Does he know what he has is within fatal reach of feral hands? It is not with hands, but eyes that rove to take in a tilted profile, the curving bridge of a just-turned nose, the crook of a dimple where it breaks against her full mouth.
“I am to be what son and mercy deem me to be, Empress.” No, the emperor had lost sight in one eye, and now his wife walks Batu’s steps, and the nomad has no desire to return her. Were they married, he would not lose sight of his platinum-silver. He would not allow her to enter a third year unfilled with his children.
True curiosity takes him by surprise. He cannot imagine the han willow-women caring for this work beyond a final, luxurious end. The process itself is slow, demanding patience and finesse. This he would begin to explain, running a palm through the sarlang folds to reveal many-hued layers within the coat itself.
“These coarse guards hairs must be cleaned through and buffed to remove wiry strands from the fine down beneath. It yields a pelt softer than deer or sheep’s wool, while the outer layer shields against wind and water.” He gathers the fur in his grasp, raising its curls and holding them before the lotus’ mirrored tones.
“Wear her.”
