The cry that rang out from the children's room was not loud.
It was not even the sort of cry that tore through the silence like those dramatic, blood-curdling screams in horror movies. No. It was small and broken. The kind that sounded as if it had been squeezed out from a throat that had already learned not to make noise.
And that, dear readers, was worse.
I was out of the study before my brain even finished processing the sound. My feet moved on instinct, silent and swift against the polished floor. The servants I temporarily borrowed from Prime Minister Li's household had already retired for the night, so the corridor was empty except for the soft moonlight spilling through the windows.
The little Yin Yang bear was faster than me. Why wouldn't it be? It was there in the room with them. Sigh.
By the time I reached them, the tiny glutton was already at the head of the bed, pawing anxiously at the girl's blanket while letting out worried little cries.
"Kyu! Kyu!"
