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Maomao is born the daughter of a whore.

She knows this earlier than any child should. Her world shines bright in smears of burgundy and gold leaf, smoke-thick and flickering with candlelight in every corner. Flowers blooming lush and vibrant and alluring fill the halls, and they speak in sweet voices, hushed words, and bell-like laughter.

In coy whispers, they beckon others in. The air hangs thick with floral perfume heady enough to flood every sense, to intoxicate, to addict. Silver flashes at the flowers ' wrists and ankles, their petals whirling in colors soaked vivid by candleflame. The rustle of fine clothing and the hiss of silken bedsheets carries through every wall.

The world is as beautiful and vibrant as it is fake. Maomao is never fooled.

A different world lies beyond, concealed behind screens and folded into shadows, like a flash of yellowing teeth between crimson lips. The flowers coo and beckon most into the light, but those who do not follow their sirens ' song can find the dark easily enough.

This second world grinds forward on silver and smoke. Coin glints in a customer 's palm, and as soon as the flower tucks it into her sleeve, a countdown begins. The flower will twirl and dance and writhe for its master, but only until the money runs dry. Only until sunrise. When her dance stops, more silver is required. Metal gleams in palms like knives, twines around necks like shackles. Coin clinks in pockets and sleeves and atop scales piled heavy with it. If the flowers bleed red, the garden itself runs silver.

This truth creaks in shadowed, musty corners overlooked by the love-drunk, and it smells dank and stale no matter how much incense is burned to hide the stench. Once day breaks, reality yawns open like a maw: the colors dull, the haze clears, and the cleanup begins.

In the white light of morning, the flowers wilt all at once, slumping over from exhaustion after their nightlong dance. They shed their colorful petals to reveal ugly, blotching bruises scattered across their stems. Coy whispers change to groaning strain as they lower themselves into steaming water in a vain attempt to restore some of the vitality bled dry from a sleepless night. They carry those silken sheets in armful after armful to the water and try to beat out the stains, to restore some illusion of being unblemished. All the sheets run the water snow-white. Only the most expensive bleed virgin-red.

This

is the world Maomao knows. This is the world she is born into six months into her life, on a quiet evening in midwinter.

Maomao lies on the bed, swaddled in blankets. A chill breeze flutters the curtains, but the blankets are warm. The bed is not as comfortable as the arms of another, but it is familiar enough for her to drift, caught somewhere between wake and sleep. The moonlight spilling in through the window splashes across her face and into her eyes, chasing away deeper sleep.

Near the vanity, something rustles. Maomao squeezes her eyes further shut, trying to sleep through the hiss of a brush carrying through the air. Another rustle, then a low, near-animalistic growl. The crumple of paper; the creak of a door.

It takes Maomao a few minutes to realize she has been left alone again 'but when she does, she starts to sniffle and fuss. The night air feels colder on her exposed face. She 's getting hungry.

Minutes pass. The room grows colder and colder. By the time half an hour has elapsed, she is wailing. The door does not open. The blankets pin her arms to her sides with no hope of escape, so all she can do is cry ever-harder, as if that will change anything.

Maomao 's throat aches by the time the door creaks open again. Light spills into the shadowed room, and beyond the door is a riot of color, a nocturnal world roaring with life.

Her mother is silhouetted against it like a moving shadow. The door closes, and the room goes dark again.

Maomao stopped crying once her throat hurt too much to scream, but now she begins to fuss again. Her stomach aches from being empty for so long. Her mother does not react to her cries, but at last she comes to Maomao 's side. The bed dips, and a finger brushes Maomao 's freezing cheek.

Maomao 's mother does not hush her daughter, but she reaches into Maomao 's swaddle and pulls out her daughter 's tiny hand. Maomao 's fingers lock around hers on instinct. The bandage wrapped around it is rough against her delicate skin, but her mother 's body is warm, and she is so, so cold.

It eases her discomfort, just a little. But she is hungry still, and her stomach hurts, and it is too bright for her to sleep. Maomao sniffles and fusses again.

'Hush, ' comes the voice. A thumb presses to the back of Maomao 's fingers, encouraging them to uncurl. 'Hold still. '

Maomao does not. The pressure of her finger is enough to hurt, and she yanks her hand out of her mother 's grip. She 's hungry, why isn 't she listening?

The moonlight behind Maomao 's eyelids dims, and when she opens them, her mother is staring down at her. Her hair, long and unkempt, falls around her like a curtain, blotting out the light like clouds. Her eyes are deeply empty.

When her mother shifts above her, the loose white robe slips off her shoulders, and the bandages winding beneath burn stark white and bloody crimson beneath the moon 's touch. That 's good. When her mother 's robe slips down like this, it usually means Maomao is about to be fed. Maybe her cries will be answered.

Her mother 's hand slams down onto Maomao 's arm, pinning it to the bed.

'I said

hold still

. '

The other arm rises above her, slow as the moon. In her remaining four fingers, silver glints in the pale moonlight.

Maomao at last falls silent, a single tear leaking from the corner of her wide, confused eyes.

Is her mother not going to help her?

The knife swings down, and Maomao is the daughter of no one at all.

Maomao is separated from that woman, after that. She is moved to a different room instead, tucked into one of the shadowed corners where no one bothers to look. The room is as large as it is empty, and she cannot hope to fill it by herself. There are no windows for moonlight to stream through, so it is often dark unless someone else comes in to light a candle. It smells of sweet, stale perfume and something more bitter beneath.

But it is not dark. Not always. There is some light.

'Hello, ' whispers a hushed, starstruck voice from above her. 'My name 's Meimei. We 're so happy to finally meet you, Maomao. '

Maomao would rather go to sleep in peace than be cooed at, but the arms holding her are warm. The kind, starry-eyed woman offers her pinky, placing it in the palm of Maomao 's tiny hand. Still wrapped in the stiff bandages, Maomao cannot move her fingers properly, and they ache, anyway. Maomao yawns and doesn 't bother curling her fingers.

A low chuckle comes from beside her. 'Don 't want to, huh? ' comes a different, deeper voice. Fingers card through her soft hair. 'That 's okay. You don 't have to. '

'She 's awfully cute, isn 't she? ' says a third voice. 'Cute as a button. We 're all going to take care of you from now on, dear. Don 't you worry. '

Maomao is quite worried about her next meal. Her stomach growls, and when she begins to fuss, all three of them laugh.

'You must be hungry, aren 't you? ' says that third voice. 'After the night you had 'give her to me, Meimei. I 'll feed her. '

The three of them are kind. Maomao has a bed in this new room, but she spends the entire first day in the arms of one of the women who coo over her. She sleeps for much of it, adrift in the comfort of warmth and safety. The bandage is still stiff, but her finger hurts less after Pairin kisses it, and Meimei sings a sweet-sounding song.

Maomao is drifting somewhere between wake and sleep, still exhausted after the previous night 's commotion, when there 's a knock at the door.

'Girls, ' calls a fourth voice. 'The sun 's almost set. '

'Can 't one of us take tea tonight? ' Meimei retorts, exasperated.

'Not if you want to eat, ' says the voice at the door.

Pairin purses her lips. 'Are you sure? I don 't want to leave her alone ' '

'Look, she 's sleeping anyway, ' the voice says, coming closer. 'You all have done more than enough. She 'll be fine for the night. '

After a chorus of huffing sighs, the warm arms lower Maomao to the overlarge bed and finally withdraw. She stays adrift, but just barely registers three kisses to her forehead, and three murmured goodbyes.

Joka brushes Maomao 's hair back and presses her lips to the crown of her head. 'Sleep well, dear, ' she whispers, and the door slides closed.

It 's fine at first. Her swaddle still holds some of the warmth of the arms that held her, and her stomach is full. The room is silent and dark. It 's peaceful and easy to sleep.

When she wakes up, it is still dark. Without windows, there 's no telling how many hours have passed. The warmth has long since faded, and the meager room is unheated. Her stomach is growling again.

The soundproofed walls muffle her wails, but Maomao sobs anyway, until her throat is raw, and until exhaustion, not comfort, carries her to sleep again.

The three women only come an eternity later. Meimei scoops her up into her arms, whispering apologies and kind words. Joka presses another kiss to her forehead before passing her off to Pairin to feed her. The day is warm and sweet and loving.

And then they disappear again.

Maomao is a clever child, and she quickly figures out that crying gets her nowhere at all. She has stopped entirely by the time she is a full year old.

Maomao is five years old when a man comes knocking on the Verdigris House doors.

He is old enough that his hair is beginning to streak with white and the skin of his hands has begun to wrinkle. Crow 's feet pull at the corners of his eyes, and his face is always set in a kind, placid smile. He leans heavily on his cane.

Maomao watches the man from the balcony above the lobby, pressing herself low to the ground to make herself harder to see. The Verdigris House sees customers of all walks of life and ages, from young men out to blow their first paychecks to men three times the age of an average courtesan. The madam doesn 't care as long as she gets her coin, and Maomao doesn 't care as long as she can stay out of sight. In the few times a customer stumbled upon her, the madam was furious.

He 's likely just another customer here to buy someone 's attention for the evening, not realizing that the brothel won 't open for business for a few hours yet. Maomao steps away from the balcony and goes along with her business of carrying the laundry.

But then Maomao just barely catches the shape of the madam 's voice, sharp and angry, crowing like a disgruntled bird.

Maomao is back to peering down from the balcony in an instant, laundry forgotten. What on earth made the madam frustrated enough to speak like that to a customer? She has no idea, but she gets down on all fours and presses closer to the edge of the balcony, straining her ears to catch anything. The man sounds low and calm, but the madam is angry. Why?

The madam glances up from the man and spots her, peering down curiously from the balcony. Her face twists further for a split-second before she turns back to her customer, such a fast reaction Maomao herself only just manages to catch it.

But then the man turns his head as well, following the madam 's gaze. Maomao doesn 't have time to react before his eyes land squarely on her.

She freezes like a captured animal. The madam always tells her that she is never to be seen by anyone who comes through those doors. But the old man only gives her a placid smile, bows to the madam, and leaves.

'What 're you looking at? ' the madam barks at her. 'Get back to work. '

Maomao gives a quick nod and goes back to her laundry duties. The madam spares her a further scolding, instead sequestering herself into her office and lighting her pipe until smoke leaks through the cracks in the walls and doors. It 's what she does whenever something stresses her. Most things do, these days.

When the man comes back the next week, Maomao makes sure to stay out of sight.

She 's holed up in her room during the man 's third visit that month when an apprentice opens the door without so much as knocking and says, 'The madam called for you. '

Maomao looks up from the line of flowers in front of her. She gathered them that morning from the House 's inner garden for her sisters 'red poppies for Joka, pink tulips for Pairin, and lily of the valley for Meimei. This is serious work, and she 'd rather not be interrupted. 'Now? '

'Now, ' the apprentice replies. 'And she sounded angry. Don 't make her angrier. '

The door slams shut. Maomao decides that she will do as she is told, but she takes the time to fill a basin with water to put the flowers in so they won 't wilt before she can give them to her sisters. Then, she dusts the dirt off her skirts and marches to the madam 's office. The same man as before stands in the office but does not turn to look at her.

'You 're late, ' is the first thing the madam says.

'I was doing something important, ' Maomao says from the doorway, with all the indifference of a very determined five-year-old. 'You called? '

The madam waves a hand to the man in front of her desk, not looking up from the pipe she is stuffing. 'This man is here to take you off our hands, ' she grumbles. 'Says he wants to take you under his wing and get you out of our hair. '

Maomao opens her mouth to protest 'the flowers for her sisters still need to be given, after all 'but promptly shuts her mouth. Crying or complaining will get her nowhere, and the madam has grumbled before about how Maomao is too young to work. It makes sense that she 'd want Maomao gone.

She cocks her head. 'What about my sisters? ' She spent a lot of time picking out flowers for each of them, after all.

The madam scoffs. 'They 'll be able to do better work without you biting their ankles all the time. '

That 's also true. Her sisters can 't work if they have to watch her, and if they don 't work, they can 't eat. But Maomao is grown enough now, and she spends each night in her room without complaint, not causing any trouble.

Is that not enough?

The old man finally turns as if he just took note of her. 'This is her? ' he asks. His voice creaks with age. His smile does not falter, but his eyes are hard to read.

The madam eyes him. 'You 're sure you want to take her? '

The old man nods. 'It 's the least I can do. '

He walks over to Maomao, leaning heavily on that cane. He doesn 't crouch down to her eye level 'from her perspective, he looks impossibly tall, stretching to the ceiling.

'What 's your name, little one? ' he asks.

'Maomao, ' she replies obediently.

The old man 's smile does not fade. 'And your last name? '

'Don 't have one. '

The old man turns to the madam. 'Have you not told her? '

'You try explaining the whole mess to a five year old, ' the madam grumbles. 'She knows her name. She 'll come when called. '

The old man chuckles to himself, then shakes his head. 'Well, ' he says finally, 'come along. ' He walks out, and does not look behind to see if she follows. Maomao glances at the madam, who is angrily smoking her pipe.

'But ' '

'You heard the man, ' the madam grumbles. 'Pack your things and go. '

Maomao hesitates at the door for a moment, glancing back and forth, before deciding it 's just best to go along with it. If she doesn 't follow him, she will have nowhere to go.

Maomao has no choice. So she goes.

Luomen, as she later learns his name is, walks slowly enough that Maomao 's little legs can keep pace, but he doesn 't stop or look back at her.

Maomao glances this way and that, taking in the sights of the streets beyond the Verdigris House for the first time. The sights and sounds and smells are so different, but she knows better than to gawk openly. That only ever made customers angry.

There are many people here that her sisters would call the worst kinds of customers: rough, dirty, and foul-smelling. The courtesans would often gossip about them in the bath, exchanging stories of the worst kind. Come nightfall, the girls would coo and beckon in those same men anyway. They have no choice.

Maomao knows well enough why the name of the brothel is in the dirt. She 's heard whispers about that, too.

After a while of walking, Luomen glances back at her. 'You 're not one for many words, are you? ' Maomao wordlessly shakes her head. A lot of the girls at the brothel preferred her being seen and not heard, and she doesn 't have much to say, anyways. Luomen chuckles. 'I 'm in good company, then. '

Finally, they come to a ramshackle hut at the dead-end of a dirt road. Maomao squints at it suspiciously. There are holes in the roof, and vines creep up the side. It looks like it might fall over with a stiff breeze. The Verdigris House name may be in the mud, but at least

it

doesn 't look ready to fall over at any moment.

Luomen pays the house no mind. Instead, he walks around it, stepping carefully over the uneven ground, and kneels in a patch of what looks to be '

'Grass? ' Maomao asks, kneeling beside him.

'Of a sort, yes, ' Luomen says. He points to a plant with tiny yellow flowers and heart-shaped leaves bundled in threes. 'This particular variety is called wood sorrel. '

Luomen is brilliant.

The fields around his hut are lush with dozens of kinds of plants. Some bloom with tiny flowers, others grow low to the ground. Some have leaves that reach for the sun, and others have creeping vines.

He knows the name of each, and every use he can put it to. He explains briefly that he is an apothecary by trade as he expertly grinds the plants into medicine and doles it out to the needy. He seems to know the answer to everything.

And he does not teach any of it to Maomao.

A week after moving to the little hut, Maomao watches diligently as he plucks certain plants out by the roots, tossing them aside. Weeding? She wants to help.

Maomao kneels down beside him, scanning the dirt for anything that looks unnecessary. After a moment, her eyes land on a plant with tiny, meager leaves that couldn 't possibly be of use, right? She looks once more at Luomen, clasps her hands around it, and pulls it out by the roots.

Luomen shortly after explains that it is 'was 'mountain knotgrass, used to treat everything from coughs to urinary stones. It 's only after her folly that he sits her down in the field and properly teaches her what a weed looks like. Even then, he only gives her the least bit of knowledge he can.

She wants to know more. She wants to know

everything.

'Maomao, ' Luomen scolds one day. His patient today is a girl a year older than Maomao who cut her hand on an old, rusty tool. 'I told you not to get involved. '

'Your knee is bad. 'Specially this time of year. ' She balances atop the table on her tiptoes to reach the bandages on her shelf. Behind her, the patient sniffles. The kid should 've been more careful.

Luomen says nothing more as Maomao hops down from her makeshift stepstool, only puts his hand out in expectation. He only glances at her when Maomao doesn 't put the bandages in his waiting palm.

'Can I do it? ' Maomao pleads.

'Not today, ' Luomen tells her, and takes the bandages.

Maomao wilts as he sets about treating the sniffling child. Instead, she learns to make herself useful in other ways.

Her old man isn 't good at cooking or cleaning, so at the bright age of six, she learns how to do it herself, begging lessons from the cooks of the Verdigris House after she managed to burn, not boil, a whole pot of precious rice. While he doesn 't allow her to help with treating patients, Luomen eventually allows her to run medicines to and from the Verdigris House, ferrying medicinal teas and other treatments once a week. Her sisters fret about her going off on her own, but her father doesn 't care as long as she 's back before bed.

It 's on one of those trips that she hears from around a wall, 'You 're

sure

you want to keep taking customers? '

A familiar voice replies, 'What choice do I have? '

Maomao freezes.

After a split-second of being rooted to the spot, she dives through the nearest door and slams it shut behind her as the footsteps grow nearer. 'It 's work or starve, nowadays. '

A scoff. 'And you don 't plan on dragging this place 's name through the mud again? '

'

Excuse me?

'

Maomao crouches down against the door, plugs her ears, and waits out the fight that ensues in the hallway. Her fingers block most of the words, but they can 't quite block the screaming.

The light streaming through the window is growing long by the time the yelling stops. Slowly, Maomao rises from her crouch and creeps towards the door. She cracks it open. Glancing left and right confirms the coast is clear.

She was planning on visiting her sisters, but if that woman 's out and about again, and it 's getting dark soon '

The hallway shows only a few signs of a struggle. The courtesans are all too poor to pay for new robes, so they tear at scalps and skin instead. A few clumps of black hair litter the floor. Whoever lost it is unlucky. If they can 't cover the bald spot, they won 't be able to draw in as many customers.

But there 's something else on the floor that catches Maomao 's eye. She crouches, and her fingers close around a bracelet.

It 's made of wide wooden beads, painted turquoise and crimson, that clack in her palm. Nowadays, the courtesans cannot afford jewelry made of silver. They could, once upon a time. But now, wood painted in a thin veneer of color will have to suffice.

This particular piece of jewelry stirs something in her memory. When Maomao blinks, she sees a bandaged hand with one finger too few, and the bracelet looping around a too-thin wrist.

She blinks those thoughts away and sets off to Pairin 's rooms. It 's pretty, and it will make a good gift for her sister.

Maomao is in front of her sister 's door in a few moments. When she raises her hand to knock, she hears quiet words and clinking metal, so she lowers her hand. Pairin usually doesn 't have customers this time of day, but Maomao shouldn 't disturb her if she does. Her sister has a job to do.

The clinking of coins stops, and she hears a sigh. 'Still not as good a going as it was before, huh? '

'It 's gotten a lot better, ' comes a lilting voice. Pairin.

'Not fast enough, ' says the other voice. It sounds like one of the most senior courtesans, who 's been there the better part of a decade. Maomao doesn 't remember her name. Joka doesn 't like her, so she never bothered. 'Not with how the owner 's hounding us. It 's still not back to what it was. '

'Improving every year. Some of the old regulars are returning. Joka saw a minister last week. '

A noise of frustration. 'Can you blame me, though? Six years 'six! 'and we 're all still paying the price for that stupid ' '

'Do you really want to finish that thought? ' Pairin 's voice, normally warm, has turned ice-cold. Maomao clutches the bracelet harder in her fingers and squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn 't want to listen to this fight, either.

What was it her father taught her this morning?

Right 'he was showing her how to weed.

Luomen walked her through the garden for the first time today, properly teaching her which plants he grows for medicine and which suck the nutrients away. Some are useful, and some are not. Keep the useful, discard the rest.

Maomao would like to be useful, so she held onto his every word.

'Maomao? ' Pairin interjects.

Maomao starts, whipping around from where her back is pressed against the wall. She didn 't even notice their conversation stopped, as lost as she was in recollection. Strange 'but helpful, if she didn 't have to listen to another fight.

Behind her sister, the other courtesan 's face scrunches like she ate something sour. Pairin kneels down to Maomao 's eye level. 'How long have you been out here, dear? '

'Not long, ' Maomao replies. It wasn 't too long, right? She was just thinking of her father and got distracted. 'I got something to show you. '

'Come in, then, come in! '

Pairin ushers her inside. What 's-Her-Face takes this as her cue to leave, slipping out without another word. Pairin shuts the door behind her with more force than strictly necessary, dusts herself off, and gives Maomao a sweet smile. 'Now, what is it you want to show me? ' she asks, sitting at her vanity. 'Another flower? '

Maomao shakes her head and opens her hand. The wooden beads stick to her fingers. Her palms are sweaty. 'This, ' she says. 'The colors match your robes. '

'Oh, how lovely! ' Pairin coos, clapping her hands around Maomao 's and leaning close. Her smile grows wider, like the one she uses with customers. 'It 's beautiful, dear, thank you. Where did you find it? '

'That woman dropped it, ' Maomao says.

Pairin 's eyes fall to the bracelet, then to the floor. Her smile fades. Maomao gets the feeling she 's about to get scolded and steps back. With Pairin holding the bracelet, she can 't pull too far away.

'Maomao, ' her sister begins, in an over-patient tone. 'Thank you. It 's beautiful, and I 'm happy you thought of me. But 'I don 't want you stealing from anyone, especially your mother. '

Maomao shrinks back further, staring at the floor. The boards need to be polished.

That woman isn 't her mother.

Pairin gently tugs on Maomao 's hand and pulls her close, kisses her forehead, her cheek. Maomao lets her, but she doesn 't look up. 'I 'm grateful, dear. But we don 't want her angry with you. Let 's go give it back together, okay? '

'She 'll be angry either way. '

'I 'll be with you. Or I can take it myself, ' Pairin says. 'I 'll keep you safe. '

'

No

, ' Maomao protests. 'You need to look nice, and she 's not pulling customers anyway. You should wear it instead. ' That woman doesn 't need something so pretty.

Pairin 's face twists. Anger flashes in Maomao 's chest again. Is her sister pitying that woman?

Before she can think, Maomao yanks hard on the bracelet locked in both their fingers. The string snaps and the beads fly, clattering across the floor. Pairin makes a strangled noise in her throat and is on her knees immediately, trying to grab all the beads she can. Some have already rolled under her dresser or beneath the bed. Maomao does not stoop to pick them up.

'Goodness, ' Pairin scolds. 'Maomao, was that really necessary? We can 't give it back now. Not like this. '

Maomao lowers her head and says nothing.

Good

, she thinks.

Pairin sighs after a moment. Her sister 's anger never lasts long. 'Well, we can restring them. ' She pokes at the pile of beads in her palm. 'Though I think we lost a few ' '

'If you restring it, will you wear it? ' Maomao asks.

Pairin looks at Maomao again with that strange expression she can 't quite understand. When Maomao cocks her head, looking for an answer, Pairin 's gaze falls to the beads. She runs a delicate thumb over the largest ones, turquoise and crimson.

'Come sit, won 't you? ' she says, in lieu of a reply. 'In front of the vanity. '

Maomao furrows her brow but does as her sister asks. She has to jump a bit to get on the stool. Pairin kneels in front of her and takes a little cloth pouch from her vanity 'her travel kit, with all her cosmetics for when they have a show outside the House. Pairin turns it upside-down and dumps its contents onto the vanity with a clatter, then pours the beads inside. She keeps four in her hand 'two red, and two blue.

'Hold still, ' Pairin says, and takes a lock of Maomao 's hair between her fingers.

When Maomao returns home that night, Luomen is rolling out pills. Maomao isn 't sure what they 're for, and he hasn 't taught her how to make them yet. But she 's seen this part of the process, so without a word, she kneels beside him and starts lining the finished ones in a woven basket to dry.

They work in silence for a while. Maomao 's stomach grumbles. There should be enough food for tonight in the pantry, as long as she doesn 't burn the rice this time.

Eventually, her father 's hands come to a stop. She takes the last pill and places it in the basket, then takes the basket to the window where the afternoon sun will help it dry.

'These are new, ' Luomen says, when she returns to sit beside him. He reaches out with a steady hand and cups the beads in her hair. Two turquoise, two crimson. 'A gift from one of your sisters? '

Maomao nods. She touches the little cloth pouch tucked into her pocket. The remaining wooden beads clack inside. 'From Pairin. '

Luomen finally gives Maomao a proper lesson after a full year of begging.

'Maomao, ' he calls one morning in early spring. She sets her sewing down and trots over him, peering curiously at his open palm.

'What are these? ' she asks, pointing at the tiny specks in his palm.

'Wood sorrel seeds, ' he tells her, and points to an empty pot near the window. They used it to store medicine once but it has since run empty. 'Go outside and fill that pot with soil. '

Maomao beams, grabs the pot, and scurries outside. When she comes back with a pot full of soil, Luomen watches diligently as she makes little holes in the dirt with her fingers, just like he does whenever she observes his work. He doesn 't tell her if she 's burying them deep enough, but she 's fairly certain she did it right.

Maomao picks up the pot and looks around for a place to set it 'it needs light after all, doesn 't it? There 's no space on the windowsill, too narrow for the pot, and the table directly by the window is already piled high with equipment.

'Set it here, ' Luomen calls, gesturing to a spot on the floor a few feet from the window. The early afternoon sunlight doesn 't reach the spot. Maomao frowns, but does as she is told.

The weeks pass and the days get longer. The seeds sprout in mid-spring, and as the azaleas bloom outside and the days turn warmer, the little bundles of heart-shaped leaves furl outwards, tiny yellow flowers stretching towards the sky.

Maomao is staring at it one day in early summer, crouched on the floor, when she calls, 'Dad? '

'Hm? ' Luomen says, not looking up from his work. 'What is it, Maomao? '

'The wood sorrel 's growing funny. '

'Funny in what way? '

'It 's 'sideways? '

And sure enough, Maomao can see it right before her eyes: the wood sorrel is crooked. All the stems lean heavily to one side, far enough that it looks like the entire plant might tilt and tip over, spilling itself out of the pot.

'The ones outside don 't do that, ' she tells her father as he comes to see for himself.

Luomen gives her a smile as he always does. 'And why would that be? '

Maomao sits up a little straighter, pressing a finger to her chin, and summons all the power her young mind can muster to look at the scene before her.

It 's a simple enough scene 'the pot sits on the floor, in the same place it has been since she placed it there. Little stems sprout from it with leaves bundled into threes. The pot is small, so could that be the issue? Maybe there isn 't enough soil in there for the plant to get all its proper nutrients. Even with Maomao 's diligent watering.

But 'no, she 's seen plants wilt before. She reaches out to pluck a leaf and examines it. If a plant wilts, its leaves wrinkle. This leaf is plump. Luomen grows plenty of other, more fragile plants in pots this size, and those don 't wilt, either. The only difference between this plant is that it leans, and those ones do not.

What else is there to see?

Maomao looks around the tiny hut. A beam of sunlight streams through a hole or two in the roof near the kitchen, but here, where they sleep, is cast in shadow. The inside of the hut here is dark save for the one window the pot sits near, spilling afternoon sunlight onto the floor.

The plant is not in that puddle of sunlight. Instead, it 's placed in the shade.

' 'is it because of the sun? '

Luomen 's ever-present smile does not change. 'What makes you think so? '

Maomao points at the wood sorrel 's leaves, leaning out of the bounds of the pot. 'The leaves are all growing in one direction. Towards where the sun hits the floor in the afternoon. '

'Because what do all plants need? '

'Water, soil, and sunlight, ' Maomao recites diligently.

Luomen pats her on the head. 'That 's right, ' he tells her, and Maomao beams. Luomen crouches down, minding his bad knee, and takes one of the leaning leaves in his hand 'plump, lively, and green, but crooked. 'Plants are hardy things. Especially wood sorrel. They 'll grow towards whatever light they can find. It 's how they survive. '

Maomao looks up at her father and asks, na 'vely, 'Can we fix it? '

Luomen gives her another placid smile. 'Plant it outside, out in the full sun. We can wait and see if it corrects itself. '

Maomao leaps to her feet before he 's even done speaking, scoops up the little pot, and plunks the little wood sorrel down right in the center of their field.

The azaleas wilt, and firefly-dotted hydrangeas take their place weeks later. Once the summer rains clear, sunflowers stand tall in the garden, and through it all, Luomen and Maomao harvest the plants of their field but leave the wood sorrel, their little experiment, untouched.

As the crisp autumn wind rattles the now-crimson leaves of the trees bordering their field, Maomao looks down at the wood sorrel and says, 'It 's like it doesn 't even notice the sunlight. '

The wood sorrel is bigger now. It has bloomed countless yellow flowers throughout the season, and fed by the rich soil of the fields, its leaves are more numerous than before. It is still small in stature, though, compared to the more luxuriant plants around it. Wood sorrel always stays small.

And the crook in its stem has stubbornly remained.

'It remembers the shade, ' Luomen says, 'and grew to adapt to its environment. ' He tosses a weed over his shoulder. 'It 's hard to change those sorts of things, once they 're set. '

The frost comes with the full moon, and at last the wood sorrel dies. Until it freezes and withers away, its little stems always keep that lean 'like it 's still reaching for a scrap of sunlight. As if it cannot, or will not, see the sunlight beaming down, right above it.

Maybe Maomao should think it 's sad. But to be honest, she just thinks it 's the way these things all go.

Slowly, so slowly, Luomen starts to give her more lessons. There is no paper in front of her 'they are too poor for that 'and there is no classroom. Each lesson comes sporadically, and she has no way to predict when or where the next will come.

So when Luomen kneels down next to the silken sheets of a brothel 's bed, gestures to the corpses, and says, 'What do you think happened, Maomao? ' 'she knows that this is a test.

Maomao straightens immediately and steps closer, taking in the scene. Two bodies lay atop the bed, half-clothed and so intertwined that it 's hard to tell what body part belongs to who. Maomao pays none of it any mind. This is not the first time she has seen sex, nor a corpse, and she has a job to do.

Summer sun streams in through the windows, and the day is already uncomfortably warm, so the bodies are starting to smell. Maomao kneels next to her father. Since he has long forbade her from touching corpses, she asks, 'Could you open his eyelid? '

Without a word, Luomen puts a finger on either side of the eye and peels the lid open. Maomao taps her chin, and when she says, 'Hers, too, ' her father obliges.

Maomao squints at the woman. Her eyes are smeared in the red of the pleasure district, and her light hair spills over the side of the bed like tongues of fire. 'Their pupils are really big. '

Luomen hums. 'And why would that be important? '

'Could be a symptom. '

'Of? '

'Poisoning. '

'What makes you think so? '

Many things. This is not the first corpse Maomao has seen. 'He looks rich. Someone might 've wanted his money. '

'That 's not evidence, ' Luomen admonishes. 'That 's conjecture. Look for the evidence and try again. '

Maomao taps her chin and looks around. The room is orderly, save for the tangled, smelly pile of body on the bed. On the table sits a pitcher of water and a bowl stained with something purple. Remnants of a cosmetic, maybe?

'there 's not much to gather otherwise. After a few minutes of spinning her gears, Maomao pouts and says nothing more. Luomen 's placid smile does not disappear from his face 'it never does. 'Come, then. '

He doesn 't look at her as he walks out. Maomao follows behind him, wondering if she imagines his disappointment. She stands in shame as Luomen explains the entire story to the brothel 's madam, taking mental notes of what she missed so she will not overlook them again.

The man was a regular client, Luomen confirms, with enough financial backing to patronize an 'exotic ' courtesan 'a girl from the West, with fiery hair and pale blue eyes. 'But if you looked at his robes more closely, ' he says, 'you may notice that his family has fallen on hard times. '

Maomao bows her head and listens as Luomen details how the embroidery was pulling loose on his collar, and the stains on the trousers he wears, and the lightness of his purse. She missed it all. She will do better next time.

Next, he explains the purple-stained bowl. In the West, where the courtesan is from, grows a plant called belladonna ' 'It means 'beautiful woman ', ' Luomen says when the madam cocks her head at the foreign name on his tongue, 'named for its use in cosmetics. It can be used for beautification, but any part of it, especially the berries, are deadly poisonous. '

Immediately, Maomao kicks herself for not licking that bowl when she had the chance. She

noticed

it, but didn 't think it was important.

The madam clicks her tongue. 'That

fool

of a girl, ' she snaps. 'Had her heart set on that man. Said he promised to buy her out, even when he started looking worse and worse off. Even when it became clear that he was too deep in debt to redeem her. '

Luomen gives a sad smile. 'Young people will do very foolish things for love. '

Maomao, eight years old and more than used to seeing the corpses of young lovers, quietly agrees.

As Maomao gets older, she begins to take on more responsibility. Her father is a brilliant man, but he is getting older every year, and he is terrible with money. By the time she is ten, Maomao is helping him in any way she can, from managing money to running errands. Her favorite thing to do is always helping him treat patients, but she is glad to make herself useful in any way she can.

These new tasks, however, require to run about the pleasure district unaccompanied, to drop off medicines or buy groceries. She becomes more aware of the unpleasant eyes on her as she trots through those dark alleys with every passing day.

Maomao, as always, finds a solution.

'What happened to your face?! ' Meimei all but shrieks.

'Nothin ', ' Maomao replies through cheeks squished by her sister 's fretting hands.

'These aren 't nothing! ' Meimei cries, tracing her thumb across Maomao 's cheeks, beneath the smattering of clay dots on her face.

'They 're just clay. They make it safer to run around alone. '

Meimei tuts. 'Maybe so, but they 're ugly. There 's no need to dot your face with freckles, there must be another solution. '

There really isn 't, Maomao knows. This is the easiest way to avoid being snatched up 'it 's just some oil from their pantry and clay from their garden, mixed together and allowed to dry.

Her sisters all fret, but Maomao really doesn 't see the problem.

They

need to be pretty, yes. It 's their job. But Maomao isn 't very pretty in the first place 'compared to the courtesans of the Verdigris House, her frame is like chicken bones, and her face isn 't much better. No one 's going to pay for her anyway, so there 's nothing lost if she paints her face. Her price wouldn 't be high even without them.

Painting the freckles on becomes a part of her morning routine. Maomao is dotting them on her face when Luomen ties up a bundle of medicine into a cloth and calls, 'Would you like to come with me? '

'Sure, ' Maomao answers immediately, dotting one final freckle on her face and setting down her brush. 'Where 're you going? The House? '

'The madam requested I take a look at one of the courtesans, ' Luomen replies as he rises to his feet. Maomao grabs the bag of medical equipment, rushes to the door, and opens it for him, then falls in line a half-pace behind. Of course she 's going. She 'd follow him anywhere.

Maomao keeps a close eye on her father as they walk towards the House, minding patches of ice or spots where the snow is deeper than usual. His knee gives him trouble in the cold weather. They wind through the streets of the pleasure district, passing ramshackle houses and shivering bodies curled up in alleyways. A few of them are still as statues. Maomao just hopes no one 's going to come ply her old man for medicine if they can 't pay. He 's too kindhearted for his own good, and there are too many nights where they both go to bed hungry, despite her best efforts to keep them both fed.

They greet the madam at the House, who gives them a nod but does not escort them any further. Maomao follows her father through the halls of the House, out into the inner garden, barren in winter.

She stops in her tracks when they reach the door of the annex. The garden is bright, but the door and the house beyond it are cast in deep shadow.

Luomen turns. 'Are you coming? '

Maomao draws her thin cloak tighter around her shoulders. 'You 're going to see that woman. ' Not a question, but a statement.

'I 've been hoping to see her for a while, and the madam finally allowed me to see to her, ' Luomen says. His tone is gentle, but each word only grows the lump in her throat.

Her father really is too kind for his own good.

'You can stay outside if you 'd like, ' her father tells her, but Maomao is already shaking her head.

'No, ' she protests, clenching her hands into fists. She is here to assist him, and she will see it through to the end.

She 's sure her hands are only shaking from the cold.

Luomen nods, and Maomao follows him into the depths of the annex 'towards the one room of this place that Maomao would not want to visit.

Maybe she 's gotten it wrong entirely, Maomao thinks as Luomen knocks on the door. 'That woman ' is vague enough that her father may have misunderstood. Maybe the person she doesn 't want to see has moved to another room, and this is a completely unrelated case '

' 'come in, ' says a familiar voice.

Maomao squeezes her eyes shut. 'Wait here, ' her father murmurs to her, then steps into the room, behind the screen, and out of sight. Maomao waits and listens, heart in her throat.

' 'who are you? '

'I am but a simple apothecary. I 've heard that your condition has worsened, and the madam requested my treatment. '

'Treatment? I don 't need treatment. '

'Maybe so, ' her father says, in the placid tone he always gives to patients who don 't want to behave. 'But I 've heard you 've had difficulty sleeping. If I may examine you, I might be able to help. '

A long pause. Then: 'Fine. If you make it quick. '

For once, Maomao does not follow after her father. She sits down against the wall, as quietly as she can, and hugs the bag of medical equipment to her chest like a shield, thinking of anything else. She starts when Luomen taps her shoulder. 'I need the bandages, ' he murmurs, voice low, and Maomao scrambles to open the bag and hand them to him. Her father pats her on the head, then murmurs, 'Leave the bag here, and go outside ' '

'Who 's with you? ' barks the voice.

Maomao freezes for a fatal half-second.

Footsteps are coming closer and closer as she scrambles upright, brain catching up with her body that she has to run, has to hide '

Too late.

A bandaged hand shoves her father out of the way and curls around her wrist. It whirls her around, and Maomao comes face to face with a ghost.

The

bag

she still clutches smells like the medicine her father made this morning. What was it again? Ah, right, an antipyretic. Honey pills. He taught her how to make honey pills.

The figure looms over her, white robes and stringy black hair, and snarls, '

You little cunt. '

Grind the herbs down into as fine a powder as you can. For some herbs, baking them can help draw out moisture. Others need to be hung for months before they are usable.

' 'how

dare

you show your ' '

Simmer honey on low heat to reduce the water content so it keeps better. Mix in the powdered herbs while still hot, a little at a time. Smooth the mixture in a mortar.

' 'wish you were never ' '

Flatten the mixture into strips and cut into pills. Roll each piece in your hands to create a uniform shape.

' 'my sisters nearly

starved

and this place 's name was in the

dirt, all because of ' '

Store in a cool, dry place '

SMACK.

Maomao reels back, clutching a hand to her cheek. It stings enough that it will be swollen in a few minutes. It 's a good season for this type of injury, though. Whenever someone comes knocking at their doors with an injury like this, Luomen always gathers a handful of snow outside and presses it to the swelling. She knows how to treat it.

The woman who has long discarded the claim of being her mother is still screaming. Spittle flies from her lips, and her white robes are slipping off her shoulders, revealing a red rash that winds around her torso, across her thin collarbone, up her neck.

'And

you

, ' she screams, rounding on Luomen, 'did the madam send you here to humiliate me? Shut me up? All I have left is my pride, and you fuckers can 't even let me have that? '

The rash stands stark against the white of her robes. White and red, the colors of a brothel. The syphilis rash winds around her neck like crimson thread. Her face is gaunt enough that she could already be just a corpse, hanging from it.

'Out! ' Fengxian screams. '

OUT! '

They make it to the entrance of the annex before Maomao 's shaking legs give out. She sinks to the floor, curling up against the wall and burying her face in the medicine bag. She does not cry, because that won 't do much of anything. Her cheek still stings.

Luomen disappears for a moment. When he returns, he coaxes her to raise her head and presses a handful of snow to her swollen cheek.

His eyes look so sad. Maomao can 't bring herself to look for more than a second, so she glares at the floor instead. After a long few moments, Luomen murmurs, 'I 'm sorry. I hoped she would react differently, after long enough apart. I shouldn 't have brought you here. '

Maomao shakes her head, not looking up from the floor. 'She shouldn 't have pushed you, ' she whispers. 'Or yelled at you. You didn 't do anything wrong. '

Luomen says nothing in reply. She doesn 't either. Neither of them have ever been one for many words. In the silence, that woman 's words threaten to ring in her ears, but Maomao does not let them. Maomao reminds herself instead of the accounting work she 'll need to do when they get back, as well as the dried herbs that need processing. That 's much more interesting, and better to dwell on.

The snow against her cheek is nearly melted by the time Luomen rises from his crouch. Maomao bolts to her feet instantly, placing a steadying hand on his hip.

'Let 's go home, ' her father tells her, and opens the door to the annex.

Sunlight streams into the dark annex, chasing away the shadows creeping into the corners, bright enough to blind her. It frames Luomen 's silhouette like a halo as he steps forward, out into that light. He does not look back.

Maomao 's legs are shaking, and her cheek still stings from the blow and the cold both. The last thing she wants to do is go face the world like this.

But she knows the truth 'if she doesn 't chase after him, the door will close, and the world will go dark.

Maomao rises on shaking legs like a newborn fawn and rushes through the door, chasing that distant light.

Maomao gets older.

Some things stay the same. She still runs errands for her father, and she still wears the beads in her hair from Pairin. Work at the Verdigris House gets better with each visit, from what she hears from her sisters. They are all safe, well, and happy. It is all she can ever ask for. She still brings contraception medicine for the courtesans to the House every week.

One bright winter 's morning, after Maomao hands the madam the medicine, begrudgingly accepts a kiss on the cheek from Meimei, she sets out into her field of herbs.

When the kidnappers snatch her up, all she can do is sigh to herself. They won 't get much money for a chicken-bone girl like her.

It 's not like she 's worth very much.

Some things stay the same in the rear palace, too.

The world here is as opulent as the Verdigris House is, and has just as many shadowed corners. The girls all coo and giggle and wonder about the world outside, just like the courtesans did. They whisper the same hopeful stories to each other.

There 's one story in particular, spoken in whispers and giggles in the pleasure district and the rear palace alike. The exact details differ in each retelling, but the basics stay the same 'whether told by the excitable laundry girls beneath blanket forts in their dorms, or murmured honey-sweet into the ear of a customer between silken bedsheets, or recited in the books held by consorts highborn enough to read them.

It goes something like this:

Sometimes, between two people, there lies an invisible thread. Sometimes it binds the ankles; other times, it winds around the thumbs. In most tellings, it is tied to the pinky finger. The one thing every iteration agrees on is that the thread is red as blood.

This invisible string can stretch across great distances, or tangle, or fall slack for a time, but it will never break. It will tug the two people together inevitably, over any amount of time or space.

Usually, there are names and stories attached, supposed evidence of this unobservable bond. Maomao stops listening around this part, though, so she doesn 't know the details.

'How romantic! ' Xiaolan cries, clapping her hands together in delight. Despite the late hour, the girl is wide awake, sitting in a circle with a few of the other younger laundry girls. 'Don 'tcha think, Maomao? '

'Huh? ' Maomao grunts, staring listlessly up at the ceiling. The pallet she sleeps on is hard and cold, but it 's the other girls in her dorms that keep her awake, chattering on and on like noisy starlings. Unable to rest, she 's resigned herself to daydreaming about those mugwort seeds she sowed in a little green space while the eunuchs weren 't looking. If she were back with her old man in the pleasure district, she wouldn 't have to daydream about such common herbs. 'Uh, sure, ' she says, to supplicate Xiaolan.

'So it 's around the pinky finger, huh? ' Xiaolan wonders aloud. She raises her hand to scrutinize her little finger. 'Wonder if I 've got one ' '

'You can 't see it with the naked eye, ' reminds another girl in the dorm. Maomao didn 't bother learning her name. 'You 'll never know unless you find whoever 's at the other end. '

Xiaolan pouts. 'Guess I 'll have to wait til my term 's up, then ' '

Maomao 's really hoping this is the end of the conversation.

'D 'you think you 've got one, Maomao? '

No luck.

Maomao lifts her hand listlessly above her head. Her tired brain conjures the image of a blowfish swimming in front of her 'what she wouldn 't give to taste that poison, especially right now. She reaches out to grab the illusory fish, and her fingers clench around nothing. God, she needs a drink.

Her hand opens again. The dormitory is lit only by dim candles at this hour, and the silhouette of her hand is near-black against the barely-lit ceiling above.

Even so, she can see the crook in her pinky finger, bent at an odd angle at the last knuckle.

'Not likely. '

Ignoring Xiaolan 's whine of protest ( 'You 're no fun, Maomao! '), she rolls over and pulls the covers over her head. They only do a little to block out the dull chattering of the other girls in her dorm, but she slept through much worse noise in the pleasure district. Her eyes fall shut and sleep claims her quickly.

She dreams of a dark, dusty room, a bed that smells stale and sick. Grief-mad eyes. A flash of moonlit silver. Pain.

Maomao wakes silently, heart pounding and the covers damp in a cold sweat. It is not yet dawn, and every other girl in her dorm is asleep. Cursing her disgusting sheets, Maomao ties her hair back and rises anyway. She never sleeps well in unfamiliar places, especially not surrounded by strangers.

In the pleasure district, where the only strings that matter are purse-strings, courtesans whisper the tale into customers ' ears to ply them into a few minutes more, another ten silver coins spent. In the rear palace, consorts and serving girls alike coo about the red string like caged pigeons, sheltered from the world as they are.

They wish, and they pray, and they indulge, and the stupid ones waste away from it. The consorts and the courtesans both 'despair eating them alive from the inside like gangrene, or dead from the flash of a lover 's knife.

Maomao has seen bodies enough. Too many of them hang on that red string.

So why would she ever want to be bound by it? The smart ones know to avoid it. The dumb ones who don 't wind up dead, more often than not. Just look at her fool of a mother.

Maomao will be different.

Maomao will be

better

.

'If only I had something to write with ' '

There 's an odd feeling as she mumbles those words to herself. A presence, quietly asking her to follow. A physical tug, telling her to turn around and search for where it leads.

Maomao keeps walking.

She has better things to do.

The twittering serving girls threaten to give Maomao a headache.

'Do you know why we were called? '

Maomao has no idea why they were called, and she doubts any of the other girls would either, so there 's no point in asking. She blinks sleep from her eyes and straightens her back, just like her sisters always taught her in courtesan training. The doors of the office stand imposingly before them, and the dragons carved into the wooden pillars watch the group from on high. If she 's in trouble, she may as well make a decent impression to whoever 's in that office.

'No clue, ' replies one of the girls, yawning. 'No need to question, right? Just get it over with. ' Maomao can 't help but agree.

Another girl leans over, whispering conspiratorially. Maomao wishes the girl wouldn 't lean over her as she did. 'I heard it 's a test. '

A third girl blinks. 'A test? For what? '

'No clue. Only a few of us are being called, though. My friend wasn 't. '

Maomao glances at her. That 'is a bit more unusual.

She scans over the group around her. Why them, then?

There are few similarities between them. Every girl is wearing the same soft cream and dull yellow uniform marking them as belonging to the laundry division. Other than that broad category, though, there isn 't much to note about them 'all are quite plain looking, many slim and short like Maomao herself. Plenty of these girls were sold into the palace like Xiaolan, after all, since their families were too poor to feed them. Like Maomao, this group isn 't very pretty, at least not by the standards of the pleasure district or rear palace. Most of them have plain faces and cheeks dotted with freckles.

'Maomao glances around again.

A

lot

of them have freckles, actually. In the immediate group around her, not a single one has completely unblemished skin. But that 's surely just a coincidence. Most of these girls were out in the sun, working fields or tending livestock. It would make sense if a lot of them have freckles.

The creaking of wood chases Maomao out of her thoughts 'a eunuch, taller than others she 's seen, opens the door of the office.

'We 're ready for you now, ' he says with a bow. His voice is deep 'Deeper than she 'd expect from a eunuch, but that 's not her concern. Maomao excuses it all from her mind and enters the office with the rest.

It 's a grand room for the Matron of the Serving Women. Twisting dragons curl up vermillion pillars; a grand desk made of wood polished to a mirror shine sits in the center of the room. An imposing, heavy-looking seal sits atop it, as well as some stacks of papers. Unusually, a vase sits next to the desk, holding a long bough of rhododendron, blushing pink in the light.

Maomao narrows her eyes. She would like to chalk that up to coincidence, too.

'I 'm sorry to call you all here on such short notice, ' comes a smooth, soft voice, pulling Maomao out of her thoughts.

Quiet gasps and coos run through the crowd, paired with heavy footfalls against the polished wood floor. From the screen in the corner emerges a figure so beautiful it would belong in a painting 'smooth, silky hair, a gentle smile, and a loveliness so encompassing the breath of the other girls catches in their throats.

It takes her a moment to realize that, judging by the breadth of their shoulders and the curve of their jaw, the person standing before her is a man.

A man who is already staring at her. His eyes are dark and curious.

Try as she might, Maomao can 't quite pull her eyes away.

Maomao has always understood what this thing called love is.

Her home makes a business of selling it, after all. All you have to do is pour a few silver coins into a courtesan 's hands, and she will give it to you. As long as the money keeps flowing, the love will not stop.

The problem, of course, is that the money can 't flow forever.

By the time she is taken into the rear palace, Maomao 's sisters have climbed the ranks to become three of the greatest courtesans the pleasure district has ever known. Just taking tea with them costs six months of a commoner 's salary. To buy their love for the night, a thousand silver must fly.

Securing their affections permanently, as one particular soldier tries to with Pairin, requires enough coin to last a decade. To any but the absolute wealthiest of the Verdigris House clients, it is an impossible sum.

Not that it stops anyone from trying.

The brothel wrings some men until they run dry. Once the coin runs out, they take loans and come anyway. Maomao watches from her little shop as regular customers turn up looking more haggard and gaunt with each visit. Bags under their eyes from sleep deprivation and purses ever-lighter, they march into the fire regardless. They pour what coin they have into the courtesans ' hands, and they indulge for the night.

Other men have other motives. They whisper fantasies into a courtesan 's ear of buying her out, and a few foolish ones even believe them. They inevitably disappear, broke or bored or sent too far by work. Whatever the cause, the courtesans are left to pick up the pieces of their broken hearts. Some women cut themselves on the shards. Others don 't even bother trying to pick themselves back up. Maomao is not the only person in the pleasure district versed in poisons.

Some say that love itself is like poison, but Maomao must disagree.

Poison may be dangerous, but it is thrilling. There are ways to detect its presence, and antidotes to take before one falls too far into its tendrils. No, love is something much less delightful, and much more dangerous:

Love is addictive.

It 's sticky like honey, like the sap of opium poppies. Hard to wash off once it 's on your hands. The high of it will fade eventually, whether it takes years or just the time until dawn when the silver runs dry. Some fools depend on it anyway, and the withdrawal breaks them apart and grinds them to dust. They delight when the next wave crashes ashore, but it inevitably withdraws to the ocean, leaving them waiting.

Love wrings you of all you have, and when you have nothing, it will disappear.

Some of the books on Joka 's bookshelf claim differently 'that this thing called love is a flush, a pull, a lasting warmth. Maomao never bothers reading those books. She has little interest.

It doesn 't mean those books are wrong, though 'Maomao has never experienced something like that, but that doesn 't mean the ideas are wrong or foolish.

It just means that she left whatever part of herself capable of it in the moonlit bed where her life began. It means she is fundamentally stunted. That some part of her is missing.

But she knew that already.

Everything that transpires in the rear palace does not change that.

Maomao sits in her little apothecary shop one day, rolling out pills like she always does. The room is cast in golden afternoon sunlight, and beyond her door come the sounds of the Verdigris House coming alive for the evening. Maomao pays it no mind, focusing on the work before her.

But the eyes on her are starting to feel heavy.

'What are you looking at, sir? ' she grumbles, not looking up from her work.

Jinshi, across the table, gives a contented sigh, resting his chin on his palm. 'Nothing, ' he says with a wide, loose smile.

Certainly

, she thinks. He 's not looking at much. Chicken bones, the madam always called her. In comparison to those girls preparing for the night just outside her door, she has little to offer.

And yet here Jinshi sits, cast in the glow of twilight spilling in through the tiny window. Shadows fall along the line of his jaw, his cheekbone, and alight against the healed scar on his cheek. Like a scratch on a perfectly-cut gemstone, it is the only thing that mars his beauty.

It was a brave thing he did. Not that she 'd say that aloud 'he did it for the sake of the country, after all. Nothing more.

He still comes to her shop every ten days like clockwork, to have that scar checked. A full three months out of his injury, though, and there 's little left to be done. It 's already healed, and now only time will fade it further. She has done all she can.

He still comes anyway and sits with her for hours. Sometimes they talk, sometimes not. He stays anyway.

Maomao keeps her eyes focused on her work, smashing down the herbs with more force than necessary.

What does he want from her?

She knows that if she glances up, she 'll see something she 'd rather not. Jinshi 's obsidian-dark eyes hold something in them she can never parse. His smile is not that blinding, sparkly thing it was in the rear palace. Now, more than ever, it is a delicate thing capable enough of bringing the nation to its knees.

He is beautiful. She has known this from the moment she laid eyes on him. The girls of the rear palace all whispered about the beautiful eunuch, and now, shed of that skin in her little apothecary shop, he is somehow even more so. Like a piece of art.

To look at and admire, but not to touch. Not ever. She knows this rule better than anyone.

Because something about his expression reminds her of the most dependent of the customers who come to the Verdigris House, time and again. More haggard with every visit, they flood through those doors anyway, until their wallets are too light to do so anymore.

All those customers stop coming. Each and every one. Torn away by work or obligation or a simple lack of funds, they leave once the grinding wheels of the pleasure district have sucked them dry.

She wonders how long this simple apothecary has left.

Maomao stares into her pot of herbs because it is easier than meeting his eyes and seeing the demand in them. She knows already what his expression will look like if she dares to raise her head. Pressing the herbs down into her mortar, she reminds herself of the only answer she could ever give:

I can 't.

Maomao returns to her rooms in the Western Capital only once the moon is high in the sky, spilling in silvered moonlight from the windows. After the long journey to the Western Capital, and the banquet tomorrow, all she really wants to do is curl up in bed and take some well-earned rest.

Of course, her way is blocked 'atop the bed sits an innocuous, paulownia-wood box.

The wood is finely carved and the box is of excellent quality, and when she lifts the lid, she finds a silver hairstick similar to the one she lost during the Shi rebellion. It is just as beautifully made as the last. On the end is the crest of a moon, as well as a half-dozen poppies blooming in monochrome silver.

They 're clearly opium poppies. She can 't help but chuckle to herself. When Maomao twists the silver stick in her hand, it flashes white in the moonlight like the glint of a knife.

Maomao glances out the window. The moon is high in the sky, full and round and a beautiful pale gold. It spills its light down upon her, and yet it is untouchable as any of the other stars in the sky. Despite the bright, silvered white of the moonlight, clouds drift lazily around it, threatening to block the light and turn the world dark again.

One of those clouds will slip in front of it any minute. The silver will tarnish. The light will go. She knows this as well as anything.

The banquet is tomorrow. The Moon Prince must find a suitable wife.

So when Maomao climbs into this unfamiliar bed in this unfamiliar place, she presses her body as close to the wall as she can, where the moonlight does not reach. Curled up in shadow, she closes her eyes to the bright, blinding light.

If the moonlight cannot touch her, it cannot hurt her when it disappears behind the clouds.

It looks likely to at any moment.

Somewhere in the pleasure district, in a little garden behind a rundown hut, grows a tiny patch of wood sorrel.

The plant is a tiny thing, delicate enough to be crushed beneath an uncaring boot. Its yellow flowers, smaller than a pinky 's fingernail, sway gently in the cool night breeze. Stubbornly, it remains despite its own fragility, spreading its heart-shaped leaves across the little patch of dirt and sky it claims as its own. It is a survivalist, after all. Common and humble, but it can grow under any conditions.

The crook in its stem attests to that.

At the base of the plant, near the roots that keep it anchored to its soil, the stem leans at an odd angle. A memory of a place with little light, when the little wood sorrel learned to lean and stretch for what sunny warmth it could.

The moonlight shines bright overhead, casting a gentle silvered glow. The sky is clear, and stars spill across it like a river. Not a single cloud in the sky threatens to conceal the light, nor do any flowers crowd around the little wood sorrel to steal it.

The little wood sorrel, however, remembers the days of dark. Stubbornly, it leans, and does not 'cannot 'reach up, into the unwavering moonlight shining just overhead.