'

Ow. '

'Pardon me, sir. '

'You 're surely doing that on purpose. '

'It 's surely your imagination, ' Maomao shoots back, and tugs the comb again through Jinshi 's still-wet hair.

It catches another snag. Jinshi winces. 'Ow. '

'It 's quite a bit more tangled than usual, ' she observes, though he can hear the frustration in his apothecary 's voice.

'Believe me, ' Jinshi replies around another wince as she tugs at the knot again. 'I 'm aware. '

After another few sharp (ow) yanks (ow) at his hair (ow), his apothecary sighs and sets the comb aside on the table with a

clunk

. She takes the towel and gathers his hair in it again, tussles it a bit more. Jinshi doubts it 'll do any good. This is what he gets for spending a night tossing and turning in dread.

Maomao is quiet for a minute as she works, which isn 't unusual. She tends not to speak unless there 's something worth saying. Which is fine, Jinshi thinks 'his eyes ache from the lack of sleep. She yanks his head back again, though, as she tries to dry it a little more with the towel.

After a few more minutes and no progress made, she sighs, neatly folding the towel and setting it aside again. 'I 'm not sure I can go any further like this. May I be excused for a moment, sir? There 's something in my rooms that may be able to help. '

'I 'm willing to try anything, ' Jinshi grumbles, massaging his poor, poor scalp. For how scrawny she is, she sure can pull on his hair enough to make it hurt.

'Then excuse me for a moment, ' Maomao says with a bow, and trots off.

Jinshi watches her go with a smile, remembering her expert makeup job on him a few weeks ago for their little jaunt in the pleasure district. What a lovely escape from his duties it was 'and what a surprise, as well, that his apothecary had so many tricks up her sleeve.

It 'd be nice if she could smear his face in makeup and stuff him into oversized robes and sneak him out today, too.

(Maybe without the smell of whatever she stunk him up with, though.

That

took an unfortunately long time to wash out of his hair.)

A few minutes later, Maomao returns with some kind of small sealed jar in her hands. 'What 's that? ' Jinshi asks her.

'Camellia oil, ' she replies, uncorking the container. She pours a tiny drop onto her palm and spreads it between her hands. 'It should help with detangling. Excuse me. '

'You didn 't strike me as the type to have so many beauty products, ' Jinshi teases. She takes his hair in her hands and rubs the oil in. It smells vaguely floral, and with each pass, her fingers run a little smoother. It feels lovely. Jinshi closes his eyes and leans back in the chair.

'My sisters made me bring them, ' she grumbles.

'Your sisters? '

'You saw them at the Verdigris House, sir. They sent me to the rear palace with more makeup than I could carry. '

Ah, them 'those three courtesans who saw her off, who each gave her a kiss on the cheek in turn. Who were presumably the ones who put her in that beautiful outfit.

'Would 've been better if I could 've brought my equipment instead, ' Maomao grumbles under her breath.

Jinshi hums, but doesn 't reply. Her hands feel so nice, spreading the floral-smelling oil through his hair. Maybe he could finally fall asleep like this, with her hands on his scalp, sleep right through the ceremony '

One of her fingers brushes the back of his neck.

Goosebumps rise in its wake, and he shivers at the feeling of the sweet, warm smear of oil it leaves behind. Suddenly Jinshi is wide awake again.

Of course, she chooses that moment to take her hands away, and Jinshi nearly whines aloud. Maomao reaches for the comb again, though, and that 's still nice 'a gentle, rhythmic, soothing motion. It runs through his hair much more smoothly now. Surely a nap before the ceremony couldn 't hurt, if she continues like this '

The soft

clunk

of the wooden comb on the table declares her attentions over all too soon, though. No such luck.

'The same style as usual, sir? ' she asks, and for a brief moment Jinshi

really

considers saying yes. Her hands felt nice.

But he does have a responsibility 'so he takes a deep, slow breath through his nose and forces himself upright. 'No. ' He slumps forward in his chair, sweeps his hair over his shoulder, and reaches for a red braided cord. 'Just leave it be. '

Maomao perks up at that, eyeing him with suspicion. 'Are you sure, sir? '

Jinshi really wishes she wouldn 't sound so enthused. 'I 'm sure, ' he grumbles, gathering his hair up. 'Suiren will take it from here. In the meantime, go into the archives and look for what I asked. '

'And then you 'll give me the bezoars? '

Jinshi sighs through his nose. 'And then I 'll give you the bezoars. '

She perks up even more. There 's a skip in her step as she gathers the towel, oil, and comb from the table.

Jinshi smiles, despite himself. Medicine is so much easier than the fake smiles, he thinks, as he loops the cord around his hair to bind the ends.

He

will

have to figure out where to source the cow gallstones, though. Would she know? Would she be disappointed if he asked?

Just as he 's pondering this, Maomao, apparently extra-curious to go along with his good mood, asks, 'Are you not going to the rear palace today then, sir? '

Jinshi 's hands in his hair still.

Has she finally put the pieces together, then? She 's clever enough. He wouldn 't be surprised. Would it be easier if she already has, so he won 't have to explain himself?

'No, ' he says, after a long pause. 'Though I wish I was. '

Maomao does not pick up on his mental anguish, of course. 'I 'll take my leave, then, ' she says with a bow, then picks up her things and promptly departs.

Jinshi sighs and puts his head in his hands. No, there 's no way he can ask her. He 'll have Gaoshun look for the things, he supposes.

There 's a gentle knock on the door. When Jinshi calls the affirmative, Suiren enters. There 's a jet-black robe folded over her arm that Jinshi doesn 't like the look of. 'Young Master, ' she greets with a bow. 'Are you ready to begin preparation? '

Absolutely not

, he thinks to himself with a pout. He wants to go back to his bed and sleep the morning away. Or go pester his apothecary more. Spending a day in the archives wouldn 't be so terrible, if it was with her.

If he said that to Suiren, though, he knows he 'd just get scolded.

'I suppose so. '

The air of the ceremonial hall is heavy.

Flickering candles cast dancing shadows into the corners of the hall. Smoke from the braziers and the incense hands suspended in the air, thick and choking, without a breeze to move it. On paper, so much incense burns as an offering, a prayer for success. In practice, though, it burns to hide the stale, musty scent of this place. Summers are humid, and this hall rarely feels the touch of the wind.

Jinshi pauses in between prayers to take a breath of that stale, scented air. In the second of silence, the wooden beams creak over his head.

They creak every year. His brother assured him as much 'that it sounds ominous, but it 's nothing at all to worry about. He pays the noise no mind and continues.

The scripture in his hands is ancient, and the edges of the scroll threaten to crumble apart at the slightest touch. The words written upon it, though, are slow, simple, and rhythmic. After months of practice, he knows them all by heart. For an ancient ritualistic prayer, they 're remarkably boring.

Jinshi dares a glance around himself as he recites the next verse. To his left, lined up along the edges of of the circular dais he stands upon, are countless ministers. They are all dressed in ceremonial black deep enough to blend into the shadows. Only their faces stand out 'but blurred by the smoke, they blend into a line of pale moons lit by the brazier 's faint, flickering light.

They are all staring at him.

Jinshi straightens his back, moves his gaze back to the text, and locks himself there.

He rolls the scroll in his hands to the next passage, careful not to rip the delicate paper. He 's barely halfway though, and he 's sweating already. These ceremonial clothes aer hot and heavy, the room is stuffy, and Suiren pulled his hair so tight beneath the headdress that it tugs at his scalp, much less pleasantly than his apothecary did this morning. A bead of sweat runs down his neck.

His eyes ache from the strain of staying up all night, dreading this, and sting even worse from the smoke. He hopes he 'll be able to escape quickly once the job is done.

Jinshi begins to recite the next verse 'but beneath the drone of his own voice, he can hear another.

Raised, angry, shouting. Male, judging by the timbre of it. Too faint to make out any words. It carries into the chamber alone, bounces dully for a half-second, and is swallowed quickly into heavy cloth and incense-thick air.

A murmur goes through the gathered crowd, but the noise stops as quickly as it began. Jinshi continues unimpeded.

The next interruption, a minute later, is not so easily dismissed: footsteps.

Brisk and sure, they are a counter-rhythm to the slow drone of prayer on his lips. They grow louder with each

tap-tap-tap

against the stone tile of the flooring. Against them, the words on his tongue stutter and die.

The officials to his left are agitated now, a few already rising from their seats. Others lean in towards one another and murmur in a confused buzz. The wooden beams creak again, another high-pitched squeal that echoes in the vast ceiling above him, louder this time. Floating beneath the sound is the rapidly-swelling murmur of ministers and guards and, inexplicably, ragged breathing. Behind him, approaching quickly.

Jinshi, absolutely baffled, turns on his heel.

A weight slams into his back, knocking him off-balance. The scroll flies from his hands as he tumbles forward. His back hits a wall with a gasp, knocking the wind out of him.

His choked shout is swallowed by a final creak, the shriek of shredding metal, and an echoing crash that shakes the foundation.

The silence after, though, is somehow more deafening.

The yelling starts a few breaths later. Shouts of guards and officials alike swell at once into a single ear-splitting, chaotic buzz, monolithic noise blending with the pounding roar of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Jinshi tears his gaze from the massive pillars in a heap where he was standing. There is a weight in his lap.

It 's a body.

It is slim and boney. A sharp elbow presses against his knee, the curve of a ribcage against his foot. Disheveled, wild black hair runs to the floor like rivers of spilt ink.

It wears a familiar green jacket and maroon skirt. Of course it 's familiar 'he saw them just this morning. The colors are dark in the dim light of the candles. The maroon skirt slowly soaks into ever-richer colors as he watches in horror. The sticky heat of blood winds around his ankle. The body is horribly still.

For one terrible second, Jinshi thinks Maomao is dead.

After

too long holding his breath, she stirs. Maomao makes a horrible noise into his chest. Her arms shake as she strains to push herself upright, lifts her head to meet his eyes.

The entire right side of her face is swollen beyond recognition. Blood is streaming from her nose. Her entire body sways when she turns, pulls at the hem of her too-deep skirt, exposes a cut on her calf. Blood still pours out of it, but it is deep enough to expose bits of yellowish fat, peeking out beneath the skin and muscle.

'How ' '

His ears are ringing. Dust still spins in the air. Mixed with the smoke and incense, it chokes him now. Her face in front of him swims and blurs.

Jinshi cups her cheek. The swelling of her face pulses beneath his fingertips.

'How did you....? '

'Master Jinshi, ' Maomao slurs. Her words are clumsy and thick. 'Can I 'have those bezoars, now '? '

'Now is

not

the time, ' Jinshi bites out, tracing the pad of his thumb beneath her eye. The skin is horribly hot, swollen and throbbing beneath his hand. The freckles dotting her face drown in maroon-purple bruising.

She was fine this morning

.

'What happened to your '? '

Maomao blinks, sluggish. She parts her lips to speak, but more blood drips across them, down her chin, into the black of his robes. She sways, bracing one hand on his chest. Her other, inexplicably, begins fumbling in her robes.

'Excuse me, ' she slurs, 'just 'just let me stitch ' '

Maomao leans her face into his hand. Jinshi runs his thumb along the delicate, inflamed skin beneath her eye 'if she wants comfort '

It takes too long for him to realize her head is lolling on her neck.

All at once, her arms give out, and her body weight slumps against him. Against his hand, her head twists like a thrown ragdoll. She collapses against his body, and goes horribly still.

Jinshi panics.

He shakes her shoulder, and her body only flops like a sack of rice. He yells her name, and she does not rouse. The only movement of her body is the slow shallow rise and fall of her chest and the still-growing scarlet pool beneath her.

Jinshi takes a long, slow breath, digs his nails into the palm of his hand to sharpen his mind, and shoves the panic down as deep as it will go.

He needs to get her out of here. The entrance is clear of debris, and the doors to the outside are thrown open. Midday sun spills in, and countless officials, draped in shadow-black, race out. That is the only feasible exit.

Footsteps come racing towards him. 'Sir, ' a guard gasps when he sees them, looking relieved to see him conscious. 'Are you injured? '

'No, ' comes Jinshi 's reply, harsh and clipped. 'She is, though. '

'Who '? '

Jinshi ignores the half-baked question. He gathers Maomao into his arms and stands on trembling limbs. She is too light. Even through both their robes, he can feel the sharp angle of her ribcage, the poke of her elbow into his side. Her blood is still dripping onto the floor.

He adjusts her in his arms, guiding her head to rest in the crook of his arm and shoulder. That 's good, he thinks. Stabilize the head. He 's heard something about that.

'Call for a doctor, ' he barks at the guard. 'I want him there at my palace when I arrive. '

The guard replies with an affirmative and darts off, but several others swarm back in his place. They chatter and flit around him with questions and honorifics and other bullshit that he does

not have time for right now.

'

Move

, ' he snaps, and they part like curtains.

One reaches forward to take Maomao from him. Jinshi shakes his hands off and marches forward, around the collapsed pillars, through the dust and smoke, and out the hall 's doors.

Coming from darkness, the midday sun blinds him. The world blurs into the sun-white paving stones and the blue of the sky and the black of ceremonial robes. He can 't make out any figures or faces. Everyone smears into blobs of light and dark contrast, and it makes his head throb.

His ears work just fine, though, despite the dull roar in them. There 's a collective gasp as he emerges, then the shuffling of fabric as dozens of officials all hurry themselves into a low bow.

He can also hear how the murmured honorifics shift into frantic, furious whispers as he passes, rising at the end in questions. He catches only fragments '

who, what, her, prince, blood, taboo.

Jinshi keeps his face a careful, practiced mask, but his jaw aches from how tightly his teeth are clenched.

He descends the stairs slow step by slow step to avoid jostling the precious bundle in his arms. Halfway down, amidst the bleach-white blur of stones, stands a figure. Jinshi 's eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out scruffy, unkempt hair and the flash of a silver monocle amidst the uniform black.

Lakan looks furious.

Eyes wide, teeth clenched, a glint of terrible madness in his eyes.

How dare you

, they demand.

How dare who, exactly, Jinshi doesn 't have time to care about. As he passes the general, though, he pulls Maomao a bit tighter to his body. Her temple presses against his chest, casting her face and the worst of her bruising in shadow. It is all he can do now 'a pitiful attempt to shield her from that man 's horrid, prying eyes.

Privately, though, Jinshi sympathizes with him. At the very least, he can understand the fury.

When he ascends the steps to his palace, Gaoshun, Suiren, and an imperial doctor are already waiting for him.

'Xiaomao! ' Suiren cries as soon as she recognizes the bundle in his arms. She rushes to his side, pulls a lock of hair away from Maomao 's face. She gasps when she sees the swelling. 'What happened?! '

'The 'the beams, ' Jinshi stammers 'away from all those eyes, his voice suddenly feels weak and thready. 'During the ceremony 'they ' '

The beams explain the cut on her leg.

They do not explain the swelling of her face.

She was fine

this morning

.

His hands are shaking where they hold her. Gaoshun steps forward silently, arms out.

Jinshi only tugs her closer. 'Not

now

, ' he begs. Not while her blood is still dripping on the ground beneath them.

Gaoshun 's eyes soften. Wordlessly, he steps back and holds the door.

Jinshi races past the rooms for receiving guests, through his inner chambers, to the only place he can think of 'his own bed. He lays her down on the sheets as gently as he can manage. She doesn 't so much as stir when her head hits the pillow.

Her leg is still oozing blood, and her face 'that looks even worse than before. The entire right half of it is turning a horrible, blotching purple that slips towards blue-green around her eye. Blood smears across her nose and down her chin, across her parted lips, onto her teeth.

Maomao 's head is awkwardly turned to the side. Her neck is stretched at an odd angle.

That can 't be comfortable.

Jinshi reaches towards her and cups her face. The swelling isn 't throbbing as badly, now, but her skin is still boiling-hot. As slowly and gently as he can manage, he turns her head to a better, more natural angle.

A hand lands on his arm.

'She may be concussed, ' Gaoshun murmurs. When did he get here?

'Her injuries would indicate it, ' the doctor adds 'when did he slip in beside him? 'It seems she took a good blow to the head, either way. Now ' ' he turns to Jinshi, 'we can move her to the medical offices after I take a look at ' '

'

No

, ' Jinshi snaps. 'I 'm not injured, I called you here for

her

. '

'With all due respect, your majesty, ' the doctor says, 'you 're covered in blood. '

He is?

One hand still on Maomao 's cheek, Jinshi looks down at himself.

Little circles of crimson stain the finely-woven carpet at his feet. With each passing second, they accumulate like raindrops on stone. They drip from the hem of his robes, wetted enough to twist the light with each minuscule movement of his body. His free hand, too, is stained crimson, which twists in rivulets down his fingers and wrists. When he draws his other hand from Maomao 's cheek, it leaves behind its own scarlet, flaking print.

Jinshi has never seen so much blood in his life.

'You take priority, ' the doctor says. It is not an opinion, but an objective statement of fact. 'I cannot see to other patients until your own health is assured. '

Is he fine?

He feels no pain. Nothing stings or threatens to tear when he moves. But it 's hard to think past the roar of his heart, and harder yet to speak around the lump in his throat.

'She 'she pushed me out of the way, ' is what comes out of Jinshi 's mouth. 'I 'm fine. ' He swallows hard. 'Because of her. See to her instead. '

The doctor gives him a long, lingering look 'perhaps a war in his head between his service to the imperial family and direct orders. After a moment, he makes his decision. 'Very well, Moon Prince, ' he says with a bow, and kneels next to the bed.

Jinshi swallows hard at the title. At least now, though, she will get the medical care she needs. Maybe this title is good for something after all.

The doctor carefully lifts the hem of Maomao 's skirt to observe the injury. He is careful enough to preserve her modesty, but something in Jinshi 's stomach twists anyway at the scene 'the doctor 's hands against her leg, still oozing blood.

Jinshi looks away.

'Lady Suiren, ' the doctor says, 'would you be able to bring a cloth and cold water? Her leg will need stitches, but the swelling should be treated soon, too. '

'Of course, ' Suiren says with a bow, and shuffles off immediately.

Cold water? To make the swelling go down, he assumes. He knows so horribly little about medical treatment. Maomao would know what to do, but '

Jinshi weakly calls after her, 'If 'if ice is better, have it brought from the stores. Spare no expense. '

The doctor rises from his kneel and bows low. 'Your majesty 's generosity knows no bounds. '

Jinshi grits his teeth. 'I told you not to fuss over me, ' he snaps. '

She 's

the one who 's injured here, treat

her

' '

'Master Jinshi. ' Gaoshun puts a hand on his shoulder.

Jinshi wilts immediately. The doctor turns back to his patient without a word. There 's not a need to use that name here. Not when everyone present already knows '

Well. All but one.

Jinshi casts his gaze to the body on the bed.

The doctor is rifling through his bag now, bent over her body. Against the familiar white of his sheets, she looks so small.

Her face looks so peaceful, though, turned to the side, hiding the swelling from view. The doctor 's body hides the mess of blood on her skirt. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheek, and her lips are parted. Like this, she could be sleeping. As safe and as sound as she was this morning.

Gaoshun is still speaking. ' 'may be best for you to wait outside. '

Belatedly, Jinshi realizes it is inauspicious for him to be standing here witnessing a commoner 's bloodshed. He thinks he nods. He can 't tear his gaze away from the bed, though, until the curved silver slip of a needle flashes in the doctor 's hand. His stomach turns, and he twists away.

'Stay with her, ' he hears himself say. 'Both you and Suiren. Attend her until the treatment 's finished. '

Gaoshun looks at him, stricken. 'Are you sure? '

'She needs the help more than me. '

Gaoshun gives him a long, unreadable look. Finally, though, he bows his head.

'As you will, ' he replies. 'Go and rest, sir. '

Jinshi doesn 't think he can, but he nods, and staggers out of the room.

He should go to his office, get his things in order. This will need to be investigated as an assassination attempt. But 'but no, he can 't bring himself to. His feet carry him to a chamber for receiving guests, and no further 'the vertigo wins, then, and he collapses into a chair before his knees can give out.

He takes a long, slow breath that rattles in his chest and stares down into empty space.

His hands are shaking.

They are still covered in her blood, thick and sticky as it seeps down his fingertips to the floor. A staccato

drip, drip, drip

against the heartbeat echoing in his ears, pulsing in his fingertips. The blood is violently crimson and cooling on his skin.

He can still smell the smoke and the incense and the copper-iron of her blood, and his black sleeves are flecked light brown from the dust thrown into the air by the pillars ' collapse. He squeezes his eyes shut, and the darkness behind his eyes flickers like candlelight.

Her warmth is no longer pressed against him, but her still-warm blood becomes her ghost; he can still feel the weight of her against him.

A second longer, a moment 's hesitation more, and his words with her this morning would have been the last they ever spoke to each other. Jinshi would be a broken corpse beneath those beams.

His blood would soak the floor, trickle through the lines in the stone tiles, and life in the palace would come to a standstill. The officials lining the halls would wear that same mournful, shadowy black for many days after they pulled him from the rubble. As would the consorts, and the eunuchs, and every single serving girl in the palace. The scribes who keep records of the imperial family would bind the scroll detailing his life with a black cord and put it on the shelf half-finished.

He could have died.

But somehow, that thought does not upset him as much as the next, which comes as he stares listlessly at his bloodied hands:

She

could have died.

Maomao could have died instead, if she were another second later. She could have pushed him out of the snare only to be caught in it herself. The weight of the beams would crush her instantly.

And so few would mourn her.

The entire palace wouldn 't wear black or pray for her soul or fall into scripted rites of social grieving. A few, those who know of her brilliance, would recognize the light lost, but the rest would shrug their shoulders. They would thank her for her sacrifice, or claim she was sent by heaven to protect a figure much more important than herself. Those who care about her would be left to bear the weight of their grief alone. The world would turn on unimpeded, without so much as a note in the records, and the shifting sands of time would quickly cover the hollow she would leave behind.

On the first day he met her, Jinshi saw that spark of curiosity and intelligence in her eyes and thought she would be a useful tool. A tool, a solution to his problems, and nothing more; a star in the night sky, yes, but one among thousands.

But now, the thought of walking the rear palace without her, without that light to guide his way '

Maomao 's blood on his hands is starting to dry. Little rivers of it gather in the lines of his palm, and they crack when he flexes his fingers. Flakes of it flutter to the ground beneath him like petals.

There is one particularly thick rivulet of blood on his right hand. It twines down his wrist, down one of the lines of his palm, to the tip of his little finger. Blood still flows sluggishly down it, drips to the floor.

It twists around his pinky like crimson thread.

Suddenly overcome, Jinshi presses a hand to his mouth to muffle his sob.