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Her páo unfurled in a fall of white, and though she held his jacket carefully to cover the torn parts of the bodice, she was nonetheless graceful as she began to dance. The song that spun from her lips was the most beautiful that Zen had ever heard: a soft, masterful rendition of his. The pale light of the moon dusted her silhouette, catching the edges of her smile. And Zen let himself drink in the sight of her as he had back at the Teahouse, the night around them disappearing as he fell into her spell of snow and silver, and a homeland he now knew only from memory.
