The name landed like a soft stone in her chest. Not painful, but enough to shift her breath.
Minister Jade.
Enna's heart fluttered, betraying her carefully kept calm. She lowered her head, letting her hair fall slightly forward to shield her expression. A smile—measured, distant—tugged at her lips.
"I see…" she said. "That's good to hear."
The court lady, radiant with excitement, clasped her hands together.
"Isn't it? It's about time they resumed the process—Her Majesty's taken long enough deciding, don't you think?"
Enna nodded faintly, though she wasn't really listening anymore. Her thoughts had slipped elsewhere—beyond the kitchen, beyond the palace walls—into a memory she hadn't meant to revisit.
The last time she saw him, Jade had said nothing about the delay. Only looked at her with that unreadable calm of his, the kind that always made her wonder if he felt anything at all.
But now the process is starting again.
The court lady adjusted her basket and flashed one last grin.
"Looks like something exciting will happen at the palace soon. I'll head off now, Master Chef. Call me anytime."
Enna gave a gentle nod, her voice soft. "Yes, go get some rest."
With that, the court lady turned and made her way across the vast kitchen floor. Her footsteps echoed briefly before being swallowed by the silence. The double doors opened with a familiar creak—then closed behind her with a dull thud.
The stillness returned, settling over the kitchen like dust in sunlight.
Enna remained in place, her hands resting lightly on the table's edge. The warmth of the sauce still lingered in the air, but her attention had drifted far from the pot. Her eyes, once focused and bright, had grown distant.
"There was a time," she said softly, more to the memory than the room, "when I was the candidate for my husband… the one who's gone now."
The hinges of the kitchen door gave a low creak as Enna slowly pushed it open. Light spilled in — gentle, amber-tinted, the kind of light that only March could deliver. It held both promise and nostalgia, as if spring hadn't quite decided whether to arrive or to leave again.
The air met her like a breath from the earth itself — warm and cool all at once, scented faintly with soil, dew, and something sweet. From the small courtyard beyond, the soft rustle of new leaves accompanied the distant call of a mourning dove. Petals fluttered through the air like whispers.
Magnolias.
She stood there at the threshold, her hand still resting on the doorknob, caught between now and then. The magnolia tree stood proudly at the center of the court, its broad white blossoms already half open — not yet in full bloom, but radiant in their reaching.
Enna's gaze settled on one particular flower, not yet opened, curled protectively like a secret.
[1379, Hana Kingdom]
Fifteen years slipped backward like the pages of a silken journal.
Enna was twenty-one — the age when the world still felt large, yet tilted gently in your favor. That morning, she stepped out of the family manor beneath the soft golden hush of spring, her sleeves brushing the breeze like wings of a white heron. The countryside of the Hana Kingdom stretched out before her — all undulating hills, plum blossoms, and the quiet rustle of a place not yet touched by urgency.
Her father, Lord Kaien, was a name known in court — respected and spoken of in low, calculating tones among political circles. But here, in this southern province, he was more than a man of power: he was a pillar. The people bowed not just out of duty but with deep, sincere deference.
And Enna, his only daughter, bore that lineage with quiet dignity. Though a noblewoman of high standing, she was beloved far beyond her station — not for her father's influence, but for her gentleness, her honesty, and a surprising warmth that often reached even the lowliest of servants. They whispered of her cooking — simple meals she prepared herself, sometimes side by side with the kitchen hands, laughing over boiling pots. It was a rare thing, and it made her rare.
The wooden building where the noble women gathered stood like a quiet shrine among flowering trees. Its garden was carefully kept — gravel paths bordered by moss, stones arranged like poetry, and flower beds humming with color. The scent of camellias and freshly trimmed herbs lingered in the air like memory.
As she entered through the garden gate, the rustling of silks and gentle laughter fell quiet. A group of women — most in their middle years, some close to Enna's age — turned at once, rising with practiced grace.
"Lady Enna," one said, voice warm with familiarity. "Please, come and sit here."
Another gestured with a folded fan, smiling. "This seat has been waiting for you."
They bowed, and Enna returned the gesture with a soft, demure smile, her eyes dipping.
"I can sit at the corner," she offered shyly, her voice gentle, as if worried to disrupt the harmony of the circle.
But one of the elder women laughed kindly, shaking her head.
"No, no. The center is yours. Your arrangements carry the spirit of the season better than any of us. Teach us again, won't you?"
Enna hesitated, then lowered herself gracefully into the central cushion, smoothing her skirts with a kind of apologetic humility. Around her, the table was already filled with bundles of flowers — delicate cherry blossom branches, stems of blue gentian, sprigs of plum blossom, pale narcissus.
The spring sunlight filtered softly through the slatted eaves of the garden pavilion, catching in the translucent petals that lay scattered across the table like spilled moonlight.
Enna reached delicately for a few stems — a cluster of pale narcissus, a single sprig of willow, and a blushing camellia just beginning to open. Her hands moved with practiced elegance, each motion precise yet flowing, as though the flowers were simply falling into place of their own will under her guidance.
"I see the garden has truly awakened," Enna murmured, her voice carrying the warmth of the season. "So many beautiful blossoms now that spring has come."
The women around her smiled, watching her with a mixture of admiration and quiet curiosity. But one, seated just to her left, tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful.
"Lady Enna," she asked gently, "you haven't joined us as often lately. We've missed you at our gatherings."
Enna's hands did not pause. She set the willow branch at a graceful angle, tucking the camellia beneath it like a secret, her brow calm but focused. Her voice, when it came, held a soft, apologetic timbre.
"I'm sorry. I had to tend to the villagers during the flu outbreak last month. Many homes were struck. There wasn't enough help."
At her words, a stillness settled over the group.
The rustling of silk stopped. The murmuring ceased. Several of the women exchanged glances — some with discomfort, others with a flicker of shame.
Their hands rested idle beside untouched flowers.
Enna looked up then, sensing the shift in air. But there was no reproach in her eyes — only compassion. She offered a gentle smile, one that disarmed without judgment.
"I truly do enjoy these mornings with all of you," she said kindly, folding a slender stem of violet into the center of her arrangement. "I'll try to come more often."
For a beat, silence lingered.
Then, one of the older ladies leaned forward, her eyes glassy with admiration.
"Lady Enna… your kindness and integrity are an example to us all. We should learn from your heart, not just your hands."
Another nodded quickly.
"Yes, we should."
"My father always tells me I should carry myself like Lady Enna," said a younger noblewoman with a nervous laugh, brushing back her stray hair.
Enna shook her head lightly, the motion graceful and sincere.
"I am only fortunate," she replied, her voice as serene as a quiet river. "And it is a privilege to return what I've received since the day I was born. That is all."
The women fell quiet again — but this time it was a silence filled with something deeper than embarrassment. It was reverence.
And in the center of the low table, Enna's floral arrangement stood complete. A perfect balance of color, shadow, and breath — like her — elegant, composed, and rooted in something far more enduring than tradition.
The delicate clinking of porcelain teacups had just resumed when one of the women leaned slightly forward, lowering her voice as if about to share a confession.
"Did you all hear the news?" she whispered, eyes gleaming. "The son of the former minister… he's looking for a bride now."
Around the flower table, a flutter of excitement rippled through silk sleeves and hushed murmurs. Several heads nodded in quick, eager agreement, the mood suddenly shifting like the breeze that brushed across the garden.
"Yes, yes. I heard as well," another said, barely able to contain her voice. "What was his name again? Right—Juho!"
"Hush!" a woman hissed softly, glancing toward the entrance as though someone might be lurking just beyond the shoji screen. "You mustn't say his name so loudly. What if someone hears?"
"It's not as if we're spreading scandal," another chimed in, brushing a hairpin back into place with a casual flick. "Everyone's talking about it."
"And word is," said the first speaker, her eyes darting meaningfully across the group, "the former minister himself is coming here — to our village — to receive bridal recommendations."
The women all turned at once, their gazes converging on one person.
Enna.