On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

For now, Lan Wangji doesn't say anything. All of the components for tea are laid out on the table, neat and ready for use. He draws a talisman from his sleeve to heat the pitcher of water, with silent gratitude to Wei Ying, then drops a cake of tea into the pot and fills it with water. While it steeps, he dips each cup in the hot water with the tongs, one by one, and sets them aside. He knows Galahad won't mind the silence.