"If my husband had not arrived," Lan Wangji agrees, "we would not be speaking right now." He would be speaking to no one. He would be in the woods, burning through all of his spiritual power, trying every desperate measure in every possible universe to force his way back home. It is one thing to grieve a dead man for thirteen years and another to leave a living, breathing Wei Ying who needs him.

He composes himself and plucks his teacup back into his grasp, then looks toward Nightingale again. He knows that Nightingale has left behind at least one person of importance, and would be interested to hear more if he is inclined to share.