I didn't touch the tea. The porcelain was still warm near my hand, and I could feel the heat radiating up against my knuckles. I kept my eyes locked on hers.
"What is the proof you require?"
The air in the pavilion was still. The lanterns hung overhead and swayed a fraction, throwing small, unsteady shadows across the rosewood table. The smell of sandalwood and jasmine was thick, mixed with the bitter steam from the tea.
Song Mei folded her hands in her lap. The silk of her cheongsam made a soft, dry sound. The silver cranes caught the light and went dark again.
"Han and Lin are wounded animals," she said. Her voice was low, even. "They are currently barricaded in their respective strongholds, surrounded by their remaining loyalists. They are terrified of you, and they are terrified of the police."
She paused, letting the weight of the situation settle over the pavilion.
