"It is a thing." Lan Wangji's thoughts want dangerously to drift again: Wei Ying's mouth, sticky-sweet, the tilt of his smile, the freckles he begins to sport in the summer. At least Lan Wangji has considerable practice at thinking indecent thoughts about Wei Ying without showing it. He begins, at last, to lay out the corn husks so he can begin assembling the pork tamales.