Lan Wangji doesn't mind the wait at all. The slow unfurling of the ritual is at least half of what he likes about serving tea: the enforced pauses, the intervals as he waits for the water to heat, for the leaves to steep, for the delicate little cups and their contents to cool to a tolerable temperature. He watches the slackening of Susan's face, and although he knows her very little, it seems as if he can see the accumulation of burdens and duties she has taken upon herself only in this moment, when she sets them briefly aside.