The clinic’s prepared lantern sat beside the door, its flame held steady behind a glass screen. Yan stood in the Sea Hall with Qinghe, comparing two notes on the elixir’s measure. Seli came in from the porch and said Toma had a fever.
“Qinghe asked me to tell her whether he was awake,” Seli said. “She’s finishing the comparison before she comes over.”
“Can he answer a question?” Yan asked.
“He was sitting up a moment ago.”
Yan looked at the lantern. “I can check.” He opened one branch and sent it through the prepared path. The division felt smooth and familiar. The usual strain became firmer cohesion, and the clinic came into view without effort.
Toma sat upright on the cot, looking toward a wooden cup on the far table. The cup was just out of reach. His hair clung to his forehead, and a damp cloth lay folded beside him.
“Can you hear me?” Yan asked through the projection.
Toma blinked, then laughed. “The lantern speaks.”
