No one welcomed them.
No one cared to.
Once the four girls were assigned their duties, Hóng Yè Táng swallowed them whole, the way it swallowed everything else—quietly, efficiently, without ceremony.
Lingxi learned that quickly.
The concubine Yan Zhen did not look at them again.
Not the second day. Not the third. Not even when Lingxi knelt so long tending the indoor garden that her legs trembled faintly when she rose. The concubine passed through the residence like a distant presence—silk brushing stone, perfume lingering long after she had gone—but her gaze never settled on the servants newly added to her hall.
Why would it?
To her, they were furniture that breathed.
And furniture did not deserve attention.
---
I wake before the bell.
It is not discipline that wakes me. It is habit.
The body learns faster than the mind. My eyes open while the sky is still dim, before Xiao Lan's footsteps echo down the corridor. I sit up quietly, careful not to disturb the others. The room smells faintly of soap and damp cloth, the scent of laundry that never quite dries in palace walls.
We dress in silence.
There is no reason to speak.
By the time we step into the courtyard, the stone beneath our feet is still cold, the morning air thin and sharp. Dew clings to the leaves, beading along the edges like scattered pearls. I inhale slowly. This scent—clean earth, water, faint incense—has replaced the thick smoke of the kitchens.
Different does not mean easier.
My duties begin immediately.
---
My world shrinks to measured paths and repeated motions.
Each morning, I sweep the residence floors from the outer corridors inward, careful not to disturb the arrangement of furniture or decorative screens. I memorize which tiles creak, which corners gather dust faster, which doorframes bear the faintest scratches that need attention lest Madam Lian notice.
After sweeping comes wiping.
Then polishing.
Then the garden.
The indoor garden of Hóng Yè Táng is not large, but it is unforgiving. Every plant is chosen, positioned, pruned to exacting standards. I learn quickly that too much water is as grave a mistake as too little, that a leaf left yellowing for too long invites reprimand, and that soil disturbed without reason raises questions.
I learn to kneel without sound.
To rise without haste.
To move without being noticed.
Wei Jun watches sometimes. Not openly. Never directly. But I feel it—the subtle shift in air when he passes, the pause when I move, the silence that follows.
Madam Lian inspects daily.
Her inspections are brief and brutal.
"Missed."
"Again."
"Redo it."
I bow and comply every time, without protest, without explanation.
Words are unnecessary. Work is the only language spoken here.
---
Days blend into one another.
Morning chores bleed into midday maintenance, which bleeds into evening preparation. Meals are simple and sparse, eaten quickly and without conversation. At night, exhaustion wraps around my bones like a second skin.
Yet sleep never comes easily.
This place is quiet.
But it is not peaceful.
In the kitchens, noise drowned fear. Here, fear has room to breathe.
---
Jinglan returns each evening with hands smelling faintly of metal and polishing paste, her fingers reddened from constant scrubbing. She speaks less each day, shoulders stiff, movements sharp.
Mingzhu and Yuerong often arrive last, their sleeves damp, their eyes dull with fatigue. Laundering ceremonial fabrics requires care bordering on reverence—water temperature precise, handling delicate, mistakes costly.
We are all working.
We are all enduring.
But we are not together.
---
I do not think of them as companions.
Not anymore.
Here, closeness is dangerous. Dependence is weakness.
We share a room, nothing more.
I watch them the way I watch everything else—from the corner of my eye, without attachment.
Survival here is not about kindness.
It is about accuracy.
---
Weeks pass.
I learn the routes servants take and the ones they avoid. I learn when to step aside and when to remain invisible. I learn the rhythm of the residence—the hours when Yan Zhen rests, when she receives guests, when she wishes for silence so deep even servants seem to disappear.
The concubine never addresses me directly.
Never corrects me.
Never acknowledges my presence.
And that, I realize, is both relief and danger.
Being unseen means safety.
But it also means disposability.
---
From a distance, I become part of the residence itself.
I move like a shadow across stone floors, like a quiet breeze through leaves. The garden responds to my care—plants upright, soil balanced, water measured. The residence remains pristine, floors reflecting lantern light without flaw.
Madam Lian notices this.
She does not comment.
Wei Jun notices too.
He does not interfere.
The concubine does not notice.
And that is precisely how the system is meant to function.
---
I am careful not to stand out.
That is my first rule.
I do not rush to finish tasks early. I do not lag behind. I do not volunteer. I do not complain. I do not ask questions unless spoken to.
I let my work exist quietly.
The garden teaches me patience.
Plants do not grow because you want them to. They grow when conditions are right. Too much attention kills them. Too little neglects them.
I think about that often.
---
One afternoon, as I wipe the stone edging of the pond, I notice something subtle: the way servants instinctively lower their eyes when Madam Lian passes; the way Wei Jun's presence changes the air without a word spoken; the way senior servants move through space as if it belongs to them.
Power here is not loud.
It is assumed.
And the concubine—
She is the axis everything turns on.
Yan Zhen passes through the residence once that afternoon, flanked by attendants. I kneel low, eyes fixed on the stone. Silk brushes past. Perfume lingers. Then the sound of footsteps fades.
That is all.
No glance.
No pause.
No acknowledgment.
I remain kneeling for a breath longer than required, heart steady.
Good.
Remain nothing.
---
Nights grow cooler.
The garden changes subtly with the season. Leaves harden. Soil dries faster. I adjust without instruction, learning through observation and quiet correction.
My hands grow stronger.
My movements smoother.
My thoughts sharper.
I no longer flinch at raised voices. No longer startle at sudden footsteps. Fear dulls into vigilance.
---
I am not happy here.
But happiness has never kept me alive.
Routine does.
Awareness does.
Endurance does.
Every day I remain here, I learn something—about people, about silence, about power.
I do not dream beyond this place yet.
Dreams are dangerous when survival is not guaranteed.
For now, I will master this small world.
Stone by stone.
Leaf by leaf.
---
By the end of the first month, I understand one truth clearly:
Hóng Yè Táng is not cruel.
It is indifferent.
And indifference can be survived—
If one is careful enough.