Three in the morning.
The corridor of the Butterfly Mansion was dark. Night wind slipped in from outside, carrying the scent of mountain pines.
Shinobu Kocho carried a ceramic plate deeper inside, her footsteps as light as she could make them. A piece of roasted meat wrapped in oiled paper sat on the plate, still hot, tiny beads of grease seeping through the paper. Holding the rim down with her thumb, she pushed open the innermost door.
It wasn't locked.
Nothing was clearly visible in the darkness. Moonlight seeped through a gap in the window, barely outlining the edge of the bed. Someone lay on his back there, breathing evenly, as though asleep-or perhaps not.
Yaha's right hand hung over the edge of the bed.
It wasn't a normal sleeping position, but one that let heat dissipate naturally from his limb. His hand looked dark in the moonlight. From the wrist bone upward, it was a full two shades darker than normal skin.
Shinobu Kocho set the ceramic plate on the windowsill and crouched.
Her fingertips had only approached the back of his hand. They hadn't touched it yet.
The man on the bed moved.
He didn't roll over. His left hand shot out from under the blanket, all five fingers closing around Shinobu Kocho's throat. Not hard, but firmly enough to hold her. His palm burned hot. Killing intent spread from the point of contact, compressing every last trace of air in the room.
Yaha's eyes opened.
Scarlet, unfocused, carrying the sluggish response of someone clawing his way back from some brink. It wasn't a dream, but an instinctive reflex.
Shinobu Kocho was directly in front of him, less than two handbreadths from his face.
She didn't retreat. Her purple eyes calmly met his scarlet gaze, and her usual