The teacup is seconds from my sleeve.
Steam wounds my face.
Hands shove silk around my shoulders.
They force a borrowed robe that claws.
I sit on a low mat, knees tight.
My wrist throbs where I bit it.
A guard breathes close, knob of sweat on his neck.
"Li Mingyue," a voice says, like a verdict.
"Stand," Consort Li orders, smile trained.
"Why is she here?" a concubine snaps.
"She ruined the day of lesser blood," another hisses.
"Quiet," the Consort says, voice soft as a blade.
"My tea," she adds, lifting a cup like a scepter.
Mingyue moves her hands to cover the stain on her sleeve.
"Do not fumble," the Consort says, like teaching a dog.
A servant pours tea.
Steam wraps the room in wet silence.
The pavilion smells of polished wood and clipped orchids.
I watch the teacup like someone watching a hidden blade.
A woman near me laughs too loud.
"She looks like a guest," she says.
"Borrowed robes never fit," another sneers.
The tray slides.
A hand passes near my arm.
The cup jolts.
Hot liquid arcs.
A scream rips.
"Stop!"
I lurch, reflex sharp.
The tea hits silk, blooms dark.
The silk scroll beside me shivers with damp.
Gasps pop like thin glass.
"Who spilled—" someone starts.
"It was an accident," the woman cries, voice fingernails.
"Accident," the Consort echoes, slow.
Silk darkens into a stain that eats into white.
The scroll curls, edges buckling.
"That scroll," an older concubine hisses. "The Emperor's verse."
Silence compresses like a fist.
"Who touches the Emperor's hand?" the Consort asks, lips flat.
"It wasn't her," a maid stammers.
"Then who?" the Consort presses.
Eyes flick to me.
They sharpen like knives.
"Li Mingyue," a voice says, soft and cutting.
"You are clumsy," another adds, cruel as a slap.
I feel the room tilt, focus thin like a wire.
My pulse drums a counting.
"Explain," the Consort demands.
I stand, knees protesting.
I bow until my forehead kisses the mat.
My voice comes small, measured.
"It was not my cup," I say.
"Then whose?" she asks, air tight.
"The woman beside me. She bumped the tray—"
"Stop," the Consort snaps. "You make noise."
"Let me," the woman says, suddenly contrite. "It was my fault."
"Curious," I say, voice steady, because steadiness is armor.
"Curious," the Consort repeats, eyes on mine.
They circle like wolves folding a field.
"Do you not know the Emperor's poem?" a maid asks, clutching her hands.
"It was gifted," another says. "Only for favored girls."
Favored.
The word lands like a coin.
"Your robe is borrowed," someone mutters.
"A poor joke," another sniffs.
I bend toward the scroll.
The stain spreads, a wicked shape.
My fingers hover above the silk, careful as a surgeon.
"A mistake reveals character," I say, low.
"Character?" the Consort repeats, smile thinning.
"Yes," I say. "If a mark can be turned, then the person who repaired it shows skill."
Whispers flutter.
"Repair?" one scoffs. "Who dares repair the Emperor's hand?"
"May I?" I ask, kneeling.
"Why?" the Consort tilts, amused.
"Penitence," I say, small and loud enough.
"Penitence has a price," she answers. "Speak your price."
I do not bargain with coin.
I offer labor.
I offer submission.
I offer a demonstration.
"Let me try," I say. "If I fail, bind me. If I succeed, let the scroll remain."
A pause.
The air sags.
The Consort leans, interest hidden but present.
"Do it," she says, finished, like a judge dropping a gavel.
Hands pass me a small brush and water, the tools of a craftsman passed like weapons.
The brush feels strange in my palm, like a new sword.
"Show us skill," someone jeers.
I breathe in, count three beats.
I wet the brush and dab the stain's edge.
The silk resists, thread tight.
My hand shakes, not from doubt but from a pulse that refuses to be quiet.
"Steady," Xiao Mei whispers behind me.
"Steady," I echo.
I work on the edge, coaxing color back.
I carve negative space with the brush, a tiny excision.
Sweat runs down my temple.
"She's touching the Emperor's verse," a voice spits.
"Bold," another breathes.
"Your hand is shaky," the Consort says.
"Old hands," I reply, short.
A round of cruel laughter.
"Make it a phoenix," the woman with pearl teeth says, mocking.
"A phoenix?" I murmur.
Three words.
"Fine."
I paint.
Lines form like trapdoors.
The stain loosens into a contour.
The room tightens, breath held.
"Is that...?" a maid whispers.
"She is turning ruin into art," someone says, disbelief hot.
The Consort watches, expression closed.
"Are you certain?" she asks, voice dangerous soft.
"I am," I reply, because I need certainty like breath.
I move faster, each stroke a small violence.
The brush bites the silk, ink blossoms, and the stain yields.
A faint shape emerges—wings, a curve like a rise from ashes.
The hush cracks like ice.
Gasps.
"She saved it," a woman breathes.
"Saved," the maid repeats, tone thin.
The Consort's jaw works one beat.
"Good," she says, flat and polite.
"Good," echoes like a bell.
I bow low, hands dusted with ink.
The air shifts; attention recalculates.
"Penitence accepted," the Consort declares.
"Penitence," someone repeats, relief-colored.
They lean away, reevaluating like players noting a new piece.
The woman who spilled the tea blushes and avoids my eyes.
"How did you learn to do this?" the pearl-tooth woman asks, curiosity sharper than cruelty.
"Practice," I say, one word.
"Practice?" she sneers. "Show us more."
"No," I answer, firm. "One debt is enough."
They murmur, unsettled.
A guard steps forward, head down.
"Consort," he says, voice rough. "A merchant waits in the courtyard for a word."
"A merchant?" the Consort lifts an eyebrow.
"A message," he adds, handing over a folded note.
She breaks the seal with a finger that doesn't skip.
Her eyes scan.
They narrow.
"A merchant," she says, quiet. "He sends a carriage tonight for the favored."
She looks up with a slow smile.
"Interesting," she says, but the word carries a weight like a trap closing.
"Who?" a maid asks, breath held.
"Prince Merchant," she answers. "He visits when the city's river is calm."
"Curiosity," Xiao Mei whispers into my ear.
"Curiosity kills," I counter.
The Consort's gaze lingers on me, the smallest spark of something like inspection.
I do not bow again.
Instead I fold my hands and keep my face still.
"Consort," I say, voice small, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," she replies, face butter-smooth. "Remember your place," she adds, as if finishing a sentence.
I slide back to my mat like someone lowering armor.
The pavilion hums.
Conversation flits like birds.
Xiao Mei touches my wrist, then tilts her head toward the balcony where guards pass.
"He's been watching," she murmurs.
"Who?" I ask.
"Prince Merchant," she answers.
"Watchers pick at threads," I say, the voice a thin blade.
"Then we do not let them find the seam," Xiao Mei whispers.
The Consort sips her tea.
She watches the scroll, then my hands.
She sets her cup down with a click.
Her fingers flex a beat too long.
A shadow passes across her face—thin as a seam.
She leans forward to the window and drops a glance that says everything.
"Someone useful might become dangerous," she says aloud, casual as weather.
"Someone useful?" a concubine echoes.
"Useful and unbound," the Consort finishes.
She straightens and stacks the cup atop the saucer.
"Clean up," she orders. "And let the Prince Merchant see the favored this evening."
A chill folds my shoulders.
My heart beats fast.
I force slow breaths, count numbers in my head.
One.
Two.
Three.
I test the edge of the stain with my fingertip.
Ink smudges, sticky and real.
"Don't sleep," Xiao Mei says.
"I won't," I say.
Short.
"Stay ready," she warns.
"Always," I answer.
Outside, the courtyard sun slides toward gold.
Guards walk slow, shadows lengthening.
The Consort turns like a predator satisfied.
I fold my hands and watch the scroll like a map.
Her eyes meet mine across the room.
For one fraction of breath, her face sharpens.
She leans in like a listener catching a secret.
"Keep your head down," she murmurs.
"Keep it?" I echo, soft and meaning something else.
She leaves the pavilion, heels tapping a final note.
The room exhales, and I chew that exhale into a plan.
A tiny, crooked smile tugs my mouth.
Not for victory.
For work to come.
I slide the brush into my sleeve.
Ink stains the cloth and my skin.
I fold the silk carefully and tuck it back into the scroll tube.
"They will watch tonight," Xiao Mei says, voice low.
"Then we make them watch wrong," I say.
The Consort returns to her quarters.
Her shadow crosses the courtyard like a closing lid.
Behind her, a eunuch lingers, face blank and unreadable.
He taps a folded paper against his palm.
He will not sleep.
I stand, joints complaining.
I test the antidote with a fingertip under my tongue.
Warmth blooms slow.
Strength threads through my limbs like a slow fix.
I breathe and count.
One.
Two.
Three.
On the balcony, the Prince Merchant's carriage glitters.
Someone sends a note.
The Consort folds a smile and says, "Bring the favored."
Her voice slices the air.
My stomach tightens.
I hold my hands steady.
The teacup that almost burned my sleeve sits now quiet on a tray.
Steam fades.
Ink dries.
And somewhere beyond the lattice, the Consort's plan is already moving like a net.
Night moves like a closed fist.
Lanterns throw short light.
"Lotus robe now," a maid barks.
"Ready," Xiao Mei answers, breath sharp.
We step into the courtyard, silk whispering.
A guard bars a side gate and nods.
"Favored only," he grunts.
"Then we pass as favored," Xiao Mei murmurs.
The Consort sits with a fan and slow eyes.
She claps once—soft but slicing.
"Show yourselves," she calls.
Girls step forward, one by one.
My borrowed robe hangs off my shoulder.
A woman brushes my arm on purpose.
"Mind yourself," she hisses.
"Mind your own," I think, quiet.
Wheels announce the Prince Merchant.
He bows, face polite and bored.
"Consort," he says. "You honor me."
"You flatter," she replies, smile fixed.
His gaze sweeps the line and pauses on me.
He lingers, then moves on.
He smiles.
The Consort watches him and the scroll.
She lifts the fan.
"Tonight we choose favor," she says.
"Yes," the Prince answers, low.
His eyes slice the girls again.
They stop briefly on the scroll.
"Old verse," he murmurs. "Perfect."
The Consort's look finds mine across the pavilion.
Her smile narrows.
She taps the fan in one small motion.
"Bring forward the favored," she orders.
Her tone closes like a door.
"Especially you," she adds, sweet as a guillotine.
Keep watch, always.