Rania’s mind raced, but her face stayed calm. She lifted a sweet smile. “I see… Very well, I’ll trouble you, Mr. Fay… By the way, I can’t stop thinking about that ancient passage. Mr. Fay, don’t you know a senior expert in old scripture and lost arts?”
“He lives in East City, doesn’t he? Could you invite him to the manor right now to clear up my doubts? I can pay him!” As she spoke, she studied Jared’s face for every subtle reaction.
Jared pictured the flip side at once. If the person standing here were only an impostor—if he were that impostor—one small slip over the scholar’s name would tear the mask in two and expose everything. That razor-thin moment of exposure hovered in the air like the tip of a needle, waiting for the first tremor of uncertainty to press flesh against steel.
An unvoiced curse burned across Jared’s tongue. This girl was relentless: bright, courteous, and every inch a snare. Jared rummaged through Quentin’s borrowed memories. Yes, several freelance antiquarians drifted through those recollections, but their faces blurred, their addresses slid out of reach, and none fit sharply enough to seize. Rania’s request for an immediate invitation wasn’t innocent at all; it was a probe aimed straight at the soft part of the disguise.
Agreeing outright would be suicide; he had no idea whom to summon, let alone how to reach the man on short notice. Flat refusal, however, would shout louder than any confession. Thoughts spun, collided, and locked into place. A middle road had to appear now, this breath, or never. He let a troubled shadow crease his brow. “Ms. Rania, are you perhaps speaking of Mr. Moore? To be frank, he left Jade Immortal City a few days ago, and his return remains uncertain.”
He then offered a small sigh. “As for the others, one is still traveling, another has shut himself away. I’m afraid none can be persuaded this very night.”
A spark flickered behind Rania’s lashes, quick as the flash of a gem catching sun. She tilted her head, voice light. “Mr. Moore left? Funny… I heard someone spotted him in West City only three days ago.”
The remark punched a cold dent in Jared’s chest; he tasted the slip almost before she finished speaking. He steadied his breath and lifted a rueful smile. “News must have outrun me, then. If Mr. Moore is already back, all the better… Still, it is late. Storming in on him tonight would be improper. Tomorrow at first light I’ll ride to West City; if he is free, I’ll escort him here myself. Would that suit you?”
The offer drew a clear path, buying hours he desperately needed while seeming eager to oblige. Rania studied him for several heartbeats, then her smile blossomed, bright as spring sunshine, yet oddly chilling against his skin. “Very well, Mr. Fay. We’ll speak again tomorrow!”
She slipped the jade slip away, then asked almost casually, “By the way, Father mentioned Soulfall Slope’s formation this morning. You handled the maintenance, yes? He seems unusually concerned about it lately.”
The name struck like a hammer on a bell. *Soul-Refining Crystal* flashed across his mind before he could stop it. His pulse lurched. This was bait, no question… Did she know something, or was it a lucky hit?
He forced calm into his voice. “I inspected the array myself. It’s working smoothly. All soul-related matters are in order as well. The City Lord may rest easy…”
He nearly said the crystal’s name, caught himself, and smoothed the words instead. Rania nodded once, letting the topic fall. “Then I’ll leave you to your duties. I expect good news tomorrow.” Rania waved, silk sleeve trailing a soft fragrance, and turned away with her maids in tow.
Only when her figure vanished at the end of the flower path did Jared allow the breath to leak from his lungs. Sweat cooled against his spine. Sharp… razor sharp. Every question had been a needle, every smile a twist of that needle seeking blood. The exchange looked harmless, yet danger threaded through every syllable. She was suspicious, no doubt about it… Tomorrow’s meeting might be a doorway, or a trap waiting to snap shut.
Jared couldn’t keep dancing in Quentin’s skin; the seams were already stretching. A cold glint slid through Jared’s eyes as a fresh strategy formed. Since Rania was so fascinated by ancient lore and Quentin happened to know an expert in that field… why not have that expert appear in person?
The notion swelled—bold, a little wicked, and deliciously theatrical—until it filled his mind with vivid, daring possibilities. The idea cut through Jared’s mind: get close to Rania, earn her favor, slide past her guard. Once she led him to Julian, the path to the Soul-Refining Crystal and the celestials’ secrets would open. That approach carried far more meaning than simply wearing Quentin’s skin and striking at Rania from the shadows. Yes, the risk climbed, yet if it worked, the payoff was immense, and he, not anyone else, would hold the initiative.
Easing into the thought, Jared felt the corner of his mouth tug upward, a faint curve that vanished almost as soon as it formed. With the charm he commanded, one meeting would be enough; Rania would tilt toward him before she realized it. Once he had secured his place as a trusted confidant, how could Julian keep him at arm’s length? Jared felt sure Rania would eventually trust him.
First, though, he had to remove Mr. Moore from West City—nudge the scholar away for a while. Next, Quentin himself needed a tidy excuse to leave the manor, so any doubts Rania nursed would have nothing solid to grasp. Once Rania’s gaze no longer pressed against his back, Jared veered away from the main path instead of returning to the Tranquil Heart Pavilion. He angled toward a quiet garden that sat on the seam between the inner and outer courts. He needed to reach Lyza as soon as possible.
In the far corner, an unremarkable ancient locust tree stood with a hollowed trunk. Jared slipped a hand inside the cavity. With pinpoint finger force, he etched a cluster of strange glyphs into the inner bark.
As the grooves bled sap, he recalled the code they had agreed on; it flagged an urgent request for aid. He added one more line beside it, a timetable Lyza would recognize: “West City, Mr. Moore, leave fast, no trace.”
He smoothed his robes, let the hint of Quentin’s habitual gloom settle over his features again, and set off toward the Guest Reception Annex.
