The palace halls were empty and quiet now. Only the soft glow of torches lit the way, making long shadows on the stone walls. Jinshi walked slow, his simple dark silk robes brushing the floor. Gaoshun stayed one step behind, like always—steady and silent.
The night's weight hung between them. Jinshi broke the quiet first. "Gaoshun, that servant... he knew the inner paths too well. Not some outer worker who got lost."
Gaoshun nodded, voice low. "Yes, my lord. He moved like he had been here before. We will check the staff lists at dawn. Every name, every shift."
Jinshi turned the vial in his hand again, the glass cool against his skin. "And the liquid. Maomao said it burns slow—leaves scars if not treated fast. Who would want that? A grudge from the festival? Or something older?"
Gaoshun thought for a moment. "Could be a rival house. The bids today were high—some lost big on those rare blooms. Or perhaps an envoy, testing our watch. The southern ones were too friendly with their gifts."
Jinshi's steps slowed near a window. Moonlight fell in, silver on the floor. "Testing. Yes. But aimed at me. The spill was too close. We need eyes on the outer gates tomorrow. No one in or out without a name."
Gaoshun bowed his head. "It will be done. And the merchants from the bridge? Shall I question them deeper?"
Jinshi nodded. "Start soft. See if they know that servant's face. If not... dig."
They walked on, the hall curving toward Jinshi's palace. The air smelled of fading flowers from the day—sweet, but tired. Jinshi glanced at Gaoshun casual, like it was nothing. "By the way... where does Yelan stay? The new maid. Her quarters, I mean."
Gaoshun didn't miss a beat, but his eyes sharpened just a touch. "The outer maids' wing, my lord. Third hall, room seven.. Quiet spot, away from the main noise."
Jinshi made a small sound, like it was just talk. "Good. She's useful with scents. Keep her safe in that."
Gaoshun said nothing more, but he noted it—the casual ask, the quick shift. They reached the palace doors, tall wood carved with old vines. Guards bowed low as they passed.
Jinshi stopped at the entrance, turning to Gaoshun."I'm turning in early tonight. The day was long for everyone—festival crowds, poems, bids. You rest too. No watch till dawn."
Gaoshun bowed deeper. "As you say, my lord. Good night."
He turned and walked away, steps fading down the hall. Jinshi watched him go, then slipped inside. The room was big but simple—low table, silk screens, a bed with dark covers. Servants had left a lamp burning low.
Jinshi moved quick. He changed out of the silk robes into plain gray clothes—a worker's tunic, loose pants, nothing to catch eyes. From a hidden drawer, he pulled a plain black mask—simple cloth, covering nose and mouth. No one would know him like this. Rumors spread fast in the palace, and he was too smart to let them start. A high lord wandering at night? Questions would fly. But a shadow in gray? No one looked twice.
He tied the mask tight, checked the hall empty, and slipped out the side door. The night air was cool, plum trees rustling soft in the breeze—their mist-like scent filling the dark. He kept to the shadows, steps light, heading for the outer maids' wing. The burn on Yelan's hand... he couldn't shake it. Or her quick move at the bridge. She had known. Somehow.
In the maids' quarters, Yelan sat alone at a small table. The room was tiny—four walls of plain wood, one window letting in moonlight. A single lamp flickered on the table, casting yellow light on her work.
She had rolled up her left sleeve again. The skin was worse now red and swollen, blisters bigger, the burn spreading like fire under the flesh. The liquid had sat all day, hidden under silk, and time had made it angry. It hurt sharp when she touched it, like needles in her veins.
Yelan breathed slow, closing her eyes. Her gift—the scent power, spiritual and deep—let her smell what to use for healing. She inhaled the air around her, sifting through the room's smells: old wood, sleeping girls' breath, faint lavender from Hui-lan's soap. Then she reached for the small jar of salve of—aloe and mint, cool and clean. But her nose pulled her to the shelf: a dried bundle of yarrow leaves, earthy and stopping. And a drop of oil from the festival, sesame-sweet.
Yarrow to stop the spread. Sesame to soothe the fire. She mixed them careful, fingers shaking a bit from the pain. The paste smelled right—bitter green over sweet nut. She spread it on the blisters, wincing as it stung first, then cooled.
Her mind wandered while she worked. No hint today. The garden had hundreds of flowers—pretty, strong, deadly. But nothing... nothing like her not a single trace. How do I find it now? The festival's over. The palace walls feel tighter. And this burn... it's a mark I didn't ask for. Thoughts piled up: the poem she read, the spill, Jinshi's eyes on her during the bids. Am I here for the her... or something else?
She wrapped fresh cloth around the hand, tying it tight. The paste would help, but it would take days. She stood to blow out the lamp, the room falling darker.
A knock came—soft, once.
Yelan froze. Who at this hour? Her heart beat faster. Obasama? Maybe she forgot something.
Second knock—gentle, but sure.
She stood, the cloth still loose on her hand. The burn throbbed as she moved, skin hot and tight, blisters pressing against the wrap. She walked to the door, hand on the wood.
She opened it slow.
And in one breath, she knew who it was.