The robe pins wrong and I bite the seam.
"Hold still," Xiao Mei hisses.
"A little higher," the maid says, tugging.
"The color," another woman murmurs, as if colors can bite.
"Looks like hand-me-down ash," someone snickers.
"Good fabric," I say, flat.
Short.
"Don't lie," Xiao Mei snaps, fingers clenching the silk.
"Smile," the head maid orders.
I smile like a coin.
"You look like an old copy," a concubine near the curtain says loud enough for knives.
"Better a copy than a page ripped," I answer, quiet as a ledger.
They laugh, small and precise.
"Keep your head low," Xiao Mei breathes.
"I keep it low," I answer.
The pavilion smells of lacquer and incense.
Lantern light slicks off carved panels.
A mat of cushions fans out like a claim.
"Consort Li presides," a eunuch announces.
"Take your place," the maid orders.
They seat me near the curtains.
Close enough to hear whispers.
Far enough from the center.
"Why here?" the older concubine asks, voice thin.
"Because I was told to sit," I say.
"Graceful answer," she sneers.
"Thank you," I say.
Two words.
The Prince Hereditary drinks near the dais.
His cup never empties.
His gaze drifts like a bored hawk.
He is heavy with authority and cheap wine.
"Why is the girl dressed in faded tones?" another asks.
"To highlight others," the concubine replies, venom neat.
"She restores the old verse," the eunuch offers.
"Yes," Consort Li says. "A talent of the archives."
"Talent doesn't wash," a maid mutters.
"Eyes on the food," Consort Li says, silky cold.
"Bring wine," she commands.
Plates pass.
Laughter threads and frays.
A woman at the next cushion leans in.
"Tell us of your life before," she purrs.
"Where you came from. Dirt or river?" she laughs.
"River," I say.
Two words. Plain.
"River?" she repeats, smelling shame.
"Yes," I confirm.
"How quaint," she tuts.
"Rivers teach mud," I reply, even.
Consort Li's fan moves slow.
She watches like a judge tasting breath.
The room chills a degree.
"Is it true you worked with ledgers?" another asks.
"Yes," I say.
Short. Precise.
"Numbers make you cunning," someone says.
"Or careful," Xiao Mei whispers.
"A low-born cleric," the concubine says, tone like a blade.
"Low-born and proud," I answer, sharp.
The concubine laughs that string of thin laughter people use to cut circles.
"We enjoy stories," a maid says, circling for blood.
"Then I will tell a short one," I say. "About a girl and her ledger."
"Begin," Consort Li invites, voice like silk sharpened.
I lean forward.
The silk pinches at my shoulder.
My palm presses under the fold of the robe to hide a seam.
"A girl held a ledger," I say.
"She copied names and shipments."
"She learned trade terms by accident."
"She learned to buy time."
They sip and smile.
The concubine's smile cracks like thin mud.
"Is that quaint?" the concubine asks.
"Quaint," I repeat, flat.
"Better quaint than plotting," she snaps.
Someone spills a joke.
Laughter bounces.
A eunuch brings another bowl of wine.
"To talent," the Prince says, raising his cup.
"To talent," they echo.
A cup slides, careless or pointed.
It tips.
Wine arcs like a dark comet.
It hits my robe with a slap.
Silence slices the air.
The red spreads fast, an outrage on pale silk.
"How clumsy," the concubine sneers, voice bright.
"Do you not see?" Consort Li says, slow. "Her robe is ruined."
"An accident," I manage, hand fluttering to the stain.
"Clumsy maid," someone says, delighted.
"You Archives girl is messy," the maid laughs.
"Messy hands make messy thoughts," another jeers.
"Penitence," I say, voice small.
"Allow me to fix it."
"A fix?" the concubine crows. "How will you mend spilled wine?"
"Watch," I say.
They push a small plank and a brush toward me.
Ink dust settles on my wrist.
I lean over the stain, the silk heavy and wet.
"Do not ruin it worse," Consort Li calls, eyes narrow.
"Watch the hand," I whisper to myself.
"Steady," Xiao Mei breathes.
I dip the brush into water, then into a powdered starch nearby.
My wrist remembers a movement not mine but familiar: a patient sweep, a soft scrape.
I blot and lift dye, dragging a faint pattern like a stitch.
"She works," someone murmurs.
"Don't make a show," a maid hisses.
The stain becomes a shadow.
A shape emerges under my brushstrokes.
The room leans in.
"What is she doing?" the concubine asks, voice brittle.
"A phoenix," I say, blunt.
"A phoenix?" the concubine bursts into laughter.
"A phoenix?" she repeats like a child tasting a lie.
"She turns a stain into a shape," Consort Li says.
"Again? Show us," Zhao Kang says, eyes flicking.
"Finish," Consort Li orders.
I finish the final arc.
A black curve, a wing, a small eye.
The stain reads as craft now, not accident.
Murmurs thread through the room.
The concubine's face tightens.
The maid who laughed scoffs and looks away.
"Penitence accepted," Consort Li says, flat and measured.
"Skilled," Zhao Kang notes, quiet.
"Show us technique," someone demands.
"My hand records," I reply.
Short.
"Who taught you?" Zhao Kang asks, more than a market question.
"Hands and ledgers," I say.
He leans back, chin lifted.
"A maid with craft and codes," he says under his breath.
"Interesting," the Prince nods, almost bored.
"She works like a merchant," a woman mutters.
"Can a maid be a merchant?" the concubine scoffs.
"Sometimes," I answer. "Sometimes a maid counts what merchants miss."
"Bold," Consort Li says, cooling like a bowl set in the sun.
"Bold makes people dangerous," Zhao Kang adds, voice low.
"Your grace," a eunuch whispers to Zhao Kang. "The ledger copies from Minor Archive were requested."
"Bring them," Zhao Kang says, voice even.
A eunuch leaves.
Footsteps patter like small drums.
"Who else handled those ledgers?" a clerk asks as he returns.
"Several," the eunuch says. "Records and clerks."
"Bring the list," Zhao Kang orders.
"Yes, Prince," the eunuch bows.
"Keep the girl close," Zhao Kang says, almost conversational.
"Keep her close?" the maid repeats, baffled.
"Yes," Zhao Kang answers. "I want to know how deep her river runs."
Xiao Mei's hand tightens in my sleeve like a vine.
"Watch yourself," she breathes.
"Watch," I echo, the word short as a blade.
They begin to question handlers.
Names are called like lines on a ledger.
A eunuch drags in a clerk who looks like a pressed coin.
He stammers; his hands tremble with ink.
"Who gave you access?" Zhao Kang asks him, keen.
"Consort Li... authorized copying," the clerk stutters.
"Why did Consort Li request archival copies?" Zhao Kang's voice is a measured lever.
"A festival favor," the clerk says. "A private commission."
"Interesting," Zhao Kang says again.
Same word, like a coin on a table.
"Why mention Lingnan?" a minister asks suddenly, eyes on me.
"Old term," I say. "In old ledgers."
"Old ledgers carry old debts," Zhao Kang murmurs.
"Old debts sometimes hide favors," I add, small.
Zhao Kang's gaze tightens like a spring.
"Ledger trails tell stories," he says. "We will follow this one."
"Do you think she is a spy?" the concubine asks, thin terror veiled as curiosity.
"Not yet," Zhao Kang answers. "But she is useful."
"Useful?" Consort Li repeats, smile soft with teeth.
"Yes," Zhao Kang says. "Useful for now."
They circle words and names like men circling meat.
I sit still, silk cooling on my thigh.
My hand rests over the scroll hidden beneath the robe.
The copied folio is warm against skin.
"Will she sing for us?" a woman suggests, malicious and expectant.
"Let her teach the trade," Zhao Kang offers. "Let her say which shipments crossed which hands."
"Bring the Minor Archive ledgers," he repeats. "Bring the clerks. Keep Li Mingyue by the accounts."
"Yes, Prince," the eunuch bows.
Xiao Mei fingers the seam where I hide the copy.
"Tonight," she whispers, "we move the family."
"Tonight," I confirm, mouth two flat beats.
The hall hums down to a soft wave.
Wine flows again, voices lace back into the air.
But the thread is set: ledgers will be checked, men will be summoned, eyes will be placed.
Zhao Kang watches me with a patience that is not interest.
It is calculation.
He taps his cup twice.
"This one at least does not cry," he says, voice low, more to himself than to anyone.
"Interesting."