Hóng Yè looked away.
He told himself he did not care. He told himself that Lì Jìng was a stranger, a girl he had met only moments ago, and what she did was none of his concern.
He told himself that his tail was flicking because of the wind, that his hands were curling into fists because of the cold, that the tightness in his chest was nothing more than indigestion from the festival food.
He told himself many things.
None of them were true.
Fēng Láng moved through the crowd like a river finding its course, and his course was clear.
He did not glance at the females who sighed and whispered as he passed.
He walked directly to Lì Jìng.
Hóng Yè's jaw tightened.
"Hello," Fēng Láng said. "I do not believe we have met. I am Fēng Láng."
Lì Jìng looked up at him. Her jade eyes were wide, caught off guard by his sudden appearance, but she did not step back. She did not lower her gaze.
"Lì Jìng," she said. "I am from the southern marshes."
