Chapter Text
The air in the rear courtyard of the Crystal Pavilion tasted of impending rain and stagnant water. It was a thick, cloying humidity that made robes stick to skin and turned the simple act of breathing into a labor. Maomao wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her sleeve, her expression pinching into a frown as she crouched near the drainage grate.
It wasn't the weather that annoyed her. It was the smell.
To the untrained nose, the courtyard smelled of damp earth and the heavy sweetness of rotting gardenias. To Maomao, it smelled of something far more interesting, and consequently, far more dangerous. Beneath the floral decay, there was a sharp, acrid undercurrent—like vinegar boiled in a copper pot.
Zhen poison? No, too metallic. Monkshood? Lacks the numbness in the nostrils.
She pulled a pair of iron tongs from her satchel, the metal cool against her palm. The Emperor's inner garden was supposed to be a sanctuary, a manicured cage for the beautiful birds he collected. But cages were prone to rust, and rust bred tetanus, and where there were people desperate for favor, there were poisons.
"You look like a cat about to pounce on a particularly fat mouse," a voice drawled from the shadow of the portico.
Maomao didn't flinch, though her internal monologue let out a weary sigh. She recognized the voice—silky, melodic, and currently dripping with the sort of leisurely boredom that usually meant trouble for her.
She turned, keeping her crouch, and offered a perfunctory nod. "Jinshi-sama. I wasn't aware the Master of the Rear Palace had time to watch servants inspect drainage ditches."
Jinshi stepped into the light, and as always, the atmosphere seemed to shift around him. He was dressed in robes of deep indigo embroidered with silver thread, a contrast to the grey overcast sky. His face, a weapon of mass destruction aimed at the hearts of the court, was composed into that celestial smile that made Maomao want to check her skin for hives.
"I have time for many things, Maomao," he said, stepping closer, ignoring the mud that threatened his pristine hem. "Especially when Gaoshun tells me our resident apothecary has been lurking near the condemned storage wing for three nights in a row."
"Inspection," Maomao corrected, turning back to the grate. "And it's not lurking if I have a permit."
"A permit you forged?"
"A permit I acquired." She finally clamped the tongs around something lodged deep in the muck of the drain. With a wet squelch, she pulled it free.
It was a rag, heavy and sodden, stained a violent, unnatural purple.
Jinshi's smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity. He leaned over her shoulder, a waft of expensive incense—sandalwood and rose—invading Maomao's personal space. "That is a hideous color. Did a consort fail at dyeing her silks?"
"If she did, she likely won't be doing it again," Maomao muttered. She dropped the rag onto a clean cloth she had laid out on the stones. "Don't touch it. Unless you want your skin to blister and your throat to close up within the hour."
Jinshi recoiled instantly, taking a very un-celestial hop backward. "You could have led with that!"
"I just did." Maomao leaned in, sniffing the rag carefully, waving the air toward her nose rather than inhaling directly. The acrid scent was stronger now. Wolf's Bane mixed with... crushed blister beetles? No, this is foreign. Southern.
"This was used to wipe down a blade," she analyzed, her voice dropping into the flat, professional monotone she used when discussing toxins. "Or a mixing bowl. See the discoloration at the edges? The fibers are dissolving. This is caustic. If this had entered the water supply..."
"It was in the drain," Jinshi said, his voice dropping an octave, the playfulness evaporating. He was no longer the celestial nymph; he was the administrator who kept the Inner Palace from eating itself alive. "Who put it there?"
"That is the question." Maomao wrapped the rag carefully in the cloth, securing it with twine. "Someone tried to dispose of evidence. But they were sloppy. Or perhaps..." She paused, looking at the dark clouds gathering above the palace walls. "Perhaps they were interrupted."
She stood up, her knees popping. "I need to analyze this. It's not a standard poison. It feels... ceremonial."
Jinshi looked at the bundled rag, then at Maomao. His gaze lingered on a smudge of dirt on her cheek, his expression softening in a way that made Maomao instinctively guard her emotions.
"Take it to the medical office," he ordered, but his tone was gentle. "Gaoshun will escort you. And Maomao?"
She paused, clutching the bundle. "Yes?"
"Do not test it on yourself."
Maomao blinked, her face blank. "I make no promises regarding the pursuit of knowledge, Jinshi-sama."
"Maomao."
"I hear you." She bowed, turning on her heel. "But hearing and obeying are two different medical conditions."
She walked away quickly, missing the way Jinshi reached out as if to grab her sleeve, his hand hovering in empty air before falling back to his side, his fist clenched tight.
The Medical Office was quiet, save for the rhythmic grinding of the mortar and pestle. The quack doctor was asleep at his desk, a string of drool connecting his lip to a scroll on herbal teas. Maomao ignored him, her entire world narrowed down to the ceramic bowl in front of her.
She had extracted a residue from the rag. Under the light of a flickering oil lamp, the liquid shimmered with an iridescent sheen.
Beautiful, she thought, a shiver of delight running up her spine. Deadly, but beautiful.
She dipped a silver needle into the solution. The silver turned black instantly. Sulfides, high concentration. But there was something else. She wafted the steam from a heated sample toward her nose.
Almond. Bitter almond. And... rot.
Cyanide derived from stone fruits, stabilized with... what is that?
She reached for a small vial of reagent—vinegar and salt solution—and added a drop. The mixture hissed, releasing a puff of purple smoke.
Maomao's eyes widened. She knew this reaction. She had read about it in a text her father, Luomen, had brought back from the West years ago. It was a binding agent used by the tribes of the Western arid lands. It allowed poisons to remain potent even when dried on a surface for weeks.
"A sleeper poison," she whispered.
The door to the medical office slid open with a snap. Maomao didn't look up, assuming it was a servant or perhaps Xiaolan looking for snacks.
"If you're looking for the dried persimmons, the doctor ate them all," Maomao said, reaching for her notebook to record the reaction.
"I am not looking for persimmons."
The voice was rough, unfamiliar. Maomao spun around, her hand instinctively going to the small knife she kept in her sleeve for cutting roots.
A eunuch stood in the doorway. He was tall, broad-shouldered in a way that suggested he hadn't been a eunuch for long, or perhaps hadn't lost the muscle mass of a soldier. His face was shadowed by a hood, but Maomao saw the glint of metal in his hand.
He wasn't holding a tray. He was holding a dagger.
"You found the rag," the man said. It wasn't a question.
Maomao assessed the situation in a heartbeat. The quack doctor was uselessly asleep. The exit was blocked. Her weapons were a small knife and a bowl of experimental poison.
"I find a lot of trash," Maomao said, keeping her voice steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "The palace is full of it."
"You analyzed it." The man took a step forward. He moved with a scary kind of grace—silent, predatory. "The Master said no loose ends."
The Master?
"If you kill me," Maomao said, inching backward toward the prep table, "the poison on this table will vaporize. In this enclosed space, we'll both be dead before you hit the floor."
It was a bluff. Mostly. The vapor would be nasty, likely blinding, but probably not instantly fatal. But the assassin didn't know that.
The man hesitated, his eyes flicking to the smoking bowl.
That hesitation was all she needed. Maomao grabbed a jar of dried chili powder—intended for a poultice for rheumatic pain—and hurled the contents into his face.
The man roared, clawing at his eyes. Maomao lunged, not for the door, but for him. She needed to disarm him. It was a stupid, reckless move, the kind Luomen would have scolded her for, the kind that would have made Jinshi turn pale.
She slammed her shoulder into his gut, knocking him back. He flailed, his dagger slashing wildly.
Maomao felt a sudden, icy sting across her upper arm. It wasn't pain, not yet. Just a cold shock, followed by a wet warmth.
She didn't stop. She kicked his knee, hard, hearing a satisfying crunch, and scrambled past him as he fell. She burst out into the corridor, the cool night air hitting her face.
"Guards!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Intruder!"
She heard stumbling behind her. The man was still coming.
She ran. The corridors of the medical wing were a maze of wood and paper screens. She turned a corner, her boots slipping on the polished floor. Her left arm felt heavy, numb. She glanced down.
The sleeve of her robe was soaked in dark red. The slash was deep.
The dagger, she realized with a detached horror. It wasn't just steel.
The edges of her vision began to blur. The metallic smell of her own blood was mixing with the scent of the poison that still lingered in her olfactory memory. The floor seemed to tilt.
The blade was coated. Same poison. That's why he didn't care about the vapor.
She stumbled, her shoulder slamming into a pillar. She needed to find Gaoshun. Or Jinshi.
"Maomao?"
She looked up. Down the long, lantern-lit corridor, a figure was walking toward her. Tall, elegant, followed by the hulking shadow of Gaoshun.
Jinshi.
She tried to call out to him, to warn him that there was an assassin, but her tongue felt like it was made of lead. Her legs gave way.
The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was Jinshi's face—his beautiful, composed mask shattering into absolute terror as he broke into a run.
Pain was a fascinating thing. Maomao had often categorized pain: the dull throb of a bruise, the sharp sting of a burn, the cramping agony of ingestion poisons.
This pain was different. It was cold. It felt as though ice water was being injected directly into her marrow, freezing her blood while her skin burned with fever.
She floated in a gray haze. She could hear voices, but they sounded underwater.
"...get the physician! The Imperial Physician!" That was Jinshi. He sounded angry. Why was he angry?
"...pulse is thready. The toxin is fast-acting." That sounded like Luomen. Pops? Why is Pops here? He's in the outer court.
"Hold her still. I need to excise the tissue."
A spike of agony, white-hot and blinding, tore through the gray haze. Maomao tried to scream, but only a ragged gasp escaped her throat. She felt hands holding her down—strong, gentle hands.
"I've got you," a voice whispered near her ear. It was trembling. "I've got you, Maomao. Don't look. Just look at me."
She forced her eyes open. The world was blurry, a smear of gold and candlelight. But directly above her, filling her vision, was Jinshi.
He wasn't wearing his usual perfect mask. His hair was loose, falling in messy curtains around his face. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide and wet, burning with a frantic intensity she had never seen before. He was holding her uninjured hand, gripping it so tight she thought her bones might crack.
"Jin...shi..." she rasped.
"Shh. Don't speak." He pressed her hand to his cheek. His skin was hot. "Luomen is working. You were poisoned. The blade..."
Maomao tried to nod. She knew. She could feel the poison fighting the antidote in her veins, a war of attrition being fought on the battlefield of her body.
"Assassin..." she managed to whisper. "Western... binder..."
"We know," Jinshi said, his voice hardening into something jagged. "Gaoshun caught him. He won't hurt anyone ever again."
Another wave of pain washed over her as Luomen did something to her arm. Her back arched off the bed, a high-pitched keen escaping her lips.
Jinshi didn't look away. He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. "Breathe. Breathe with me. I'm here."
He was an anchor in the storm. The scent of his incense—usually so annoying—was now the only thing tethering her to reality. She focused on it. Sandalwood. Rose. And underneath, the salty scent of tears.
Is he crying? Maomao wondered vaguely as the darkness encroached again. Over a servant? How wasteful.
She squeezed his hand back, or thought she did, before the abyss pulled her under once more.
When Maomao woke again, the world was still.
The pain had receded to a dull, throbbing ache in her left arm. She felt heavy, her limbs filled with sand. She blinked, staring up at a ceiling she didn't recognize.
It was high, painted with intricate clouds and dragons in soft lacquers. The silk sheets covering her were impossibly soft, smoother than anything she had ever touched.
She turned her head.
The room was dim, lit by a single lantern covered with a silk shade. The furniture was ebony, carved with exquisite detail. This was not the servants' quarters. This was not the medical office.
This was Jinshi's private estate in the outer court.
She tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness slammed her back down.
"Idiot," she scolded herself, her voice a dry croak.
Movement in the corner. A figure rose from a chair pulled uncomfortably close to the bed.
"You're awake."
Jinshi stepped into the pool of light. He looked wrecked. He was still wearing the indigo robes from the garden, but they were wrinkled now. There were dark circles bruised under his eyes, and a shadow of stubble on his chin—something Maomao had never seen. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
He poured a cup of water from a pitcher and brought it to her. He didn't hand it to her; he slid an arm behind her shoulders, supporting her weight effortlessly, and held the cup to her lips.
"Drink. Slowly."
Maomao drank greedily. The water was cool and tasted of lemon and honey. When she finished, she leaned back against the pillows, feeling slightly more human.
"How long?" she asked.
"Three days," Jinshi said. He sat on the edge of the bed, violating about twelve different protocols of distance between master and servant. He didn't seem to care. "The fever broke this morning."
"Three days," Maomao repeated. She looked at her left arm. It was bandaged heavily, immobilized in a sling. "The poison?"
"Luomen said your... unique constitution... likely saved you." Jinshi's face twisted in a mix of relief and distaste. "All those self-experiments you do. For once, I can't even scold you for them. If you were anyone else, you would be dead."
"Lucky me," Maomao deadpanned. She tried to shift, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches.
"Stop moving." Jinshi's hands hovered, ready to restrain her. "You lost a lot of blood. The wound was deep."
"The assassin?"
"Dead," Jinshi said flatly. "He took a pill before Gaoshun could secure him. But we found the seal of the Ironwood Clan on his belongings. A rogue faction from the North."
"North..." Maomao frowned. "The poison had Western binders. It's a trade route connection."
"Stop," Jinshi commanded. He reached out and placed a hand over her eyes, effectively shutting off her train of thought. His palm was cool. "Stop solving mysteries. You are relieved of duty. You are a patient."
"I am a servant," Maomao mumbled from under his hand. "I should not be in your bed, Jinshi-sama. People will talk."
"Let them talk." He moved his hand, his gaze intense. "Let them say I favor the apothecary. Let them say I am bewitched. I do not care."
There was a raw vibration in his voice that made Maomao pause. She looked at him—really looked at him. The facade was completely gone. This wasn't the Moon Prince or the Eunuch. This was just a man who had been terrified.
"You're acting strange," she noted.
Jinshi let out a short, incredulous laugh. He ran a hand through his hair. "Strange? You nearly died in my hallway, Maomao. You bled out on my floor. Do you have any idea what that felt like?"
"Messy?"
Jinshi glared at her, but there was no heat in it. "You are infuriating. Absolutely impossible."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face inches from hers. "When I saw you fall... I felt like my heart stopped. I have spent my life playing games, maneuvering pieces on a board. But you... you are not a piece, Maomao. You are..."
He trailed off, struggling for the words.
Maomao watched him, feeling a strange tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the poison. She wasn't used to this. She was used to being useful, to being an observer. She wasn't used to being precious.
"I am just an apothecary," she said quietly.
"You are more than that," Jinshi whispered. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, a touch so feather-light it made her breath hitch. "You are the only one who sees me. Not the title, not the face. Just me."
He pulled back slightly, as if realizing he had gone too far. He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter, trying to reassemble some of his dignity.
"Anyway. Luomen is preparing a restorative draught. He will be here shortly. Until then, you are to rest. If you need anything—anything at all—you tell me."
Maomao looked at him. She saw the fatigue etched into his bones, the fear that still lingered in his eyes. She realized, with a start, that he had probably been sitting in that chair for three days straight.
"Jinshi-sama," she said.
"Yes?"
"You look terrible."
Jinshi blinked, then let out a genuine laugh—a sound of pure release. "And you look like a dried plum that's been stepped on. We make a fine pair."
"Go sleep," Maomao said, closing her eyes. "I won't die while you nap. I promise."
There was a pause. She felt him shift, felt the mattress dip as he leaned over her one last time. She felt his lips press against her forehead—a lingering, desperate kiss that burned hotter than the fever.
"You better not," he whispered into her hair. "Because if you die, I will drag you back from the Underworld myself."
Maomao listened to his footsteps retreat to the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. She heard the rustle of silk as he lay down, and moments later, the slow, rhythmic breathing of sleep.
She lay in the dark, the taste of honey and lemon on her tongue, the ghost of his kiss on her forehead. Her arm throbbed, a reminder of the violence of the world. But as she drifted back into sleep, protected by the walls of the man who would burn the world down for her, Maomao thought that perhaps, just this once, being a "piece" on the board wasn't such a bad thing. Provided the player knew her worth.
She would investigate the Northern connection later. She would analyze the poison's chemical breakdown tomorrow.
For now, she would just sleep.
Two Days Later
Recovery was boring.
Maomao had decided this by the second hour of being conscious and lucid. By the second day, she was climbing the walls. Metaphorically, of course. Physically, she could barely lift a spoon without her shoulder protesting with a sharp, tearing sensation.
She was confined to Jinshi's quarters. This was apparently for her "protection," though Maomao suspected it was mostly for Jinshi's peace of mind. He hovered. He fretted. He was, frankly, more annoying than a mosquito in a summer tent.
"Eat this," Jinshi said, thrusting a bowl of porridge at her.
Maomao looked at the gruel. It was high-quality rice, cooked with chicken stock and ginseng. Expensive. Nutritious. Bland.
"I'm not an invalid," she grumbled, taking the bowl with her good hand.
"You were stabbed with a poisoned dagger. You are the definition of an invalid." Jinshi sat opposite her at the low table. He had cleaned up since her awakening—shaved, hair perfectly pinned, robes immaculate. But his eyes still tracked her every movement with a hawk-like intensity.
"Where is Gaoshun?" Maomao asked, looking around. The capable attendant was usually Jinshi's shadow, but she hadn't seen him all morning.
"Interrogating the supplier of the dagger," Jinshi said, his tone turning chilly. "He is... very thorough."
Maomao flinched slightly. She knew what "thorough" meant in the context of the inner palace. She almost felt sorry for the supplier. Almost.
"I want to see the medical reports," Maomao said, changing the subject. "Luomen took notes on my blood toxicity levels, didn't he? I want to see the degradation rate of the Western binder."
Jinshi sighed, rubbing his temples. "Maomao. Can you not think about poisons for five minutes?"
"It's my job."
"Your job is to get better."
"Understanding the poison helps me get better. Psychosomatic healing through intellectual satisfaction."
Jinshi stared at her. Then, he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small stack of papers. He slid them across the table.
"I knew you'd ask," he admitted, looking defeated. "Luomen left them for you."
Maomao's eyes lit up. She snatched the papers (carefully) and began to read. Her frown deepened as she scanned the characters.
"Fascinating," she muttered. "The toxin causes rapid coagulation, but the antidote Luomen used—a blend of snake bile and... is that thunder god vine?—reversed it. But the dosage..." She looked up. "He used a dosage that would kill a horse."
"He said your tolerance was high," Jinshi said dryly. "He also said you were an idiot for building up that tolerance by eating trash."
"It's not trash, it's research." Maomao put the papers down. "Jinshi-sama."
"What?"
"Thank you."
Jinshi paused, his teacup halfway to his mouth. He looked at her, surprised by the sudden sincerity.
"For what?"
"For saving me. For getting Luomen." She picked at the edge of the blanket. "I know it was... inconvenient. Bringing a servant to your private chambers. Using imperial resources."
Jinshi set the cup down with a sharp clack. The sound made Maomao jump.
"Inconvenient?" He stood up, towering over her. The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. "Is that what you think this is? An inconvenience?"
Maomao blinked, confused by his sudden anger. "I am merely stating facts. My status—"
"To hell with status!" Jinshi exploded.
He paced away from the table, his robes swishing violently. He spun back to face her, his face flushed.
"You nearly died, Maomao. Do you understand? When Gaoshun carried you in, you were gray. You weren't breathing. I didn't care about status. I didn't care about the Emperor or the court or the rules. I would have torn this palace apart brick by brick if it meant saving you."
He stopped, his chest heaving. He looked wild again, the mask slipping.
"You are not an inconvenience," he said, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "You are... necessary."
Maomao sat frozen. Her heart was doing that strange hammering thing again. She wasn't used to being shouted at with affection. She was used to indifference, or transactional relationships. This raw, unfiltered emotion was terrifying.
She looked down at her hands. "I... I apologize for worrying you."
Jinshi let out a long breath, deflating. He walked back to the table and knelt down, bringing himself to her eye level.
"I don't want your apology," he said softly. "I want you to value your life. Just a fraction of how much I value it."
He reached out and took her hand—the uninjured one. He turned it over, tracing the calluses on her palm, the stains of herbs on her fingertips.
"You have scars," he murmured. "From your experiments. From your work."
"They are part of the trade," Maomao said defensively.
"I know." He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. It was an intimate gesture, shocking in its tenderness. Maomao felt the heat of his breath against her skin, and a jolt of electricity shot up her arm.
"No more scars," Jinshi murmured against her skin. "Not if I can help it."
Maomao pulled her hand back, her face burning. "Jinshi-sama! You are... you are being strange again."
Jinshi looked up, a faint, sad smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I am just tired of pretending."
He stood up, smoothing his robes. The mask slid back into place, though it looked thinner than before.
"Finish your porridge," he commanded, but his voice was warm. "And then, I have a surprise for you."
"A surprise?" Maomao looked suspicious. "Is it a rare bezoar?"
Jinshi laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "No. Better."
The surprise was not a bezoar. It was a visitor.
An hour later, the door slid open, and a small, frantic figure burst in.
"Maomao!"
Xiaolan flew across the room, stopping just short of tackling Maomao on the bed. The young servant girl's eyes were red and puffy.
"Xiaolan?" Maomao blinked. "What are you doing here? This is the Master's private estate."
"Jinshi-sama sent for me!" Xiaolan sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "He said you were hurt and bored and needed someone to gossip with. Oh, Maomao, I heard you fought a ninja! And you blew poison fire in his face!"
Maomao sighed. "It was chili powder. And he wasn't a ninja."
"Same thing!" Xiaolan sat on the floor by the bed, her face eager. "Everyone is talking about it. They say the Master of the Rear Palace carried you in his arms all the way from the medical wing. They say he threatened to execute the entire guard if you didn't live."
Maomao groaned, covering her face with her good hand. "Please tell me you're exaggerating."
"Nope! Consort Gyokuyou even sent a basket of peaches. And Consort Lihua sent ginseng." Xiaolan leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. "But the real gossip is about him."
"Him?"
"Jinshi-sama. The maids say he hasn't left your side. They say he's in love." Xiaolan wiggled her eyebrows.
Maomao felt a flush rise up her neck. "They are idiots. He just doesn't want to lose a useful tool."
"A useful tool doesn't get the Imperial Physician and the Master's own bed," Xiaolan countered shrewdly. She looked at Maomao, her expression softening. "He really was scared, Maomao. I saw him in the hallway that first night. He looked... broken."
Maomao fell silent. She looked at the door where Jinshi had exited earlier.
Broken.
She touched the spot on her palm where he had kissed her.
Maybe, just maybe, she needed to re-evaluate her hypothesis regarding the eunuch.
"Tell me the other gossip," Maomao said, distracting herself. "Has the Lady of the Garnet Palace thrown another tantrum?"
Xiaolan launched into a vivid description of a wardrobe malfunction involving a cat and a silk sash, and Maomao listened, letting the familiar chatter wash over her. But her mind was elsewhere.
She was thinking about the Northern assassin. She was thinking about the Western binder. And she was thinking about Jinshi, who had looked at a poisoned, bloody apothecary and seen something necessary.
I need to get better fast, she resolved, her eyes narrowing. Someone tried to kill me. Someone tried to hurt him. And if there is one thing I hate more than wasted medicine, it's an unsolved puzzle.
The game was afoot. And this time, Maomao wasn't just a pawn. She was the Queen's guard dog, and she had a very nasty bite.
That Evening
The candles had burned low. Xiaolan had been sent back to the servants' quarters with a pocket full of sweets Jinshi had provided. The room was quiet again.
Maomao sat on the edge of the bed, testing the range of motion in her shoulder. It was stiff, painful, but manageable.
The door slid open softly. Jinshi entered. He was carrying a tray with two cups and a ceramic jar.
"You should be sleeping," he said, setting the tray down.
"I slept all afternoon thanks to Xiaolan's chatter," Maomao said. "What is that?"
"Medicine for you. Wine for me." Jinshi poured a dark, pungent liquid into one cup and a clear, fragrant liquid into the other. He handed her the dark one.
Maomao sniffed it. "Willow bark, turmeric, and... honey?"
"To make it palatable." He sat down, nursing his wine. "Gaoshun returned."
Maomao stiffened. "And?"
"The assassin talked. Before the poison took him completely." Jinshi's eyes were dark, reflecting the candle flame. "He was hired by a merchant guild with ties to the former dynasty. They believe..." He hesitated.
"They believe what?"
"They believe I am vulnerable," Jinshi said carefully. "They think that because I manage the rear palace, I am soft. They wanted to send a message by striking at the people close to me."
"They failed," Maomao said.
"They hurt you." Jinshi's grip on his cup tightened. "That is not a failure in my eyes. That is a transgression."
He looked at her, his gaze piercing. "I am going to crush them, Maomao. I am going to root them out, every single one of them. And I am going to make them regret the day they looked in your direction."
There was a cold ruthlessness in his voice that sent a shiver down Maomao's spine. It was the voice of the Emperor's brother, the voice of a ruler.
"Good," Maomao said simply. She raised her cup of bitter medicine. "I'll help."
Jinshi looked at her, surprised. Then, a slow smile spread across his face—not the celestial mask, but a dangerous, wolfish grin.
"I hoped you would say that." He clinked his cup against hers. "To hunting vipers."
"To hunting vipers," Maomao agreed.
She drank the medicine. It was bitter, foul, and left a terrible aftertaste. But as she watched Jinshi, who was watching her with a look of terrifying devotion, she thought that perhaps the bitterness was worth it.
Because for the first time, she wasn't drinking it alone.
The storm outside had broken, leaving the air clean and cold. But inside Jinshi's estate, a different kind of storm was brewing. Maomao and Jinshi, the apothecary and the noble, the poison-eater and the moon.
They were a dangerous combination. And the world was about to find out just how deadly they could be.
Maomao set the cup down. "Jinshi-sama."
"Yes?"
"Next time, use less honey. It ruins the profile of the turmeric."
Jinshi laughed, loud and long, the sound chasing away the last of the shadows in the room.
"As you wish, Maomao. As you wish."