It's incredible that he doesn't cry. He must just be too tired, too wired, to let it out. Maybe his body is saving the liquid for something.

He doesn’t look up when Baiyi passes. Probably doesn’t even remember him. So what. You don't need a rosebush to remember you, you just enjoy catching sight of it here and there.

That night he lies in bed alone until the moon is high. When the rest of the house is deathly silent, except for the light snores coming from behind every door, he sneaks in slippered feet through the halls and over to the covered kitchens. There’s faint light coming from the smoldering hearth, where the coals are piled to keep them warm for tomorrow’s early start. Someone has curled up by it on a mat, like a scullery maid. But it’s not a maid, it’s a man. A tall long-legged man. His husband. The dubiously immortal master of Changming manor. What the fuck, Xie thinks.