeing over the threshold before the smug smile falls flat from his face. Then, "Wait," he starts, craning so far to toss a look over his shoulder that he ends up twisting himself around in a circle. "What— what han…

In the wake of Qingming’s revelation, the night bleeds out into a sombre quiet.

Ding Rong, in his narrowed dagger-keen focus on his task, is unsure of the time when he is first made aware of Wang Zhi’s approach. He knows only by the dark of his workroom, dim-lit by his low-burned candle, that it is well into the evening. He knows only that it is no other visitor but Wang Zhi, circling into his periphery, portended by a flutter of draping fabric, because no other but Wang Zhi would dare to come unannounced.

Spring comes, and Nie Huaisang is seen with his sabre for the first time since— anyone's guess as to when.

They end up keeping the dress.