By the time we returned to our room, the cold had already followed us inside.
It didn't rush in. Didn't bite. It settled—quiet, stubborn—slipping into the space between movement and stillness. The door closed behind us with a dull click, and the sound seemed to disappear too quickly, swallowed by a room that hadn't kept any warmth for itself.
"We should stay the night and leave tomorrow."
Mr. David's voice came steady, already resolved. He didn't shift after saying it. Didn't look around to check for agreement.
No one answered.
Victoria dropped onto the bed without pause. The mattress dipped under her weight, the frame letting out a faint, tired creak. Her boots stayed on, one heel knocking lightly against the wood as her leg shifted.
"I want pork for dinner."
She spoke into the ceiling.
Then sneezed.
Short. Sharp.
The sound lingered just long enough to feel out of place.
I turned toward her.
"Are you okay?"
She dragged the back of her hand across her nose, quick and careless.
"I'm fine."
A pause.
"It's just cold."
I let my hair down, fingers slipping through it without focus. Strands caught briefly at my knuckles before falling free. The air felt thinner without movement, the cold rising slowly from the floor into my feet.
I stepped closer.
The wood beneath me held no give.
I placed a hand on her neck.
She flinched immediately. Her shoulders pulled tight.
"That's cold!"
"Sorry."
I pulled back. Waited a beat. Then reached again, slower this time, placing my palm against her forehead.
Warm.
Not enough to alarm.
Enough to notice.
A quiet kind of wrong.
"I'll get you some tea."
I turned slightly, already shifting my weight toward the door.
"And see if there's medicine—"
"It's fine."
She rolled onto her side. The sheets twisted beneath her, fabric pulling unevenly as she dragged them along.
"I'll just eat something spicy and sleep it off."
Of course.
I stood there for a moment, hand still half-raised.
Then let it fall.
—
Dinner arrived in waves of heat.
The door slid open, and the air changed immediately. Steam rolled in first—thick, carrying oil and spice that pressed against the senses before settling into the room. Plates followed, one after another, each dish releasing its own heat into the space.
Kung Pao chicken glistened under the lantern light. The oil caught along the edges, peanuts reflecting gold in small flashes as the plate shifted onto the table.
Twice-cooked pork followed. Layers of fat and chili released a sharper scent, something immediate, something that lingered at the back of the throat.
The bowls themselves were warm. Heat pressed faintly through the cloth beneath them.
We had chosen a private room.
Lanterns hung low. Their light stayed steady but soft, stretching across the table and leaving the edges of the room in shadow. Movement caused those shadows to shift—small changes along the walls, nothing dramatic, just enough to remind you they were there.
It felt enclosed.
Contained.
Victoria leaned forward before the last plate had settled. Her chopsticks moved immediately, slipping through the steam. The first bite was gone before the heat had fully cleared from it.
Her cheeks flushed.
From the food.
Or something else.
I watched her.
A second longer than necessary.
Then sat.
Miss Alvie was wrapped in layers, sleeves pulled down past her wrists. Her shoulders stayed slightly hunched despite the warmth, the fabric bunching at her elbows as she adjusted her grip on the spoon. A faint redness had settled across her nose.
I looked between them.
The pattern was forming too quickly.
"Victoria."
I reached for the teapot. The handle was warm, the ceramic holding heat steadily.
"Have some ginger tea."
She paused. Chopsticks hovered mid-air.
"I don't like the taste."
"There's ginger in half the food you're eating."
She glanced down at her plate. The oil shifted slightly where her chopsticks had disturbed it.
Then back up.
A pause.
"…Then that should suffice."
I exhaled quietly.
Poured anyway.
The liquid filled the cup with a soft, steady sound. Steam rose, curling upward before thinning into nothing. I set it near her hand.
She didn't touch it.
Across the table, Miss Alvie stirred her soup. The spoon tapped lightly against the bowl between movements, each contact soft but consistent.
"Would she be the head of her family now?"
The question came casually.
But it landed deliberately.
"Yes."
I adjusted my grip on my cup. The warmth pressed into my fingers.
"But she has a younger brother. She can either govern until he comes of age… or marry someone into the family."
Victoria swallowed. Her hand moved again, wiping at her nose.
"Are they important?"
"The Enmatsu clan are the head clan of the Fire Tiger."
Mr David spoke without looking up. His chopsticks paused briefly above his plate, then continued.
"So yes."
Victoria nodded once.
Slow.
The conversation thinned after that.
Utensils moved. Bowls shifted. Chopsticks tapped lightly against porcelain. Outside the room, footsteps passed—muted, distant, separate.
The lantern flickered once.
Brief.
Then steadied.
—
By the time we returned to the room, the warmth had already begun to fade.
The door slid shut.
The silence returned immediately.
Heavier.
Victoria didn't make it far.
She dropped onto the bed again, the mattress sinking under her with a deeper shift this time. One boot knocked against the frame before going still.
I stayed standing for a moment.
Watching.
Then moved.
I loosened my sleeves, the fabric sliding back slightly along my forearms. Set my things aside. Sat on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped again, pulling slightly toward her weight.
"You should change."
No response.
Her breathing had already shifted.
Slower.
Uneven.
I reached out again.
My hand rested against her forehead.
Still warm.
Warmer.
I pulled back.
The room didn't change.
But something settled.
Sleep came after that.
Not gradual.
It pressed down—layer by layer—until resistance felt unnecessary.
—
Morning came without permission.
Light filtered through the window, pale and thin. It reflected off the frost outside, pushing a dull brightness into the room that made everything look colder than it was.
I didn't move at first.
Then turned.
Victoria was awake.
Barely.
"I don't feel so good…"
Her voice dragged slightly, like it had to cross too much distance to reach me.
I pushed myself up. The blanket shifted, sliding off one shoulder before catching at my elbow.
I leaned over.
My hand found her forehead.
Hot.
No doubt.
"You have a fever."
She didn't respond.
Didn't argue.
I moved.
Water first. The glass was cool against my fingers. Medicine next. Small. Measured. The motions came without pause—adjusting the blankets, pulling them up, smoothing them down when they shifted.
She tried to sit up once.
Her hand brushed mine.
Light.
Unsteady.
I guided her back down.
Within minutes, her breathing evened out again.
Not restful.
Just still.
—
The hallway outside was quiet.
Too quiet.
The door closed softly behind me, the latch settling without sound. The wooden floor creaked faintly under my steps, each one carrying further than expected.
Somewhere in the distance, a door closed.
Then nothing.
Miss Alvie's door stood shut.
I knocked once.
The sound landed flat against the wood.
No response.
I waited.
Then opened it slightly.
The room was dimmer. Curtains half-drawn. The air heavier, like it had been left undisturbed too long.
She was still in bed.
Layers pulled around her, but not enough. Her posture held tension—shoulders tight, even in sleep. Her face turned away, hair falling across it unevenly.
I stayed at the door.
Didn't step inside.
Closed it again.
The handle clicked softly into place.
Two down.
—
"They're human."
Mr David's voice cut cleanly through the quiet of the dining area.
We sat across from each other. Tea between us.
Steam rose slowly from the cup, thinning before it reached eye level.
"They get sick."
I stared into the surface of the tea.
The reflection shifted with the slightest movement of my hand, breaking, reforming.
"I know."
The words came out steady.
And I did.
That wasn't the problem.
It was the timing.
The speed.
One moment—negotiations, war, decisions that moved across distances too large to hold.
The next—
this.
Fever.
Blankets.
Waiting.
I tightened my grip on the cup. Heat pressed into my palms, grounding, immediate.
Outside, the snow reflected the morning light.
The street looked washed out.
Still.
Unchanged.
Like nothing had happened.
—
Our return was postponed.
Not because of politics.
Not because of conflict.
But because two people couldn't stand without swaying.
And somehow—
that carried more weight than everything else.