A scream cut the courtyard like someone tripping a bell.
"I told you not to test the light-step on wet tiles!" Song Limu's voice hit me before his boots did. He was already halfway across the paving, a tight line of worry on his face.
"My feet are fine," I snapped, then the world did its best to prove me wrong.
Wind grabbed my sleeve. The next breath was a hand at my waist that stopped falling. Cold fabric, firm hold, and a voice that smelled like old books and winter.
"Don't thrash."
I swung around like a cat and found Su Jingqing's face two inches from mine. He looked at me like he had better places to be.
"You caught me," I said, trying for gratitude and finding only annoyance.
"You were falling," he said. "I made a correction."
"You made a throw." I shoved him. The shove was more theater than force; he barely moved.
"I adjusted your vector," Su said, the words flat. "You would have landed on the tea table."
"Which would have broken more things than my pride," I said.
Song General laughed. "Pride's replaceable. The table's not."
A corner of the courtyard's audience snorted. The eunuch in glossy black lips and a maid with too-clean fingernails both watched. Limu's jaw unclenched into a look that told me to quiet down.
"I will have shrimp for this," I declared. It came out sharper than I meant
