Mikhailis stepped out from the shrine's hushed interior into the violet hush of early dusk. Cool air kissed his heated cheeks, and the unfamiliar sweetness of rain-damp ivy drifted through the colonnade. Lantern beetles began their slow ascent up the trunks, trailing dots of amber light. Steady, he told himself, passing a palm down the front of his robe. Silk clung to lingering perspiration; he smoothed the fabric anyway, pretending the gesture erased the memory of two warm bodies pressed to him only minutes ago.
Birdsong fluttered above—a fluted chorus that usually calmed his mind—but tonight each note felt like a teasing nudge. Stop it, he scolded the birds, then himself. He rolled his shoulders, slipped on his outer coat, and forced a casual smile.
