Hóng Yè looked away.

He told himself he did not care. He told himself that Lì Jìng was a stranger, a girl he had met only moments ago, and what she did was none of his concern.

He told himself that his tail was flicking because of the wind, that his hands were curling into fists because of the cold, that the tightness in his chest was nothing more than indigestion from the festival food.

He told himself many things.

None of them were true.

Fēng Láng moved through the crowd like a river finding its course, and his course was clear.

He did not glance at the females who sighed and whispered as he passed.

He walked directly to Lì Jìng.

Hóng Yè’s jaw tightened.

"Hello," Fēng Láng said. "I do not believe we have met. I am Fēng Láng."

Lì Jìng looked up at him. Her jade eyes were wide, caught off guard by his sudden appearance, but she did not step back. She did not lower her gaze.

"Lì Jìng," she said. "I am from the southern marshes."

"The southern marshes," Fēng Láng repeated, as if tasting the words. "I have heard stories of the marshes. The way the mist rises from the water in the morning. The way the lilies bloom at night, glowing like lanterns on the surface of the river."

"You have heard correctly," Lì Jìng said.

Fēng Láng smiled.

"But the stories did not mention," he said, "that the marshes produce such beauty."

Lì Jìng’s cheeks went pink. The color spread across her cheekbones, over her pale green scales, warm and soft in the firelight.

"Thank you," she said, and her voice was quieter now, almost shy.

Fēng Láng took a step closer. His copper fur caught the lantern light, burnished and bright. His golden eyes held hers.

"Would you walk with me?" he asked. "The river is beautiful tonight. The moons are reflected in the water. I would very much like to see it with you."

Lì Jìng did not answer right away.

She looked at Hong Ye who was behind her.

He was standing, his arms crossed, his hair falling across his face.

His red panda tail was flicking back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum counting down to something.

He was frowning.

"What are you looking at me for?" he snarled, definitely not insulted by how the wolf had completely ignored.

Lì Jìng’s lips curved.

She did not answer him. She turned back to Fēng Láng.

"Not tonight," she said. "I am tired from the journey. Perhaps another time."

Fēng Láng’s smile did not falter. If anything, it grew wider, more understanding.

"Another time, then," he said. "I will hold you to that."

He inclined his head, a small bow, and walked away.

Lì Jìng watched him go. Then she looked back at Hóng Yè.

"See you tomorrow," she said.

Hóng Yè did not respond.

He stood there, frozen, his arms still crossed, his jaw still tight, his tail still flicking. He did not say goodnight. He did not say goodbye. He did not say anything at all.

Lì Jìng waited one breath. Two. Three.

Then she turned and walked toward the huts where the visitors were staying, her dark hair swaying, her pale green scales catching the light.

Hóng Yè watched her go.

~

Across the clearing, Bai Yue was watching.

She had stopped dancing sometime in the last hour, her feet sore and her cheeks flushed from laughter.

She had settled on a low bench near the cooking fire, and Yàn Shū had settled beside her, his scroll forgotten in his lap, his glasses slightly askew.

They were both staring.

"Is he..." Yàn Shū started.

"Yes," Bai Yue said.

"Is he glaring at that girl?"

"He is glaring in the direction of that girl."

"That is the same thing."

"It is not. Glaring at someone requires intention. Glaring in the direction of someone requires only geography."

Yàn Shū adjusted his glasses. "The probability that he is not glaring at her is approximately—"

"Just look at his tail."

Yàn Shū looked. Hóng Yè’s tail was flicking back and forth, back and forth, faster than it had any right to flick.

"That is not a normal tail flick," Yàn Shū said.

"That is a jealous tail flick."

"He does not know her."

"He does not need to know her. He just needs to see someone else interested in her."

Yàn Shū considered this. His brow furrowed. His tail, the red panda tail that he shared with his son, began to flick.

"That is concerning," he said.

"That is adorable," Bai Yue said.

From behind them, a long, theatrical groan.

Bai Yue turned.

Zhāo Yàn was standing with his hands on his hips, his nine tails drooping behind him, his expression one of exasperation.

"What is wrong with that boy?" he demanded.

"Which boy?" Bai Yue asked, though she knew.

"Hóng Yè. The red panda. Your first son. The one who just stood there like a statue while a perfectly lovely girl smiled at him and then walked away."

"He is not good with people," Yàn Shū said quietly.

"He is not good with anything," Zhāo Yàn said. "He glares at everyone. He talks to no one. He spends all his time reading scrolls and brooding. And now, when a pretty girl from the marshes practically hands him an invitation, he just stands there and frowns?"

"It is not an invitation," Yàn Shū said. "It is a conversation."

"It was an invitation."

"It was a conversation."

"It was an invitation to a conversation," Bai Yue said, "which is the same thing."

Zhāo Yàn threw his hands up. "Thank you!"

Han Shān appeared beside them, silent as falling snow.

"He is just like you, panda," Han Shān said.

Yàn Shū’s ears went pink. "What?"

"Awkward. Stubborn. Unaware when someone is interested."

"I am not—that is not—that is incorrect."

"Your tail is flicking," Han Shān said.

Yàn Shū looked down at his tail. It was flicking. He pressed it flat against the bench.

"Shut up," he said.

Han Shān’s lips twitched.

Bai Yue groaned and rubbed her temples.

"As if Tao Zi and Zhen are not enough," she said, "now I have to deal with a grown boy and a new girl who is clearly interested in him."

"Oh the horror," Zhao Yan said mockingly, and Bai Yue swatted him. He narrowly dodged, snickering.

She Yue stared at the fire. The flames danced and crackled, sending sparks up toward the twin moons. She was racking her head hard.

Then....

Bingo!

Bai Yue’s lips curved.

"I have a plan," she said.

Her husbands looked at her.

"What kind of plan?" Han Shān asked.

"The kind that involves meddling," Bai Yue said.

"Bai Yue," Yàn Shū said, "parental interference in adolescent romantic development often leads to—"

"Darling, they won’t figure this out themselves." She cut him off. "We need to help them." Yàn Shū considered the words of his mate and nodded. She had a point.

She stood up, brushed off her skirt, and looked across the clearing at her son.

He was still standing there. Still frozen. Still watching the path where Lì Jìng had disappeared.

His tail was still flicking.

Bai Yue smiled.

"Tomorrow," she said, "the hunt begins."

She walked toward the fire, leaving her husbands behind.