The lady is a frail creature, her beauty effervescent. The hour seems untimely for her: her attendants open her private quarters, where a knelt maid already fits her mistress in a gossamer robe of sheer spider silk, the silhouette of her body pleasantly perceptible and bare beneath. What is imagination? A ruse, for such moments.

If the lady Spina shares the flushed modesties of her virginal attendants, she does not show it. Indeed, she hardly shows any interest at all, but for a nod when Wei Wuxian inches close, a wave to one of her countless fainting sofas.

"Please. How many I assist you, my sweet?" But she smiles. "How handsome you are. May your womb be fertile."