"Beauty without bloom is just another type of silence."
The branches above her creaked faintly in the wind, brittle from winter and age. Xu Feiran turned her head slowly, not out of fear, but out of something colder—habit. A lifetime in the palace taught a girl when to look over her shoulder.
The shadows along the corridor had thickened like ink in water. Lanterns flickered low, flame bending slightly against the stirrings of breath not her own.
But whoever had been watching her—if they'd ever been there—was gone now.
She stood still for a long moment, the ends of her hair lifting faintly with the breeze, her eyes narrowing as they scanned the silent archways. Beyond the frozen pond, a curtain twitched. A movement too deliberate to be wind.
Feiran turned back toward her quarters without a sound, each step light on the frost-glazed stones, the image of poise. Inside, Yue'er was dozing beside a charcoal brazier, her cheek pressed against her forearm.
Feiran did not wake her. She simply slipped into the inner chamber, closing the doors softly behind her.
She did not sleep that night.
By morning, a gift had arrived at her threshold.
It was not from the Crown Prince.
A tray of delicacies—jellied lotus, osmanthus rice cakes, candied walnuts—arranged too perfectly for simple kindness. Alongside them, a silk handkerchief embroidered with three tiny plum blossoms.
Feiran stared at it for a long time.
The plum tree.
Again.
She picked up the handkerchief. It was perfumed with jasmine, not her usual scent. Not her style. Delicate and slightly cloying.
"Meilin," she said quietly.
Yue'er, now awake and brushing Feiran's hair, glanced toward the tray. "Should I return it?"
"No," Feiran said, folding the handkerchief carefully. "Not yet."
The Crown Princess's quarters were vast—far larger than the ones she had lived in before marriage, but also lonelier. Servants came and went with mechanical grace, answering to no names, offering no smiles. Even the air felt curated. Windows were dressed in gauze-thin silk, walls painted with spring motifs that no longer matched the season.
It was beautiful.
It felt like a shrine.
Feiran wandered the space slowly that afternoon, noting every door, every unseen corner. She found herself in the east wing, where a long corridor opened into a courtyard bordered by white stone and pale wooden railings.
It should have been the loveliest part of the residence.
But the plum trees had not bloomed.
Four of them stood there—tall, well-tended, evenly spaced—but all bare. Their branches extended like bones wrapped in velvet, still alive, but waiting. Always waiting.
A quiet dread bloomed in her chest. She did not know why.
Yue'er joined her in the corridor, carrying a small basket of threadwork.
"This courtyard faces south," Yue'er said gently. "Plum trees should bloom early here, no?"
Feiran nodded once.
"They bloomed when I was still at the Xu estate," she murmured. "In the north garden. Even during frost. My mother always said plum blossoms don't care if the world is ready for them."
Yue'er looked at the bare branches.
"Perhaps these were not planted for blooming," she said.
Feiran turned to her sharply. "What do you mean?"
The maid hesitated, then bowed her head. "Forgive me. It's not my place."
Feiran took a breath. "You may speak freely. Here, at least."
Yue'er hesitated. Then said, quietly, "Some in the inner court believe the trees are kept cold on purpose. That if the branches remain bare, it keeps the Crown Princess from blossoming too quickly. Too boldly."
Feiran stared.
"To remind her," Yue'er said, "what happens to those who bloom in the wrong season."
Feiran looked back at the trees.
Even beauty, in this place, was bound by rules.
Later that week, she was invited—summoned—to a garden tea hosted by Meilin.
An "informal gathering" of consorts, as the note described it. Carefully phrased in a way that could not be declined, though it bore no imperial seal.
Yue'er helped her dress, choosing an ivory robe embroidered with cranes. Elegant, modest, unprovocative.
"You don't like Meilin," Yue'er said plainly as she smoothed the folds.
"I don't know Meilin," Feiran corrected.
"You don't like the way she smiles at you."
Feiran said nothing.
The garden was smaller than the imperial ones, more intimate. It was enclosed by high white walls and an overhead canopy of wisteria just beginning to wake from winter. Meilin sat beneath a painted pergola, dressed in soft rose silk, her hair adorned with carved plum blossoms.
She rose as Feiran entered, bowing just deep enough to remain polite without implying subservience.
"Your Highness honors us with her presence."
Feiran returned the bow with equal grace. "Lady Wen is too kind."
There were five others present—all minor consorts or favored attendants of noble blood. Each one smiled the way predators do when prey wanders close, delicate and polished and perfectly practiced.
They spoke of light things. The weather. Music. A new embroidery technique. Feiran answered sparingly, her voice soft, her posture precise. She watched. Listened. Measured.
Halfway through the gathering, Meilin lifted a small porcelain box and offered it across the table.
"A gift," she said, "to mark your first spring as Crown Princess."
Feiran opened it.
Inside lay an old hairpin—silver, in the shape of a crescent moon, with a tiny ruby set in its center.
Feiran froze.
It was hers.
Or rather—it had been.
She'd lost it as a child, years ago, before her engagement was ever discussed. Before Meilin had even entered the court.
"How did you come by this?" she asked, her voice even.
Meilin smiled sweetly. "The palace has many forgotten corners. Perhaps I found it where someone less fortunate once dropped it."
Feiran closed the box slowly. "It is in excellent condition."
"I thought you might want it back," Meilin said, voice coated in softness.
There were no good answers here. Only traps with velvet linings.
Feiran set the box down with care. "It's beautiful," she said.
The others tittered, pleased by the civility. But Meilin tilted her head.
"Your Highness is as gracious as she is composed. Tell me, does anything surprise you?"
Feiran met her eyes. "Only when something I thought was gone returns."
The words hovered between them, quiet and heavy.
Meilin's smile dimmed.
She sipped her tea.
No one spoke for several moments.
That night, Feiran sat beneath the window, brushing her own hair.
Yue'er had gone to fetch herbs from the apothecary.
The hairpin sat on the vanity, still inside its box.
Feiran did not touch it.
She remembered losing it. She had cried that day—not because of the pin itself, but because her mother had scolded her for being careless. That pin had been a gift. A token from her aunt. And she had dropped it somewhere between the pagoda and the library wing.
How could Meilin have found it?
How could she even know what it was?
Feiran turned the box, staring at the tiny ruby.
Outside, the courtyard remained barren. The moon traced white shadows across the bare branches.
And in the reflection of the window, for just a second, she thought she saw a figure standing behind her.
When she turned—
Nothing.