The afternoon light hung suspended over the cobblestones of 22nd Street, amber and still.
Inside the threshold of the Lingwood Herbal Pavilion, the air remained thick with the bitter, comforting scent of crushed lotus and dried roots. The quiet that settled across the room was dense, unbroken by the distant clatter of carriage wheels outside or the soft rustle of the paper wrappers resting on the rosewood counter.
Meng Jia stood three paces away.
Her hands rested flat against the dark wood of the counter, her slender fingers slightly tensed. The professional composure she maintained every morning—the calm, unhurried air of a merchant's assistant accustomed to difficult customers—had vanished completely.
Her dark eyes were wide, fixed entirely on the youth standing before her.
Lee Bie remained planted in the center of the floorboards.
