With that, Lan Wangji drifts back into a calm, focused silence. Constance surely doesn't need him to acknowledge the directive aloud. His gaze remains on the silk knot, its color not unlike the color of Wei Ying's hair ribbon, its tassels that look as if they would be soft to touch, its serpentine knots and folds turning around and around on themselves.

When its shape is fixed in his mind, he shuts his eyes.