Chapter 30: Threads in the Lantern Light
The next morning, the palace smelled faintly of sesame oil and fresh snow, a strange pairing, but that was the palace for you. It was one half luxury, one half drafty corridors and kitchens that never stopped clattering no matter the hour. From somewhere in the east wing came the muffled pounding of pestles. The kitchens must already be preparing the festival dishes, though the celebration was still two days away. The rhythm of the pounding blended with the occasional cry of a gull from the lake outside the walls, a reminder that the world beyond the courtyards still existed.
Jiu'er was fussing over my hair before I had even opened my eyes properly. I had fallen asleep with the quilt pulled over my head and my hair loose, and now it had twisted itself into stubborn knots.
"Princess, you cannot greet the day looking like this," she scolded, her fingers already busy with a comb.
"It is barely morning," I mumbled into the pillow. My voice was rough from lack of sleep, betraying the fact that I had been awake far too late, sketching revisions for the lantern. "Besides, the Emperor is not going to wander into my chambers before breakfast."
She gave me that look, the one that said she was certain I was wrong but would humor me for the moment. "Even if the Emperor does not come, others will. And they will remember what they see."
I let her tug the comb through another knot. "Then let them remember I am human."
She sighed, but her hands were careful. When she was done, she brought me a basin of warm water. The steam curled against my cheeks, and I lingered over the simple act of washing my face.
By the time I made it to the corridor, the light had taken on that pale, brittle quality winter mornings always carried in the capital. The polished floors felt cold under my slippers. I passed two maids carrying armfuls of crimson silk, whispering in voices that were not as quiet as they thought. The words "Meiyan" and "triumph" reached me before they ducked around the corner.
So. She was already making her move.
---
The Hall of Painted Clouds was a hive of motion by mid-morning. Servants were balanced on stools, hanging strings of paper tassels in colors bright enough to make my eyes ache. The scent of glue and damp paper mingled in the air. One young boy carried a stack of lantern frames taller than himself, wobbling with each step until an older attendant caught the top one before it could tumble.
On one table lay a half-finished lantern the size of a carriage wheel, Meiyan's work, no doubt. Its panels were painted with phoenixes in flight, wings edged in real gold leaf. Even from across the room the gold caught the light and flashed. The phoenixes seemed ready to lift from the silk and vanish into the rafters.
I walked past it without slowing, though I caught the slight shift of silk in my periphery as someone, likely Meiyan herself, turned to watch me. I did not give her the satisfaction of meeting her gaze.
Instead, I went to my assigned space, where a neat stack of materials awaited. I unrolled the indigo silk, and in the daylight it looked even richer than I remembered. The white thread beside it stood out like frost crystals, delicate and sharp. My hands worked slowly at first, almost deliberately clumsy, letting the rhythm of the needle guide my breathing. The thing about embroidery in a place like this was that every stitch was a word in a language everyone was trying to read.
"You could make it brighter," one of the attendants ventured after watching me for a while. Her tone was hesitant, as though she was afraid to offend.
I did not look up. "Brightness is for those who fear being overlooked."
The attendant's mouth closed, and she said nothing more.
---
By midday, my back ached from leaning forward, and my fingers were stiff from holding the needle too tightly. I excused myself for air, though the truth was I wanted distance from the press of voices and the constant rustle of silk.
The air outside bit at my face. The sky was the flat gray of unpolished steel, and the wind carried the faint scent of pine from the distant hills. The garden paths were dusted with snow, though some careless footprints had marred the perfect surface.
At the far end, near the plum trees, I saw someone kneeling. Not a servant, because the fabric of their robe was too fine.
It was Consort Yulan. She was brushing snow from a low branch with the edge of her sleeve. When she glanced up and saw me, she looked briefly startled, then offered a faint smile. "Princess Lianhua. I thought I was alone."
"I could say the same."
She rose, her hands still covered with a light dusting of snow. The air between us felt like a thin sheet of glass, transparent but fragile. Yulan's fingers lingered on the branch she had cleared, and I noticed the buds beneath the frost, tight and green, peeking through. They would bloom soon, snow or not.
"Everyone speaks of winning," she said finally. "But no one speaks of surviving."
I tilted my head. "In this place, they are the same thing."
Her smile did not reach her eyes. "Sometimes."
For a few moments, neither of us spoke. The wind moved through the plum branches, scattering a few loose flakes of snow into the air. Then she turned and walked away, her footsteps muffled by the frost.
---
When I returned to the hall, Meiyan's lantern had grown even more elaborate. Two servants were affixing jeweled tassels to its frame, each bead catching the light like a tiny flame. She was speaking to them in a low, measured voice, the kind people used when they wanted to be overheard without seeming to.
I paused just long enough for her to see me looking. Our eyes met for a moment, no more than a heartbeat, before I turned away with the faintest of smiles.
That night, after Jiu'er brought me ginger tea and fussed over the brazier, I sat alone with my half-finished lantern. The brazier's heat barely reached my fingers, and the needle felt colder than it should. My stitches were not perfect. One line curved where it should have been straight, a small flaw that I left untouched. Let them think it was a mistake or a message. Sometimes it was both.
Outside, the wind had picked up, whistling faintly against the shutters. Somewhere in the distance, a gate creaked closed.
The festival was two days away. The game had already begun.