“Are you all right, mister?” Her voice was like song: sweet as silverbells, clear as a halcyon sky. He looked up to see her peering at him, moonlight draping her pale outfit like a pure spill of milk. Her chin-length hair was slick with sweat, but she was lovely. He’d noticed back at the Teahouse—he hadn’t been able to help himself. Lips bowed over a sharp chin, dark lashes sweeping over smile-curved eyes that were currently studying him just as he studied her. Zen averted his gaze. “Yes,” he said, his voice rough. “Thank you.”
