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Chapter Text

Spring’s warm weather spread slowly across Li, clawing back land cun by cun from the clutches of a winter that refused to retreat. In its wake came the annual plague that would send people to apothecaries and physicians, bringing households together or shattering them apart.

The plague always began with a cough. Uncommon, sporadic rather than chronic, and inevitably linked with the first warming days of spring. The faint tint of green as new buds and shoots began to sprout from trees or work their way from the earth, and the people of Li would prepare.

Maomao was not unfamiliar with the disease; it was common enough amongst the brothel customers throughout the entire pleasure district. She and her father spent as much time concocting drugs to ease the discomfort as they did in treating other ailments. There were surgeons who seemed to specialize in excising the infected parts and rooting it out at its core, but more often people came to apothecaries like Maomao and her father in order to seek out a less…invasive cure.

It never escaped Maomao’s attention that what they were giving their patients was a form of poison. She harbored a not-so-secret delight in it, being asked to provide what amounted to a herbicide for direct and intentional consumption. Luomen always refused her the pleasure of testing it on herself. “There is no purpose,” he would tell her pointedly, “when you yourself do not suffer from it.”

Some afflicted with the disease commonly called tuhua found their illness progressing quickly depending on the depth of affection they felt for their target. The more rapid the development of true love, the greater the passion with which they fell, the speedier the appearance and strength of symptoms. The slower it developed, the more often people were able to delude themselves into believing it was only a normal cough until the first petals burst forth.

“It’s not entirely uncommon,” Hongniang had told Maomao early on during her service to Consort Gyokuyou, “though it often leads to surgery the minute the rear palace finds out about it. There are occasional cases where the confession resolves the matter, but…” Her face fell, eyes downcast. “Usually surgery.”

Maomao nodded, quickly running through possibilities in her mind. “And… reciprocated love?”

“More common than you might think,” Hongniang said, lifting a hand to her mouth to hide her smile. Her eyes slid towards the Precious Consort’s bedchamber. “But more often,” she said, expression turning serious, “there is rarely any love at all.”

It was a brief conversation, and one she thought little of, as she spent first weeks, then months, in the Precious Consort’s service. She had expected more of the women of the rear palace to love the Son of Heaven, she supposed—but they were generally far more pragmatic than that.

Lust, on the other hand… Tuhua had very little to do with lust, and almost everyone lusted after someone else at some point. The rear palace focused theirs, individually and collectively, on Master Jinshi. Maomao couldn’t see the point of it, but then again, it didn’t matter. She was content to let things progress, working with the quack to provide medicine and treatment when necessary. Jinshi confused her more than he did anything else; sure, he was attractive—the man was a celestial nymph brought to the earth, ethereal and beautiful enough to set kingdoms to war!—but that didn’t mean anything. Plenty of the concubines in the rear garden were beautiful.

It wasn’t until the debacle with Consort Lihua’s lady in waiting and Maomao’s summary departure from the palace that matters became complicated.

Some alleged that, even in the depths of winter, they’d heard Master Jinshi cough.

The whispered worries began in earnest, to everyone’s surprise, with a particular garden party and the production of blue roses. The handsome eunuch’s illness was, like many other coughs, passed off—spring allergies, the change in seasons, the rapid swings in temperature the Li capital was prone to. Cough syrups seemed to soothe it. Like so much else, Maomao took little notice. He could consult the physicians in the outer court, much more reliable and skilled than the quack, if it was something to be concerned about. It was not a matter to draw her attention.

But it was after the garden party that the cough seemed to stick to Jinshi like glue; as the season passed and Princess Lingli grew, so did his cough. Gossip raced through the court like wildfire, that Jinshi was not just coughing. It was tuhua, they whispered over the laundry basins and the drying-lines, tuhua that was murmured in the gardens, tuhua when the ambassadors arrived and the elegant eunuch was nowhere to be found (though Maomao knew it was not tuhua that kept him away then, though few would believe what had).

She did catch him in the act, only once, face hidden behind his sleeve. There were no petals, no buds, no whole-blooming flowers in his wake. It was a long-running cold, perhaps an allergy.

That was all.

⁂

“Maomao,” Hongniang said, drawing her aside some weeks later, “we need to talk.”

Maomao nodded, letting her mind dance and skip as it was wont to do, evaluating and considering the options available to her. With summer in full force and the chill of autumn on the horizon, and Gyokuyou’s pregnancy advancing… So much yet to do, and never enough time to do it.

“Are you listening?” Hongniang scowled. Her fingers closed on Maomao’s wrist. “This is serious.”

“I’m listening, I’m listening.” She sighed, frustrated at being caught daydreaming. Dropping her eyes in her best feigned deference, she pivoted to focus on Hongniang.

“They’ve confirmed it,” Hongniang said, her fingertips reaching for Maomao’s chin and lifting it so she could meet Maomao’s eyes. “Master Jinshi—he has tuhuabing.”

Maomao froze, her fingers flexing at her sides. “How? Isn’t he a—?”

“That’s the body, not the heart,” Hongniang replied dryly. “The body has nothing to do with it. The heart and head often seem to act of their own accord. He came to see Lady Gyokuyou, and he began to cough. That man of his, Gaoshun, tried to hide the handkerchief away, but something fell, and Ailin saw it.”

Maomao sucked in a breath, eyes darting side to side. She leaned towards Hongniang, curiosity overtaking her. “What was it? Cherry blossoms, plum blossoms? Irises?” She wet her lips. “Maybe—peonies? Though I can’t imagine peonies, someone might choke with a flower of that size.” The flowers someone coughed always held a tie to the person they represented, and in a place so often called the Emperor’s Flower Garden, there could be any number of possible blooms. Peonies were usually reserved for all but the highest and most noble of loves—Imperial ones, much as the flower itself represented Imperial authority. Lilies and roses, peach blossoms, lotus, even some of the wilder plants, would not be unexpected.

Hongniang looked equally shifty, if only for a moment, before she reached into a sleeve. She drew out a small white flower, holding it in the palm of her hand. “This,” she said. “This isn’t one from him, but from the garden—I saw it, what it was like before Gaoshun caught it up.”

Maomao stared at the flower in Hongniang’s hand, its slightly crumpled white petals. She made a soft noise, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Do you recognize it, Maomao? We’re all trying to figure out who it could be that has him coughing. It’s none of the elegant flowers we’d expect for one of the concubines—as though he’d admit it if it was!—but something…” Hongniang raised and lowered a shoulder. “Unexpected.”

“I’m not sure,” Maomao lied, looking away again. Woodsorrel—sometimes called cat’s paw. Her body tightened, cold washing through her. She hoped desperately she was wrong. Who else might have a name that could be invoked this way? This was no courtesan’s flower. Perhaps Master Jinshi had fallen in love with another eunuch?

“They’re a common flower, a garden weed,” Maomao said, endeavoring to sound wholly uninterested. “I wouldn’t think too much on it, Hongniang.”

“They should know, whoever they are. Can you imagine not falling in love with that man?” Hongniang’s gaze met Maomao’s, boring straight through her pretense and right to the heart of the matter. And that really was the problem, wasn’t it? Hongniang was too clever, her eyes too sharp, her focus too invested on Gyokuyou. It had garnered her an ability to read between every line and see beneath every mask, evaluate every motivation and monitor every person, who might come into contact with her dearly beloved Lady.

Maomao swallowed, schooling her face to inscrutability. “I’m sure anyone would be grateful for his affection.”

Anyone but me.

⁂

From that point onward, Maomao kept her head down and her attention focused on serving Gyokuyou. It should have been easy. She had a job, she had a paycheck, and no one to please except Gyokuyou and Hongniang. Jinshi had even bought her out from Verdigris House. He’d given her freedom, an opportunity to pursue her interests in poison and experiments. She had most of what she wanted! He’d done exactly what she asked, that night in the banquet hall.

Why was it, then, that something seemed to have soured in the pleasant day-to-day of her experience?

Sleep became…not precisely impossible, but certainly more troublesome than it had any right to be. Something painful kicked behind her breastbone. She wasn’t feeling—it wasn’t guilt, she assured herself. Not exactly. She was grateful to Jinshi for what he’d done for her, the medicinal ingredients and opportunities and the… challenge, really. It wasn’t the kind of challenge of living hand-to-mouth that she’d spent her life doing, but almost a dare. I think you can do it—can you?

Maomao groaned and rolled on her bed, dragging her pillow over her head. Emotions were complicated, even those as simple as gratitude. Too much of her childhood had been spent crying, a baby who had learned emotions were a liability. How easily her sisters and the other courtesans were able to manipulate patrons through wit and appearance, dangling the men along with gentle tugs of their hearts and pride. She’d learned early, before she had the words for it, that reliance on someone else was foolish. What mattered was strength, independence, self-sufficiency.

That celestial eunuch didn’t seem to realize that. No, he proffered gifts and medicinal herbs, as though he thought that would be enough. He’d gone as far as putting his reputation in her hands and his faith in her.

It was all too confusing. He’d been sad when she left, of all things! When they’d met again, that night she was working as a junior courtesan…The minute she’d said she wanted to work in the palace again, he’d arranged it. He’d given her opportunities to do what she loved, all without any gain for himself.

What was wrong with him?

She let out another frustrated sound, not quite a wail, into the pillow. He’d given her exactly—well, almost—what she’d asked for. And she’d been grateful. She’d been… she was… happy. And confused beyond all belief because no one cared about her like that except her sisters.

They took care of her—and Jinshi did, too.

They made sure she had what they thought she needed…and Jinshi did, too. He was childish and immature at times, so much it made her want to rip out her hair, but he never did it out of malice. Ignorance, certainly—and who could blame him, palace-bound eunuch that he was? And if her suspicions were right…

The last thing she should ever consider doing was falling in love with a eunuch in the palace. Falling in love was a messy thing; she’d never seen it go particularly well for anyone. She didn’t know if she’d recognize the feeling if she happened to go that far herself. Emotions never made sense to her.

Then again, there were worse people she could care about. At least he wouldn’t demand anything untoward of her.

If he even was a eunuch.

Given everything that had just happened with Fengming and Maomao’s own suspicions, she wouldn’t be surprised if there was more going on there than he was letting on, too.

She was never going to get to sleep if she let herself keep thinking about this. Resolutely, Maomao packed up her thoughts and tucked them away in the back of her mind. She could think about this tomorrow—if it was even worth thinking about.

She crunched the pillow to her chest, rolled onto her side, and did her best to slip into sleep. It was a long time coming.

⁂

The thoughts lingered with her long past dawn as she turned herself to her daily responsibilities at the Jade Pavilion. So much was the usual—dusting, cleaning, the highlights of the day when it was time to test for poison. She sank into the duties given to her and then only wished that they were more complicated when her mind began to wander again to the what-if’s about Master Jinshi. He was young enough to have taken such a senior position in the Inner Court—and the Outer Court, for that matter. He was well-spoken, had been gently born and reared… why would he bother falling in love with her? What point was there?

Maybe he would realize it was a terrible choice; maybe everyone was wrong, and he wasn’t afflicted with the flower-coughing sickness.

Maybe it wasn’t her and she was only borrowing trouble. That was it! Had to be it. Why would a man like Jinshi even care about a commoner like her? All her wool gathering last night was simply sleep deprivation and allowing her mind to go too far with flights of fancy. She looked on him with such disdain instead of adoration—why would he go so far as to love her? Love was obligations to people who could just as easily forget you, abandon you, and likely would when it didn’t suit them. Or they would only want you when you had something valuable for them—like that monocled man she’d prefer to forget.

But he hadn’t, and that feeling behind her breastbone returned, the prickly and unpredictable one as she considered how he hadn’t done any of the things she’d expected and everything she hadn’t. The prospect of what he might do if she allowed it—of what might happen if she allowed herself the chance—was terrifying.

The cycle repeated itself over the days that followed, …until, one bright morning, Maomao was summoned. Not to Gyokuyou’s quarters, nor to assist with the Princess’s growing pile of linens. Not even to the infirmary. No—this summons came sealed with the dragon seal itself.

The Emperor required her presence.

She washed quickly, changing her robes and brushing her hair into something barely more than tidy. Her thoughts buzzed with possibility. Had she done something? Discovered something she wasn’t meant to? Had she let slip something about Jinshi she wasn’t supposed to know?

The walk to the inner sanctum of the Emperor’s quarters was long enough to invite dread. She bowed deeply when brought into the room, her eyes fixed on the floor. The air was thick with insect-repelling incense, the particular combination of scents that were only permitted to the Imperial Family. Even if she said nothing, the fragrance wafting from her clothing now would tell everyone where she’d been.

Maomao waited until the rustle of silk and the faint exhale of someone seated signaled she could rise.

“Maomao,” the Emperor said, voice lighter than she expected. “Come, sit. We haven’t had a chance to speak properly in some time.”

She obeyed, carefully seating herself on a cushion, hands folded, sleeves precisely arranged. Her heart pounded, chills flashing over her skin. She was used to someone else being present when she dealt with the Son of Heaven, distracting him from her presence. The idea of having all of the Imperial attention leveled on her was daunting.

“I hear good things,” he said without further preamble. “My Precious Consort speaks highly of you. As does… Jinshi.” He lingered on the name.

Maomao blinked. “That’s kind of him,” she said blandly.

The Emperor chuckled. “He is not often kind. Not without reason.”

Maomao didn’t answer, her gaze politely fixed on her lap. The less she said, the less likely she was to lose her head—or whatever else the Son of Heaven was angling for. She wouldn’t volunteer anything; that was how they always got her, every time. She’d open her mouth and try and keep it short and somehow, every time, she would screw it up. Even that conversation with Hongniang had left her wondering what the other woman had seen.

“Do you know what tuhuabing is?” he asked casually.

“I do,” she said. Illnesses should be familiar, stable ground, but there was an uneasiness she could not shake. As though the very ground itself might ripple beneath her feet, a chasm open and swallow her before she could move. She picked her words very, very carefully. “Vomiting-flower-disease. It’s an ailment of the heart that shows its symptoms in other ways. Affection rooted so deep it blooms from the lungs.”

“And dangerous,” the Emperor said, nodding. “Especially here, where emotions are… a liability.”

Maomao could dissemble when she must; her freckles and the way she managed to keep the court ladies off her back had proven that. But she still wasn’t

He reached for a small porcelain dish on the table beside him, plucked something from within, and held it out to her. A single pale blossom—familiar, innocent. Wood sorrel. Cat’s paw.

She didn’t react. Not visibly.

“I had my gardeners identify it,” the Emperor said. “They say it’s common. A weed. But sometimes, weeds take root in places cultivated gardens fear to grow.”

Maomao felt the twist in her chest. “They are a resilient flower,” she answered carefully, relying on habit. “They can be used to treat fevers, nausea, some forms of mouth sores. It can also be used for a cooling drink, and reduce swelling and inflammation. Only in small quantities, however, particularly if you are susceptible to certain ailments.”

The Emperor leaned back. “Jinshi is dear to me. He is not what he appears. You suspect as much—I believe you have for some time.”

He tilted his head, sharp eyes considering her. When had she looked up at him? She dropped her eyes down immediately, focusing on the embroidered dragons on his black silk slippers.

“He’s not a fool. Nor are you,” the Emperor continued. “But he is… vulnerable. In ways he does not often allow himself to be. You have a talent for knowing things others overlook, Maomao. You see the world as it is. That’s rare.”

She swallowed. Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her robes. Why could she not simply vanish? Why had she had to come back to the palace? Why had she allowed herself the foolish indulgence of believing that she might be able to make something of herself and pursue her goals without interference?

“I am not telling you to do anything,” the Emperor said. He chuckled for a moment; they both knew that any request he made was as good as an Imperial Decree. “Only that—should you find yourself inclined to spend time with him, I would consider it a… personal favor.”

Maomao’s lips twitched. “Of course,” she said, her voice neutral, her eyes trying to pick out the way the embroiderer had wrought the dragon’s eyes. She couldn’t tell if the Emperor’s slippers bore  gems or knots of golden thread. Possibly both.

The Emperor gave a satisfied nod and gestured for her dismissal.

She didn’t remember the walk back.

⁂

That night, Maomao sat on her bed, knees pulled to her chest. The words rang in her head—not just the Emperor’s, but Hongniang’s, and even the faint cough she’d heard once when Jinshi had tried to hide it.

He had tuhua. There was no arguing about it. She was an apothecary, and this was her diagnosis. There was no need to be a physician for something like this. He had all the symptoms, even if she tried to ignore them. Ignoring the symptoms because you didn’t want to acknowledge them was something far too many patients did, in the hopes of avoiding the consequences of their actions or the medicine they would be prescribed. This would not be cured with cupping or with acupuncture. This likely could not even be fixed with a tincture.

Jinshi would have had the traditional medicine prescribed for him if he’d wished it, or even sought out the surgeons to prepare himself for that if it had been his desire. But the fact that he had not, and that the Emperor had even become involved in the situation, made it clear that what Jinshi wanted was something else.

When had a physician or an apothecary ever been so afraid of the possibility of a cure?

She buried her face in her knees. Jinshi, the elegant, unreachable, ridiculous man-child of the court. Jinshi, who had gone so far out of his way to give her space, freedom, challenges. Who watched her with soft eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. Who coughed woodsorrel petals.

She could not afford this.

She knew what happened to women who became entangled with power. Her life was fragile enough. But now—the Emperor’s voice returned to her. A personal favor.

How could she say no?

Luomen was still vulnerable, her own status was paper-thin. Even if she could bear the risk to herself, she would never endanger him. And she suspected—no, she knew—the Emperor would not take a refusal lightly.

But more than that, Maomao realized with a quiet, horrified clarity: she didn’t want to say no.

She thought of Jinshi’s smile, the way it always seemed slightly brighter when aimed at her. She thought of the way he lingered after conversations, as though reluctant to let her go. She thought of his clumsy attempts to impress her with rare herbs and exotic teas, as if he didn’t know her preferences were more poisonous than perfumed.

How he really had done exactly what she’d asked of him, and how—throughout all of this—he had not pressured her childishly. He’d done his best to keep it from her, enduring with the kind of stoicism expected of Imperial officials.

She squeezed her arms tighter around her knees. “Ridiculous,” she muttered.

But the tight ache behind her sternum didn’t go away.

She slept poorly again, but the next morning, her steps were more measured. She didn’t see Jinshi that day, or the one that followed; he had no reason to come to the Inner Court, and she ventured that he was busy with the administrative tasks that filled his days. It was not until the third day, when she imagined she could feel the weight of the emperor’s words on her shoulders, his pointed gaze between her shoulder blades, that she brewed a pot of tea and allowed her feet to carry her from her small work shed to the office he worked from.

There was a cough behind the door. It was rough and racking, the sort that made her own ribs and abdomen ache in sympathy. What she came with might not cure his affliction, but perhaps it would ease the pain.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” she said, eyes downcast as she slid the door open into the elegant and well-appointed office.

She dared, for just a moment, to glance at his face. Wide eyes, sleeve raised to his face, handkerchief dangling from the fingers of his other hand. His face was too pale, his hair limp, shadows beneath his eyes declaring that he’d as little sleep as she had—and of worse quality, she suspected.

“I’ve come with something to help your cough, Master Jinshi.”

He wiped at his face with the handkerchief again, balling it up and letting it vanish into one of his capacious sleeves.

“So you have, Maomao. So you have.”

Chapter Text

“Did I interrupt something?” Maomao inquired, not bothering to feign any kind of genuine concern. She knew full well she had intruded on him at work—and that if she was suddenly too attentive, he would become suspicious. She risked another glance at the nobleman behind the desk, watching him watch her. His skin looked paler than usual, the faint shadows beneath his eyes pronounced. Perhaps it was the light, but she thought she saw him swallow back another cough.

He lay his hands flat on the desk, glancing at a wet brush and the inkstone beside it. “Nothing that cannot wait. You brought—tea? Has Lady Gyokuyou decided I must be managed then? Or Suiren?”

Her fingers twitched at her sides, instinct warring with decorum. She wanted to check his pulse, his pupils, his temperature. Instead, she approached the table, setting her tray, the teapot and cups on one empty section. It was a challenge; most of the desk was covered with reports, scrolls and books and unbound pieces of rice paper. “I brought it, Master Jinshi, of my own accord.”

His eyebrows darted toward his hairline again. “Some new sort of poison, then?”

“Hardly,” she said. “Why would I waste poison on you when I know you don’t appreciate it nearly the way I do? It’s only tea, Master Jinshi. Good for a cough.”

He leaned back at that, his sharp eyes scrutinizing her with every movement. “Good for a cough? Or good for something else?”

“A cough,” she said firmly, pouring him a cup with careful, practiced fingers. “A restorative tonic to ease your throat and your pulse. Warming, to encourage coughing and for whatever is bothering you to clear up.”

The truth lingered in the air, almost as thick and real as the desk. She’d been careful to set the tray and pour in a way to keep the bulk of it a barrier between them.

Those elegant eyes narrowed. “I appreciate your attempt.” Jinshi exhaled, slowly. For a moment he looked as though he might suddenly refute it, turn it into one of his polished evasions. Instead, he smiled faintly, as though at some private joke. “I suppose everyone knows by now.”

“Everyone gossips,” Maomao said. “Knowing and understanding are not the same.”

He tilted his head. “Do you understand it, then?”

Wearily, she set the bowl of tea down before him on another unoccupied piece of desk—likely where he’d been resting his arms while working. Coming into contact with him would be a dangerous step, and one she wasn’t sure she was ready to make. He might misinterpret things. She drew her hand back, both hands retreating to the safety of her sleeves. “I understand the symptoms.”

“And the cause?”

She looked at him then—really looked. The fine tension of his shoulders, the wet line where a droplet had slid from his hair down his cheek, the faint tremor when he lifted his hand to brush it away. He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t need to. The air between them felt charged, tight as a bowstring.

“I’m not qualified to diagnose the heart,” she said finally, and turned her attention toward the teapot.

When Jinshi spoke again, his voice was quiet. “The Emperor spoke to you.”

Maomao froze. She hated that he could read her that easily. “He speaks to many people.”

“Not about me.”

Her silence was answer enough.

“He worries,” Jinshi said, half-smiling. “He thinks I will do something foolish.” He lifted the teacup with both hands, swirling its contents with his

“You usually do.”

He laughed, soft and genuine this time, and it startled her more than his anger ever could have. “True. Though perhaps not this time.”

“Why?” she asked at last, so quietly she almost didn’t hear herself. “Why me?”

He looked at her as though she had asked why the sun rose. “So many others are focused on influence, on wealth, on the doors I would open for their families. Connections to my family, even given my state.” A shadow flickered in his eyes, that elegant mouth twisting. No casual smile, none of the flippant cheer she saw so often when declining someone’s advances. “You could not possibly care less, and you make no attempt to disguise that fact. You see me in ways no one else does. Not—” A moment’s hesitation, one she might have missed if she wasn’t paying attention. “Not what I am, but who I am. You see me.”

Her breath caught. She wished he hadn’t said it. Wished she hadn’t heard it.

Jinshi lifted the teacup toward her, feigned mimicry of a salute. “If it were only a sickness, I would ask you for a cure.” He smiled, weary and wry. “But you’d only give me poison.”

Maomao swallowed. Her throat felt dry. “Sometimes they’re the same thing,” she said. “For tuhua, the prescription…It’s a herbicide, really. Rendered safe for ingestion—as much as something like that can be. But it’s still a poison. And people take it happily.”

“I don’t think anyone who takes it is happy, Maomao.” He met her gaze, tipping the tea back into his mouth, swallowing it without hesitation. He drank it all, not breaking eye contact. “Have you treated many with it?”

She did her best not to shift or show her discomfort. “Some. Not uncommon in the pleasure district, especially with my sisters. It’s easy for people to fall in love with them, to become obsessed. The obsession is the worst, when it’s a love that takes a sickly tinge. Thorns, then—or wilting, withering, rotten things. True…affection…is a healthy thing. The flowers are buds, or even full blooms. Obsession…” She shook her head. “I’ve seen both, Master Jinshi. I would wish neither on anyone, but with one, there’s hope.”

“Hope?” His eyes flew wide.

He raised his sleeve to cover his mouth with impeccable grace and closed his eyes, overtaken by a round of coughs. They wracked his body, shoulders shaking, fingers clenching around the small bowl of tea. He set it down with a clunk on the desk, the bowl tipping slightly.  Maomao waited for the coughing to subside, furrowing her brow as the fit stretched. He kept his head down and that celestial face hidden by his sleeve, but it didn’t hide the fact that there was something wrong, something muffled, with the expectoration.

She hadn’t expected the tea to go into effect this quickly.

Unease twisted in her belly like a bag full of serpents. She’d overstayed her welcome, but now at least she could tell the Emperor that she’d gone to Jinshi of her own accord, if he asked. Not that she expected he would.

“If that’s all,” she said as the coughing faded, “I will leave you to your work. I don’t wish to take up more of your valuable time than I already have.”

“You are welcome here at any time.” He lowered his sleeve, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. “I mean that. If the Precious Consort finds she can excuse your absence…”

“It isn’t the Precious Consort so much as Lady Hongniang,” Maomao admitted with an amused curve of her lips. “She is determined to keep me busy as much as she can. My presence has been missed in the Jade Pavilion and they are trying to make up for it.”

Jinshi gave her another long look, heavy enough she could feel it on her shoulders and running along her arms. “They are not the only ones who have noted your absence.”

It took every bit of her restraint to keep from even the most disparaging of looks. Gaoshun had warned her. And playing into this was more dangerous than ever before. She pressed her hands together beneath the shelter of her sleeves. “You should have more tea,” she managed, eyes downcast. “I will see about something more substantive for you tomorrow. I may have some thoughts about an”—she wet her lips with her tongue, swallowed—“extended treatment plan.”

Deliberately, Jinshi reached over and set the now-empty tea bowl on the tray. “I do not think more tea will help at this time, apothecary. But I will look forward to your next prescription.”

Hopeful, but still a pointed dismissal. He did have work to do—work she had interrupted—but moreso, she was only making matters worse for both of them the longer she stayed.

With a respectful nod, she took the tea tray again and backed toward the door, keeping her eyes down.

She couldn’t bear the weight of the disappointment she’d see if she looked up.

It was not until she was tidying up the tea tray later, rinsing the tea bowl and setting it to dry, that she saw something on the bottom of it.

A single woodsorrel blossom, almost flattened on the base. She lifted it with careful fingers and tucked it into her sleeve.

It would wilt by morning, she knew. But for now, she would keep it close and think on it and everything it meant.

⁂

By morning, the woodsorrel was gone.

Maomao found only a faint damp outline on the lacquer of her bedside chest where she’d set it, a ghost of shape and scent. The petals had curled in on themselves overnight, pale to near translucence before they dissolved completely. She rubbed her thumb over the spot. The faint trace of moisture lingered, cool as breath.

It had been foolish to keep it at all. She told herself so repeatedly while she prepared the morning tinctures, grinding loquat leaf, schisandra, and liquorice root until her fingers cramped. Sentiment was a luxury, a distraction.

And yet—

Outside, the air smelled of rain, sharp with the clean tang of wet earth and crushed leaves. The palace servants were busy airing cushions and sweeping puddles from the corridors; in the Jade Pavilion, Ailin, Yinghua and Hongniang were hard at work. Only her plea for an escape to her shed—on the grounds of medicine for Jinshi—had earned her escape from dusting and polishing. It would have at least meant she’d had the chatter of Gyokuyou’s ladies rather than her solitude.

Jinshi’s voice lingered, the echo of that low, even tone when he’d said: because you see me. His voice refused to leave her alone, creeping up at the most unexpected of times this morning. Whenever it was quiet.

Which was, no doubt, why she’d been the most industrious she’d ever been over the past few hours. That was certainly it.

What had he even meant by it, anyway? She saw everyone, that was her job. Not only that, it was a matter of survival: to not see people, to not be able to read the interactions of the court, put lower-ranked individuals like herself at risk. It was critical to see people, to know them, to know what they did and where they were and how they behaved, all the better to understand how they might have gotten ill, the side effects a medicine might have.

Jinshi was just another person.

“Poison or medicine,” she muttered under her breath, carefully mixing the ground powders into a honey-water mixture. She stirred, watching the clumps break up, the color of the syrup turning dark. “Same difference, depending on dosage.” She decanted a day’s worth of the syrup into a small porcelain jar and sealed it tightly.

Still, she chose the route through the east garden, where the wisteria hung heavy and dripping. It was the longest route to his office. Not that she needed to take a long route. She really should have taken the shorter one, get back, tell Hongniang she was ready for whatever other duties the Jade Pavilion required.

The path was quiet. The few remaining petals from the rainfall clung to the moss like scattered pieces of silk. She crouched once to inspect a droplet suspended in a spider’s web—so perfect, so fragile, that she felt a sudden irrational urge to cup her hand around it before it fell. She stopped herself just in time. Maomao did not interfere with nature; she observed, she catalogued, she moved on.

So why, then, did she stop at the pavilion?

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Men like Jinshi didn’t simply linger in gardens waiting for apothecaries. He had duties, audiences, petitions. He probably hadn’t even thought of their conversation again. The idea made her stomach knot unpleasantly.

She sat anyway, folding her legs beneath her. The bench was still damp, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood—so faint she might have imagined it.

It was easier to breathe here, where no one asked questions.

Ought she test it? But who—herself? She had no tickle in her throat, no cough to cure. At its worst, this would do nothing, but she could hope that it would at least ameliorate the more common symptoms of tuhua.

Still. Perhaps just a taste?

She uncorked it carefully, took a slow breath of the scent. Sweet, medicinal, faintly floral. For a moment she let her thoughts drift: the look in his eyes, the tremor in his voice. If it were only a sickness, I would ask you for a cure.

It wasn’t a sickness. Not one she could treat, anyway. And she was not the cure. She was the cause.

Maomao put the lid back on, perhaps harder than necessary. This was foolish.

A quiet sound startled her—the low scrape of wood against stone. She turned, pulse leaping before she could stop herself.

Not Jinshi.

Gaoshun stood at the entrance to the pavilion, his expression as unreadable as ever. He bowed. “Xiaomao. Master Jinshi requests your presence.”

Her mouth went dry. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Maomao exhaled through her nose, gathering her satchel. “Of course.”

As she followed Gaoshun through the winding corridors, the air thickened with the scent of camphor and polished wood. The closer they drew, the quieter the palace became, until even the faint murmur of servants faded into silence. They went not to Jinshi’s office but to his personal chambers; she had to be quietly grateful to Gaoshun for intercepting her along the way. The hall’s doors stood open, light diffused through gauze curtains that turned the room to gold.

Jinshi was at the writing table.

He wasn’t dressed for court. His hair was unbound, falling over one shoulder, and his outer robe hung loose, sleeves pooling like ink around his hands. The sight was so strange, so unguarded, that she hesitated at the threshold.

“Maomao,” he said softly, not looking up. “Thank you for coming.”

She inclined her head, carefully neutral. “You sent for me?”

“I did.” He turned a page of the document before him, but his gaze slid past it, unfocused. “I thought you might have… something for me.”

Her stomach dropped. “Something?”

He smiled faintly, a ghost of his usual expression. “You always seem to bring something, whether you mean to or not.”

She considered denying it—then sighed, kneeling before the low table and setting her satchel down. “A syrup,” she said. “For your cough. It won’t cure tuhua, but it might make you more comfortable.”

Jinshi’s fingers brushed hers as he reached for the small porcelain jar. Not an accident this time. His touch was warm, steady, and lingered just long enough to make her forget how to breathe.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was hoarse, but the word was clear.

Maomao looked away. “You should rest. That’s all I can advise.”

“I’ll try,” he murmured. Then, almost to himself: “Though rest seems further away than ever.”

She stood, pulse a fluttering thing in her throat. “If there’s nothing else—”

“Maomao.”

She froze.

He’d risen too, the light turning his hair to threads of molten bronze. For the first time, he looked uncertain. Vulnerable. “If I told you…” He hesitated, searching her face. “Would you hate me for it?”

Her lips parted—but she couldn’t form the question.

“Forget it,” he said quickly, a small, pained smile replacing whatever he’d meant to say. “It was foolish. Go, before the Emperor finds another reason to summon you.”

She bowed low. “As you wish.”

When she left, the faint sound of his cough followed her down.

⁂

The next time she saw him, he was worse.

It was evening again—humid, close, the sky thick with the promise of another storm. The corridors of the Jade Pavilion had fallen mostly quiet, the lamps lit early, their paper shades turning everything to honeyed gold.

Maomao hadn’t meant to go looking for him. She’d been delivering reports to the quack physician who oversaw the lesser attendants’ infirmary when one of the eunuchs—anxious, pale, and whispering—had caught her sleeve.

“Apothecary, please. Master Jinshi… it’s the cough again.”

She went without thinking. Her body moved before her mind could form protest.

By the time she reached the hall, the lamps inside had already been extinguished save one. The air was heavy with sandalwood smoke, cloying enough to sting her eyes. The faint, rhythmic rasp of breath came from the far end of the room.

“Master Jinshi?” she called softly.

A pause, then the scrape of movement. He was seated beside the open screen that led onto the veranda, his silhouette limned by the faint silver of moonlight. His robes hung loose again, one shoulder bare, a hand pressed against his mouth. When she drew nearer, she saw the telltale bloom of white caught between his fingers—a crushed woodsorrel petal, streaked faintly with blood.

Her stomach turned to ice.

Without asking permission, she knelt beside him, reaching for the handkerchief he held. “You shouldn’t—”

“It’s fine.” The words came out half-strangled in a cough.

“It isn’t fine,” she snapped before she could stop herself. The sharpness in her voice startled them both. She drew a breath, trying to find calm again, but her hands betrayed her—steady, practiced fingers trembling as she unfolded a clean cloth from her sleeve and pressed it into his hand.

He watched her quietly. His usual poise was gone, the mask of effortless grace shattered. Up close, she could see the sheen of sweat at his temple, the faint tremor of his pulse in his throat.

“You’re overexerting yourself,” she said, forcing her voice back to neutrality. “If the petals are appearing more frequently, it means—”

“It means I’m running out of time,” he finished gently.

She froze.

He smiled faintly, tiredly, as if to spare her. “I’ve read the same medical scrolls you have, Maomao. You know what happens when the flowers stop coming.”

She swallowed hard. “You should tell the Emperor.”

“He already knows.”

“Then—”

“He asked me to rest,” Jinshi said with quiet amusement. “And here you are, telling me the same. You might as well be in agreement.”

The lightness in his tone was wrong—it was defense, not ease. She knew that kind of tone. She used it herself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said after a moment.

Unable to hide her irritation, she scowled at him. “Neither should you.”

That earned a laugh—hoarse, but real. “Fair.”

Maomao sighed, wiping the edge of the bottle with a cloth. “Why do you always make things difficult?”

“Because you wouldn’t notice me otherwise.”

Her hand stilled. She looked up sharply, ready to glare, but the expression died in her throat. He wasn’t teasing.

The silence stretched. Somewhere outside, a cicada shrilled and went quiet.

Jinshi’s eyes were clear even in the dim light, fever-bright and intent. “You told me once that poisons can also heal,” he said. “That the difference lies in the dose.”

“That’s true.”

“Then perhaps affection works the same way.”

She wanted to scoff. To dismiss him with the same pragmatic sharpness that had shielded her all her life. But the words caught somewhere in her chest.

It was easier, she found, to look at his hand instead—the one resting palm-up between them, the faint shimmer of moonlight on his skin. The white of his knuckles where he’d been holding back another cough. She wanted—absurdly, against all reason—to reach for it.

Instead, she folded her hands in her lap until her nails bit half-moon marks into her skin. “Affection,” she said flatly, “is unmeasurable. And dangerous.”

All too much of her childhood had taught her restraint. What use was their for a baby in a brothel? Better, she’d learned, to not cry at all, to not want at all, to not need at all. To never build connections, because the ones you wanted to love you always left? When you were always, would always, be the second priority?

Better to learn to not care at all. It had been a lesson she’d committed to mind and heart as fervently as any of her father’s medicinal lessons.

Jinshi reached for her, the tap of a finger on her knee. Her attention jerked up to him, eyes meeting his. “Everything worth studying is.”

His voice was soft again, the edges of a smile tugging at his lips.

She couldn’t look at him any longer. She rose quickly, ignoring the flutter of her pulse. “Rest,” she said. “Don’t speak until tomorrow. I’ll have something stronger prepared by then. Consider acupuncture, or moxibustion—you might find they alleviate the symptoms for a time.”

“Maomao—”

She hesitated at the door, not turning back.

He sounded so tired when he said her name. Not plaintive, not demanding—simply human.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For staying.”

Maomao shut the door behind her before she could answer.

In the corridor, she pressed her back to the cool wall, forcing air into her lungs. Her pulse wouldn’t slow. The scent of sandalwood still clung to her sleeves, mingled now with something she didn’t have a word for—something sharp and aching and new.

When she finally made it back to her quarters, she sat in the dark a long while, staring at her hands.

They were steady again.

But the part of her chest that hurt most wasn’t from fear or anger.

It was from wanting him to live.

⁂

The next morning, she was in the archives.

It wasn’t unusual for her to be there — she had always been the sort of servant who sought solitude among scrolls — but this time, her focus was sharper, bordering on desperate. The record keepers gave her a wide berth. She’d brought no requests from the physicians, no formal authorization; still, no one stopped her. Maomao could look harmless when she wanted to, even when she wasn’t.

The medical scrolls of the inner palace were old, copied and recopied through the years, and her focus was single-minded.

Hutua, flower cough, casting-up-of-bouquets, flower sickness, flower death, a hundred names besides. A disorder of the blood, sometimes called “blooming lungs.” Most often fatal.

There were notes in the margins — patient records from decades ago, some blotted beyond legibility. Treatments attempted: herbal compresses, tinctures, cauterization. Variations of tonics she herself could have brewed in her sleep. All failures.

She found herself muttering under her breath as she worked, half the words clinical, half pure frustration.

If he were anyone else—

If he weren’t him—

She would have left it to the doctors. That was the truth she didn’t want to name. Because it meant that somewhere along the way, she’d stepped over a line she’d sworn she never would.

Jinshi mattered now. Mattered in ways that she had tried fervently to protect against.

When she realized her hand had started trembling, she sat back and stared at it in disbelief. She flexed her fingers, as if the motion could shake it off, but the tightness in her chest only deepened.

Care was inefficient. Dangerous. She knew that.

It blurred logic. It made one stay awake too long, chase after solutions that didn’t exist.

And yet here she was, combing through the forgotten failures of dead physicians, her pulse quickening every time she found an unfamiliar formula — not because it offered hope, but because it might.

“Idiot,” she whispered, not sure if she meant him or herself.

Surgery remained an option, but he seemed determined to refuse it. Acupuncture was a palliative, moxibustion a fifty-fifty chance on whether it aggravated the cough or alleviated it. The fact that it involved burning mugwort was…well. Never the most pungent or predictable. Lungs were complicated things.

The candle burned low beside her. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, aware that the scent of sandalwood still clung faintly to her sleeve. No matter how she washed, it stayed.

She found, tucked between two incomplete scrolls, a physician’s letter dated forty years prior:

“Of note, patients of tuhua exhibit prolonged vitality under conditions of emotional equilibrium. Agitation accelerates decline.”

Emotional equilibrium.

Maomao exhaled a shaky laugh. So that was what he was doing, then.

All his lightness, all that infuriating composure — it wasn’t denial. It was discipline. He was keeping her away, not because he distrusted her, but because he respected her enough not to drag her into his decay.

The realization made something twist low in her gut. It was the same ache she felt when a patient refused medicine because they didn’t want to trouble her — the same frustration, the same helpless tenderness.

He respected her, and that made it worse.

If he’d been willing to beg, to plead, to demand, she might have conceded. If he’d let some of that painfully well-trained aristocratic manner go, let himself lapse into petulance and demands, if he’d said he wanted—

She leaned forward, resting her forehead briefly against the table’s edge. The wood was cool against her skin.

“I don’t care,” she muttered. “I don’t.”

She didn’t care. She couldn’t. Everyone she cared about left, ot was taken from her—she wasn’t allowed to care, not even about this man who was so strangely desperate to keep her in his life. It was the safest thing not to care.

And yet. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t be here.

Maomao put her head in her hands.

This changed everything.

Chapter Text

The corridors outside the pavilion were empty, swept to perfect neatness under Suiren’s painstaking attention. Even if Master Jinshi were unwell, it was impossible to think that Suiren would allow a single strand of hair out of place, a single leaf to lay indolent on the corridor walkway. He might not be around to see it, but appearances mattered.

Outside, the rain had softened to a persistent drizzle that misted against the paper windows. The palace had fallen into a hushed stillness, save for the occasional patter of footsteps in the distance. Maomao walked without purpose, her feet carrying her through familiar passages she'd traversed countless times, yet everything looked different tonight.

She’d told herself she was simply delivering medicine. That was all. Nothing more.

The usual distractions—the gossipy court ladies, the demanding physicians, the endless rounds of tincture preparation—had all faded into insignificance. There was only the memory of Jinshi's hand brushing hers, the vulnerability in his eyes when he'd asked if she would hate him, the crushed woodsorrel petal streaked with blood.

She stopped beneath a curved eave, watching raindrops trickle down the stone. The cold seeped through the thin soles of her shoes, but she barely noticed. Her mind churned with possibilities of what Jinshi might have been about to say. If I told you... Would you hate me for it?

The question had hung between them like a physical weight. She had seen him at his weakest, witnessed the deterioration of his health with each passing day. She had watched him maintain his composure while suffering in ways few would understand. There was a certainty about his words—she knew what he would say, what he wanted to, but that he had not meant she could deny it just a little longer.

But did she want to? Did she really want to?

She cared for him. Against all reason, against her better judgment, against every instinct that had kept her alive in the treacherous world of the palace, she cared. It threw her off-balance and terrified her in ways that made her want to seek some sort of soothing tea or palatable pill that would cease the unpredictable fluttering of her heart and the dawning realization that everything she’d believed in might be false.

A cough echoed in the distance—rough, familiar. Maomao's head snapped up, her gaze searching the darkness. It came again, closer this time. Without conscious thought, she turned toward the sound, her feet moving faster now, urgency propelling her forward.

She found him leaning against a stone pillar in the deserted west corridor, one hand pressed to his chest, the other braced against the cool marble. His usual elegance had abandoned him; his robes were slightly askew, his hair escaping its tie to frame a face that was unnaturally pale in the dim light of the hanging lanterns.

"Master Jinshi," she breathed, rushing to his side. He flinched at her proximity, a reflexive movement that made her heart clench. "What are you doing out here? You should be resting."

"I was walking," he said, though the words were barely a whisper. He straightened, attempting to reclaim his composure, but another cough wracked his body, doubling him over. Maomao caught his elbow, steadying him, and the contact sent a jolt through her system. He was warmer than he should be.

"You're feverish," she said, her voice sharper than intended. "Why didn't you send for me?"

"I didn't want to trouble you." He managed a weak smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You've already done so much."

"Trouble?" Maomao's laugh was short and humorless. "You think caring for you is trouble?" She snapped her mouth shut at the realization of what she’d said, and hoped that he’d missed it. Caring for him was trouble, as she’d come to realize, but that was a different way, entirely out of the medical auspices she was supposed to be embracing. She shook her head, supporting his weight as he leaned against her. "Come on. Let's get you back to your quarters."

Together, they moved slowly down the corridor, his steps uneven, his breathing shallow. Maomao kept a firm grip on his arm, acutely aware of the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his sleeve. The scent of sandalwood and something uniquely Jinshi—clean linen, rare herbs, and something else she couldn't name but recognized instantly—surrounded her.

When they reached the door to his private chambers, Gaoshun emerged from the shadows, his face etched with worry. "Xiaomao. I was just coming to find you."

"He was wandering the corridors," Maomao said. For the first time with Gaoshun, irritation rippled through her. How could he have lost track of Jinshi? There were guards for this, attendants! That he could be wandering unsupervised, in this state— "Help me get him inside."

Between them, they guided Jinshi inside and to his bed, where he collapsed with a sigh of relief. Maomao knelt beside him, checking his pulse, her fingers brushing against the rapid beat at his wrist. "You should have sent for me immediately. Not—gone wandering.”

"I'm fine," he protested, though his voice was rough. "Truly."

Maomao met Gaoshun's gaze over Jinshi's head. The man gave a subtle shake of his head, his expression grave. "His condition has worsened over the past few hours. The coughing fits are more frequent, and the petals—"

"Show me," Maomao said, cutting him off.

With a nod, Gaoshun produced a small handkerchief from his sleeve. Maomao unfolded it carefully. Inside lay three woodsorrel blossoms tinged with faint streaks of red. Her stomach tightened.

"This is worse than yesterday," she murmured, more to herself than to them. She looked at Jinshi, who had closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. He didn’t want surgery, didn’t want poison to wipe the disease—and the emotion—from him. The only other cure was one that she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to offer him.

"He refused to call for you,” Gaoshun said. “Said he didn't want to worry you."

Maomao's throat tightened. "He's a fool."

"We all are, in our own ways," Gaoshun replied, quirking an eyebrow at her.

Did he see, too? How much did he see? Everything, she suspected; everything Jinshi saw, and probably more.

Maomao turned her attention back to Jinshi, her professional instincts taking over. She checked his temperature again, noting the heat radiating from his skin. “I had something for him, but I’m not sure it will work.”

Gaoshun gave her that long, expectant look that felt almost like her father. The same look as when he’d told her something, then come back to check to see if she’d remembered it and she’d forgotten. A particular denseness, or obliviousness. It rankled.

She looked down at her hands, reminding herself again that she wanted to survive this, whatever it was, and that making sure she did nothing folloish around Gaoshun would be one way to ensure she did make it out of this with her head still upon her shoulders.

From her sleeve, she withdrew the vial. “I need him to drink this.”

"Of course." Gaoshun moved to comply, but at Jinshi’s side. "Xiaomao... thank you."

Maomao didn't look at him. Her focus was entirely on Jinshi, who had opened his eyes and was watching her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. Even as bleary-eyed and bedraggled as he was, there was something in that gaze that refused to fit neatly into the boxes she wanted it to.

Gaoshun proffered the vial to Jinshi. “You heard Xiaomao.”

With a sigh, Jinshi uncorked it, sniffed lightly, and made a face. “It smells—”

“Disgusting,” she supplied, feeling a smile twitch into life at the corners of her mouth. “Drink it anyway.”

A faint smile ghosted across his face. “As you command.”

The smile shouldn’t have meant anything. It was the same gentle curve she’d seen a hundred times, the same one he gave to courtiers, servants, even strangers. But somehow, when directed at her, it set every nerve on edge.

She turned away as he drank, focusing on the small writing desk by the screen — the inkstone, the unfinished correspondence, the neat stack of folded silk that still smelled faintly of sandalwood. All too familiar.

“Better?” she asked when she heard him exhale.

“Less bitter than usual.”

“It wasn’t meant to be palatable.”

He laughed softly. “So I noticed.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the desk. “You shouldn’t make light of it.”

As she left the room, she could feel his gaze on her back. In the corridor, she leaned against the wall for a moment, taking a deep breath. This was dangerous territory. Caring for Jinshi meant entangling herself further in the web of palace politics, of emotions she couldn't control, of a future she hadn't planned for.

But when she thought of the fragile petals in Gaoshun's handkerchief, of the feverish heat of Jinshi's skin, that ephemeral look of amusement as he’d downed her concoction…

She straightened her shoulders and walked back to the Jade Pavilion. There had to be an alternative. It would have been so much easier if he was fighting—if he denied it, if he was begging her to find a cure, if he seemed to care. Instead, Jinshi had managed to—what? Resign himself to the situation? Assume she would fix the problem, or that he would simply…die?

The sheer amount of confidence he had in her was both baffling and flattering. She was good, and she knew she was, but that he was so enduringly certain of her capabilities? That if anyone could find a way to resolve this that would keep them both whole, it would be Maomao?

Not for the first time, she wondered how life would have been different if she’d kept her fingers to herself and hadn’t written anything about the concubines’ face-powder. There would have been more deaths—the Princess Lingli and no doubt Consort Lihua as well. Perhaps even more besides.

#

The next morning, little had changed. Her hands moved with the practiced efficiency of a master apothecary, yet her thoughts were a tangled mess. Awful. Uncomfortable. The words echoed, heavy and unwelcome. This wasn't the cool detachment she cultivated. This wasn't the clinical observation she applied to every patient, every court intrigue. This was… heat. A warmth that spread from her core, tightening her throat, making her fingers clumsy.

She paused, the pestle hovering over the dried herbs in the mortar. Why? Why did his quiet refusal to “trouble" her twist something inside? Why did the memory of his fever-bright eyes, focused solely on her, make her breath catch? Why did the sight of those wood sorrel petals feel like a personal failure?

Her finger tightened around the stone pestle. It was because he saw her. Truly saw her. Not as a useful tool, not as a curiosity, not as an inconvenience to be managed. He saw her sharp tongue, her pragmatism, the kindness she hid beneath everything else. He respected her boundaries so fiercely he’d rather suffer alone than risk overstepping. Spoiled and indulged he might be, childish at times, but the fact that he gave her freedom?

That he loved her wasn’t in doubt. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be so afflicted with this beautiful and poetic and deadly disease.

But—the truth of it?

Was this love? It was not the grand, swooning kind she’d heard about in poems, disguised in tales of jade gates and scallion fingers, plum-blossom lips and willow-leaf brows. This was grittier, the dirt beneath her nails, shoulder-to-shoulder, blood spilled because it was necessary. Duty, and going above, not out of obligation but out of the fact that she simply couldn’t imagine not. It was the visceral dread that had clenched her gut when Gaoshun mentioned the worsening petals. It was the irrational urge to shake him for his stubborn pride. It was the fierce protectiveness that warred with her ingrained caution. It was the awful, awkward realization that her carefully constructed walls had been breached, not by force, but by quiet, consistent, thoughtful care.

Maomao groaned, hanging her head, staring at the powder in the mortar. It would have been easier if he’d bought it with cordycepts and deer-antler velvet, with finely strained honey or rhinoceros horn. It would have been easier to rebuff if she could consider it a contractual obligation. But there was no contract here, only the painful realization that he’d taken something she wasn’t even aware she’d had to give away.

So long she’d spent Verdigris House as a passing consideration. Certainly they cared for her, but she was the afterthought. The baby that cried and needed tending, the girl who’d been born into it rather than sold, the investment that seemed more focused on escape than repaying the time and training.

He thought of her feelings. He worried about her comfort. He chose to spare her, even at his own expense. That was the key. In the palace, everyone wanted something. Jinshi, for all his power and allure, seemed to want… her attention. Her genuine presence. And in wanting that, he’d somehow become essential.

The pestle came down harder than intended, cracking the edge of the mortar. Maomao flinched, staring at the sharp fragment. She’d been careless. Dangerous.

Just like her feelings.

She swept the powdered herbs carefully into a small linen sachet, her movements precise again. The heat in her chest hadn't vanished, but it had transformed. It wasn't just dread anymore. It was fuel. Resolve, sharp and clear, cut through the discomfort.

Fine. She cared. It was awful, it was uncomfortable, it complicated everything. But it was real. He’d shown her, in a hundred small, infuriating ways, that she was worth fighting for.

Maomao tied the sachet with a firm knot, the coarse linen biting into her fingers. The scent of monkshood hung heavy in the small herb room, sharp and dangerous. Like the path she was choosing. Like the love she could no longer deny. 

#

Late morning light spilled through the lattice screens of Jinshi’s pavilion, painting the floor in lengths of amber. Maomao stood outside the door, her hand hovering over the frame. The scent of sandalwood curled from beneath the door, thick and suffocating. She could hear him—a faint, wet rasp that scraped against the silence. Her chest ached, not with denial, but with the sharp, clean pain of acceptance. This awful, awkward feeling wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t something to chase away with a pill or poultice. This was no ailment, but the cure.

It was a sour medicine, to be sure, but she wasn’t stupid enough to refuse Jinshi the cure now that she had it.

She glanced at Gaoshun standing beside the door. “Is he—?”

“He’ll see you,” Gaoshun said. “Even if he won’t see anyone else.” He nudged the door open. “Go in, Xiaomao.”

Jinshi was by the low table, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, his shoulders shaking with a suppressed cough. When he lowered it, his eyes widened, not at her intrusion, but at her expression. No guarded neutrality. No clinical detachment. Just raw, unvarnished truth.

“Maomao—" he started, his voice rough.

She crossed the room in three strides and sank to her knees before him, the cool wood biting through her knees. “I have a cure for you," she said, her voice low but steady. The sunlight caught the tremor in her hands, but her gaze held his. “It’s not in any scroll. It’s not in any herb."

He stared, breath shallow. “What is it?"

She took a breath, the air tasting of dust and the incense particular to his rooms and something else—fear, maybe. Fear and relief. “It’s truth," she said. “And I’m ready to hear yours."

The words hung between them. Jinshi’s fingers tightened on the handkerchief. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The only sound was his ragged breathing, the frantic thudding of her own pulse against her ribs. Then, slowly, he let the handkerchief fall. His hands trembled as he reached for her, not to pull her close, but to raise her to her feet and cup her cheek.

“You know what I am going to say, and you still want to hear it? I cannot take it back if I say it, Maomao. I won’t. But I also will not say it and make you feel uncomfortable.” As though she wasn’t already? Still, he continued, hand too warm on her skin, his proximity too much, and somehow, stupidly, not enough. “You already know, and I would not have this—"

“Stop being so self-effacing,” she interrupted. “It doesn’t suit you. But for this cure to work—"

“Is it some sort of riddle, like the doors in the ritual hall?”

Maomao rolled her eyes. How could someone this clever be so obstinate? “With all due respect, Master Jinshi, I’ve told you what the cure is. Are you refusing it now?”

His eyes, too glassy for her preference, widened. “I need to be certain, Maomao.” He coughed again into his sleeve, red-streaked white flowers falling to the floor as his body shook. It was a wretched sound, the worst she’d yet heard, but still—still he stood. Still, with something in his reach, he didn’t snatch childishly the way he could.

She hated him and felt that stupid, awkward feeling in her body all at once. Hated this moment, where she was still not sure she was ready to say what she had to, to do what needed to be done.

What if she was wrong, after all?

Maomao closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. The ache in her chest didn’t vanish—it shifted, becoming something lighter, sharper. “Tell me," she breathed.

He exhaled, a shuddering sound. “I’ve spent my life being useful. Being wanted. But you…" He swallowed hard. “You wanted nothing from me. And that’s what I craved. To be seen. Not as a tool. Not as a curiosity." His voice cracked. “Not chased around for who I might be, for my looks, my connections. You see me as a man who’s tired. You look at me as though I am a worm. You tell me no. You treat me as just…another person."

The confession hung in the air, raw and exposed. Maomao opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. The fever-bright intensity in his eyes wasn’t just illness—it was vulnerability. And she saw it now. Not as a weakness, but as the truth he’d been too proud to voice. Her eyes slid to the door, to the shadow against the panel that she knew was Gaoshun on the other side, in case there was a problem.

“I see you," she said, her voice thick. “And I care. Awfully. Uncomfortably. I don’t know what to do with this, but…” She reached out with a hand, placed it over his sternum, thinking of the lungs behind them, thick with wood-sorrel. “

“Are you trying to say you love me, Maomao?”

She made a face at him, nose wrinkled, mouth twisted. Nodded once, running her tongue along her teeth. She didn’t know if that would be enough; somewhere in her reading she was sure she’d seen that it was, but all the stories, all the notes, said that it had to be spoken. Maybe it wasn’t necessary. Maybe she could avoid it.

But maybe it really had to be said.

“Do you,” her tongue suddenly thick as lead in her mouth, heavy, swollen, awkward, “love me?”

“What else is this,” and he tapped her hand over his chest, taking in his heart, his lungs, his sickness, in the one motion, “but love? Yes, I love you.”

He coughed again, but if she was not mistaken, it sounded—less terrible. Still thick with flowers, his skin still flushed, his searching eyes still too bright in a way they shouldn’t be. She could feel the weight of the flowers ow as they fell on the ground between them.

“Good,” she said, pushing against him, just a little, “because I agree. I,”—think? know?worry that? Am terrified that?—“love you as well.”

Jinshi’s breath hitched again, but this time, it wasn’t from coughing. It was from release. He leaned forward, his forehead brushing hers, the weight of his composure finally crumbling. “Thank you," he whispered, the words barely audible. “And is that the cure, then?”

“It’s the start," Maomao murmured, covering his hand with her other. His skin was hot, his pulse racing against her fingers. “The rest… we’ll figure out together." The knot in her chest loosened. The cure wasn’t in a potion or a scroll, a herb or a set of acupuncturist’s needles. It was in this—in the messy, terrifying, beautiful truth of caring too much.

“So what do we do next, apothecary?”

“We make sure this is the cure. Wait until you stop coughing up wood-sorrel. And then I suppose we tell the people we need to tell.” Her expression soured. “Like the Son of Heaven.”

“He’s going to be insufferable, you know.” Jinshi eyed her speculatively.

“It runs in the family,” she returned, not quite glaring at him. Hating that she’d had to say the words, and somehow feeling the lighter and better for it. “Maybe we can have Gaoshun send word instead. But maybe I should go now, get it over with.”

She and Jinshi turned as one to the door, saw then that the shadow of Gaoshun was gone. She wasn’t sure when he’d left, but this, perhaps, was his own gift to them—a reprieve to save her the face and to collect herself, as she so desperately needed. A chance for the two of them to figure out what this new balance was.

The court would gossip. The news would travel like a wildfire, no matter how they tried to hide it. But if they were lucky, perhaps the focus would be on Jinshi’s recovery—and not at what it meant that he’d been cured.

She grimaced. She was going to be thoroughly interrogated when she got back to the Jade Pavilion.

“What’s wrong?” Jinshi canted his head, looking down at her. “You look—unhappy.”

“I’m going to have to tell the consort. And Hongniang.”

Jinshi’s mouth quirked up at the corner, a hint of his old playfulness there. “You’re welcome to stay longer, Maomao. Hide here as long as you wish, in fact.”

She sighed. “I think…I think I’m going to take you up on that, Master Jinshi.” She narrowed her eyes at him once more, ever so slightly. “Do not think you are going to get your way all the time.”

He coughed again, flowers still spilling forth. But maybe, just maybe, it sounded a little clearer. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”