The preparation hall didn't erupt into chaos after the dizzy spells hit. It simply... slowed, like a river finding its natural bend after a rock in the current. Voices dropped to murmurs, no longer bouncing sharp off the wooden beams. Footsteps padded softer on the tatami mats, careful not to stir the settling air. The sharp edge that had pressed against everyone's temples eased away, leaving an uneasy calm in its wake—like the quiet after a storm's first rumble, when you wait to see if thunder follows.
The affected maids were given cool water from the pitchers by the door, their cups refilled with steady hands. Windows stayed propped wide, letting garden breezes wander in lazy. Incense tests were cut back as Maomao had ordered—no more curling smoke to thicken the haze. Work picked up again, but gentler: trays refilled with half the usual rush, flowers sorted one vase at a time, the hall's rhythm finding its way back without force.
Yelan slipped back into the flow, carrying a stack of folded cloths and empty trays between the shelves. Her steps were light against the woven mats, geta whispering rather than clicking. She moved without drawing eyes, a shadow among the bustle, her mind turning over the morning's small fractures. The air's better,she thought, inhaling the cleaner note of breeze-mixed herbs. But not clear yet. Like a cloth twisted too tight—needs space to breathe.
She paused near a low rack of flower baskets, where the lilies still loomed heavy in their vases. The petals hung close, brushing edges, their bruised spots releasing oil in slow, insistent waves. The scent wasn't poison, not even close—just too much, too confined, pooling in the room's low corners with the lingering humidity. Inefficient,Yelan noted inwardly, her fingers twitching faintly at her sides. They'll keep weighing down until someone lets them loose.
A junior maid was there too, fumbling with the baskets—hands quick but clumsy, breath coming a touch faster than normal. She tugged one vase a bit too hard, petals shivering, and let out a small huff. "These things are stubborn... why do they have to be so heavy?"
Yelan set her trays down soft on a nearby bench, stepping closer without a word at first. The girl was young, maybe her second month, cheeks still round with that fresh-from-home look. She'strying, Yelan thought. No need to push.
"Here," she said gently, her voice low like a breeze through reeds. "Let me."
The junior blinked up, surprise flickering before she nodded, stepping back with a relieved dip of her head. "Thanks... they're slipping on me. Feels like they're fighting back."
Yelan lifted the first basket, her grip firm but light—fingers under the woven handle, weight centered on her hips like balancing a water jar from the village stream. She set it down a handspan away from its neighbor, then reached for the next, spacing them wider. Air gaps formed between the vases now, small but deliberate. She turned the second set a fraction toward the open window, angling the blooms just enough for the incoming breeze to thread through the petals without scattering them.
The junior watched, head tilted, wiping her hands on her apron. "...Why like that? Doesn't it matter which way they face?"
Yelan hesitated a breath, considering her words. She wasn't one for long explanations—talk felt like stirring mud when silence did the work. But the girl looked earnest, not prying. "So they can rest," she replied softly, sliding the final basket into place.
The junior blinked again, a small frown creasing her brow. "Flowers... rest?"
Yelan nodded once, her expression serene as still water, no smile to force the point. "They do. Crowded, they press and bruise. Space lets the air move, keeps the oil from building."
The maid leaned in a little, inhaling as the breeze picked up, carrying a cleaner thread of lily through the gap. Her shoulders dropped, the faint tension in her face easing like dew under sun. "Oh... yeah. It does feel better. Lighter, somehow. Like I can breathe without pushing."
Yelan said nothing more, just dipped her head and picked up her trays again, the cloths folded neat against her arm. Better, she thought, feeling the shift herself—the heaviness lifting a fraction, the room's pulse steadying. No fanfare needed; small fixes were like that.
Across the hall, Hui-lan had noticed. She was tying off a bundle of ties near the central table, her round face thoughtful as she glanced over. Now she stepped closer, eyes tracing the rearranged racks—the wider spacing, the subtle angle toward the light. "What'd you do there?" she asked, voice curious but not pressing.
Yelan paused, trays balanced easy. "Gave them space. They were too close—oil was pooling."
Hui-lan studied the setup a moment longer, then the windows where the breeze played lazy with the edges of hanging cloths. She nodded slow, a quiet approval settling in her eyes. "...You're right.Makes sense. I'll pass it on—tell the others to match this for the rest."
Yelan inclined her head, just once. "Thank you."
No more words. Hui-lan turned back to her bundle, but her movements were a touch looser, the knot she tied smoother. No announcement rang out. No one called Yelan name to the room, crediting the fix. It rippled out quiet: a maid here adjusting her own vase, another there widening a gap without being told. The faint heaviness that had threatened to thicken into something worse dispersed like mist under noon sun—gone, not with a bang, but a whisper.
Maomao passed through the hall again not long after, a small ledger tucked under her arm, her steps quick but not rushed. She was checking off a list of early arrivals, nose twitching now and then at stray notes in the air. But as she crossed the center, she slowed.
Her eyes swept the room—the clearer flow of breeze, the relaxed slump in a junior's shoulders, the absence of those strained, temple-rubbing looks from before. No one clutched a wall anymore. No half-hidden winces.
"...So that's how," she muttered, half to herself, the words slipping out like a puzzle piece clicking home.
Her gaze drifted to the flower racks first—the wider spacing, the angled vases catching light just right. Then, naturally, to Yelan Hua, who had returned to her trays, folding a cloth with that same unhurried care, as if the room's easing was just another breath.
Maomao didn't say a word. No question, no nod of thanks. Just watched for a beat longer than casual, her sharp mind turning it over. Quick catch. No fuss. The unfamiliar scent brushed her again—faint, ethereal, like night blooms under moon—but lighter now, woven into the fresh air. Not from the lilies. Not the incense.
From her? Or near?
Maomao's brow furrowed the barest touch, but the hall was steady, the symptoms faded, and questions could wait. She flipped her ledger open and moved on, calling out a mild correction to a maid by the resins: "Ease up on the agarwood—save it for the rite proper."
"Yes, Maomao-sama!"
The hall hummed on, work weaving back into rhythm. No alarms, no drama. Just the palace, adjusting to itself—one quiet fix at a time.
Yelan felt the change settle deep, like roots finding looser soil. It listens, she thought, a soft warmth in her chest amid the calm. When you give it room.She picked up the next tray, steps light as before, content in the silence.
The air carried on—cleaner, freer.
And the palace, for that moment, felt a little less heavy.