He listened to the footsteps—soft, heel-first, the exaggerated quiet of a man who believes he is being silent—cross the alcove floor.
He listened to them stop at the right wall.
He listened to the two-second pause.
Then the soft movement of someone crouching.
'He went to where he last saw the princess,' Cang noted.
He gave it five seconds.
Then he stood, turned, and crouched at Chen Yun's side with the particular economy of someone who has decided to streamline a process.
"Wake up," he said quietly.
She was already awake. "I heard him."
"I know."
"Are you going to—"
"No," he said. "She's not there."
A pause.
"Where is she," Chen Yun said.
"I moved her," he said, "ten minutes ago. She's in the rear passage. Sleeping."
Chen Yun looked at him. The expression of someone realizing that two separate things they had attributed to independent motivations were actually the same motivation.
"You moved her for her safety," she said.
"Yes," he said.
"And your hand on her neck."
