Hóng Yè watched her go.
He did not mean to. His eyes simply followed her, tracking the sway of her dark hair, the pale green scales on her bare arms catching the morning light like scattered emeralds.
She walked toward the eastern path, the one that led past the old oak and down to the river bend, and she did not look back.
His tail flicked.
He pressed it flat against his leg.
"You are staring."
Hóng Yè turned.
Zhāo Yàn stood behind him, his arms crossed, his nine tails fanned out behind him like a peacock displaying its feathers.
His crimson eyes were bright with something that looked suspiciously like amusement.
Hóng Yè's ears went warm.
"I am not staring," he said.
"You were staring."
"I was looking."
"At the snake girl."
"At the trees. She happened to be walking past them."
Zhāo Yàn's smile widened. His tails swished behind him.
