"You've learned one... here?" she asks, to confirm. She puts a hand on his forearm. Her hair, she knows, is a mess, tangled down her back where hanks of it stick to lingering, cooling sweat. There's a riot of marks tucked away on her body - some from Lancelot, some from Liu Mingyan. She doesn't care; she knows that she's as beautiful debauched as she is when she's carefully put-together, and she feels loose and bone-deep satisfied. As she tosses her matted hair back, she's focused, tremulous, on the look in his eyes.