The pattering sound of the rain was like the quiet music of instruments in harmony; plump hands dredged up from within the vapour, holding the wrung out towel loosely between fingers, stretching forward into the bedding, wiping Song Shijiu’s back clean from top to bottom. Her back was both glossy and tender, having alluring dips and valleys, shoulderblades protruding slightly, but not too much, as if a pigeon restraining its wings. A Yin gazed at the red mark, smaller than a grain of rice, on the back of her neck, the bright moonlight smudging it to become a bit larger, absent-minded gaze turning it into the size of a fingernail. It stilled on the skin of the occupied young lady, as if an intruder entirely lacking decorum, and traced over the outline Li Shiyi’s words had drawn, as well like an uneducated seductress. The beautiful state of the young lady; the envy and shame in her heart, at the same time, had long been peeled clean, and only then could she calmly and meaninglessly use L