The moon-viewing pavilion was set on a small promontory of rock jutting from the mountain-side, high enough to give an odd betwixt-and-between view of the vast imperial gardens laid out beneath: neither as near the ground as an ordinary balcony nor so high above as Temeraire's back, where trees changed into matchsticks and the great pavilions into children's toys. Out of sight, he put his cup down on the window-sill half-drunk it tasted to him like perfumed water, and he thought longingly of strong black tea full of milk, or better yet, coffee he had not tasted coffee in two months. He could only smile at whoever addressed him and hide his incomprehension behind the cup of tea of palest green, and at the first chance he stole quietly away around the corner of the terrace. The musician had only one string to his instrument, and he called from it a wavering, fragile song, a thread woven through the conversation which itself had become nothing more than music: Laurence had acquired very little of the language, and the words soon lost their meaning for him when so many voices joined in. EVEN LOOKING INTO the gardens at night, Laurence could not imagine himself home too many bright lanterns looking out from the trees, red and gold under the upturned roof-corners the sound of laughter behind him like a foreign country.
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