Lan Zhan swallows past something thick and stifling in his throat. His grip remains very tight. As an adult, he would modulate himself away from holding on this tightly, but at six, he is not strong enough to harm anyone with it. He is only strong enough to clutch a friendly hand as if it might lead him up the winding path to his mother's door at any moment. "I do, too," he says. "It is called the Gentian House. My mother's house." Her prison, but he is told not to call it that.