The preparation hall did not snap back to its earlier chatter after Maomao's departure. Instead, it settled into a quieter rhythm, like water smoothing itself after a stone had skipped across its surface. Jars were sealed with deliberate clicks now, lids twisted just a fraction tighter than before. Trays were spaced farther apart on the long wooden tables, giving the air room to circulate without the weight of overcrowding. Even the sunlight slanting through the high windows seemed gentler, dust motes drifting lazy and unhurried.
Yelan Hua stood near the outer shelves, hands folded loosely in front of her robe, waiting for the next thread of instruction to pull her forward. The faint echo of Maomao's footsteps had faded down the corridor, but her presence lingered in the room's new caution—like the aftertaste of bitter tea.
Hui-lan approached from behind, her sleeves tied neatly back with a practical cord, apron dusted lightly with herb flecks. "You can set the empty trays down now," she said, voice low but steady. "After that, help sort the new herb deliveries.The juniors are bringing them in from the outer gardens—fresh, but heavy. Watch for bruising."
"Yes, Obāsama," Yelan Hua replied, her tone even, without a hint of strain.
She moved at once, gliding to the low table where the incense bowls waited. Each tray she placed down with measured care—fingers light on the edges, no clatter, no rush. The porcelain settled softly, as if grateful for the gentleness. Then she crossed to the receiving area near the hall's wide doors, where junior maids were already shuffling in with bundles wrapped in pale muslin cloth. Their chatter was hushed now, subdued by the seriousness of the event's looming shadow—three days away, but close enough to sharpen every motion.
One of the juniors—a slight girl with sweat beading on her forehead—stumbled slightly under the weight of a particularly bulky parcel, her geta scraping awkwardly on the stone floor.
"I can take that," Yelan Hua said quietly, stepping forward before the girl could recover.
The junior blinked up at her, relief flooding her wide eyes like cool water on sun-scorched skin. "Oh—thank you. It's heavier than it looks. The peonies inside shift around like they're alive."
Yelan Hua accepted the bundle with a nod, adjusting it against her arms so the weight rested evenly across her shoulders and hips. No strain showed in her posture; she carried it toward the sorting table without haste, steps smooth as if balancing a tray of tea rather than a sack of fragile roots and blooms.
As she approached the table, a familiar sharp voice cut across the hall like a needle through silk.
"Careful with that one."
Yelan Hua paused mid-stride, lifting her gaze just in time to see Maomao weaving closer. The apothecary's pale hair was tied back loosely with a simple cord, strands escaping to frame her freckled face. Her sleeves bore faint green stains from earlier inspections, and her expression was that familiar mix of impatience and precision—eyes narrowed, but not unkind.
"That's dried white peony root," Maomao said, gesturing with a quick flick of her hand. "Bruise it even a little, and it loses half its potency. Turns bitter faster than spoiled milk."
"I'll be careful,"Yelan Hua replied, her voice soft but assured. She shifted her grip instinctively—fingers splaying wider for support, pressure light as a breath on the muslin.
Maomao watched the adjustment, head tilting just a fraction. It was clinical, appraising, like testing the edge of a blade. Then she gave a small nod, almost imperceptible. "Good. Set it over there—the far end, away from the steam vents."
Yelan Hua did exactly that, easing the bundle onto the table with a whisper of cloth. She stepped back, hands clasping loosely again, and waited.
Hui-lan had been watching from a short distance, arms folded across her chest. Now she approached, her round face creased with a faint smile. "You'll be overseeing this hall for the event, then?" she asked Maomao, pitching her voice to carry just to them.
Maomao exhaled through her nose—a soft sigh that spoke volumes. "Herb inspection, incense reaction tests, food safety checks. The usual parade of 'what could go wrong if no one pays attention.'" She glanced around the hall, where maids were still adjusting trays under the weight of her earlier corrections. "Which means I'll be chasing mistakes from dawn till the lanterns burn out."
Hui-lan chuckled lightly, the sound warm against the room's quiet. "We'll try not to give you too much trouble, then. The juniors are eager, but... green."
Maomao's gaze flicked across the shelves again, quick as a bird's. "Eager's fine. Careless isn't." Her nose twitched faintly as she scanned a row of incense jars, their labels curling at the edges from the humidity. "These shouldn't be this close to the steam room. Moisture seeps in, dulls the resins. Move them farther down—near the dry alcove."
Several maids near the shelves jumped to comply, murmuring "Yes, miss!" as they lifted the heavy wooden crates. Feet shuffled, porcelain clinked softly, and the air stirred with the faint, woody promise of unburnt sandalwood.
Yelan Hua stepped forward without being asked, reaching for one of the lower jars to help redistribute. Her fingers closed around the cool clay, lifting it smoothly.
Maomao paused beside her, close enough that Yelan Hua caught the faint herbal tang clinging to her—mint and something sharper, like crushed nettle.
"You're new,"Maomao said, not quite a question.
"Yes."
A beat of silence, broken only by the soft thuds of relocating crates.
"...From where?"
"A small village. North of the river passes."
Maomao hummed softly, the sound thoughtful. "That would explain your hands."
Yelan blinked, glancing down at her own palms—callused at the knuckles from years of garden work and loom threads, not the fine blisters of palace scrubbing. "My hands?"
"Calluses in the wrong places,"Maomao replied flatly, without judgment. "Not from polishing silver or folding silk all day. More like soil and rough twine. Not palace-trained."
Yelan lowered her gaze to the jar in her arms, feeling the weight of the observation settle lightly. "I'll learn quickly."
Maomao studied her for a moment longer, eyes sharp but not piercing. Then she shrugged, a small lift of one shoulder. "As long as you don't make my work harder than it already is. One wrong herb in a blend, and I've got consorts fainting left and right."
"I won't," Yelan said quietly, meeting her gaze just long enough to convey steadiness.
Maomao held the look, then turned away with a nod. "By the way," she added over her shoulder as she moved toward the next shelf, "if anyone complains of dizziness or nausea today—or tomorrow—send them to me first. Don't let them brush it off as 'nerves.' Could be a bad reaction brewing."
"Yes,"Yelan replied, setting the jar down in its new spot.
Maomao took two steps deeper into the hall—then paused abruptly.
Her nose twitched again, more insistent this time.
She turned her head slightly, inhaling once, deeply, like drawing a secret from the air.
"...That smell again," she muttered, almost to herself.
Yelan remained still, hands now empty at her sides. She inhaled subtly too—nothing out of place to her, just the layered hum of herbs and incense settling.
Maomao scanned the shelves, the baskets of blooms, the incense trays freshly spaced—her frown light but persistent. "I smelled something like this a few nights ago too. Faint. Not rot, not poison. Just... strange. Like forgotten rain on stone."
Yelan did not react, her expression serene as untouched water.
Maomao clicked her tongue softly—a sharp, frustrated sound. "No time to chase ghosts now. We've got real work."
She moved on, calling out another correction to a junior fumbling with a vial of essential oil.
Footsteps echoed beyond the hall's arched entrance—measured, unhurried—followed by the low murmur of voices.
Two figures appeared in the doorway, silhouetted briefly against the corridor's brighter light.
Lord Jin-shi stepped inside first, his grace effortless as always: robes of pale blue silk whispering against the floor, a painted fan resting loosely against his palm like an extension of his thoughts. Beside him walked Gaoshun, posture formal and unyielding, his sharp eyes already sweeping the workspace with the efficiency of long habit.
Maomao straightened at once, dipping into a quick bow. "Lord Jinshi. Master Gaoshun."
Jinshi's smile was faint but genuine, the kind that softened the edges of any room. "Just checking on the preparations. It seems... lively in here. Or is that the incense already working its magic?"
Gao-shun moved ahead without comment, his tall frame cutting a straight path to the nearest table. He inspected the tray spacing with a critical eye, fingers hovering just above the edges without touching—measuring, assessing.
Maomao fell into step beside Jinshi, her tone dry as ever. "Lively if you count 'organized chaos' as lively. We've barely started, and already the humidity's fighting the resins."
Jinshi chuckled softly, the sound light and teasing. "Ah, but that's half the charm. Without a little discord, how would we appreciate the harmony?"
His gaze wandered idly across the hall—over the bustling maids, the neatened shelves, the faint curls of test-smoke rising from a corner brazier—and then paused.
On Yelan
She stood near the sorting table, a half-unwrapped bundle of herbs before her, fingers deftly separating roots from stems. Head lowered in focus, presence unassuming as a shadow at noon.
He tilted his head slightly, the fan in his hand stilling.
"That girl," he said quietly to Maomao, voice pitched low enough for only her ears. "She looks new. I don't recall seeing her before."
Maomao followed his gaze, her expression unchanging. "...I don't know her either. Hui-lan mentioned something about Gaoshun-sama placing her here."
Jinshi hummed softly, the sound thoughtful. "Interesting."
Gaoshun had already drifted deeper into the hall, pausing to murmur a correction to a senior maid about the incense bowl alignment. "Wider gaps here—allow the smoke to layer, not choke."
Yelan felt the air shift—not in pressure or temperature, but in awareness. A subtle prickle, like eyes brushing silk. She kept her own gaze lowered, hands steady as she tied off a small bundle of sorted lavender. No haste, no glance up. Just the quiet rhythm of her task.
Jinshi watched her for a moment longer than he intended—a beat, perhaps two. The corridor from earlier that morning surfaced uninvited in his mind: Hui-lan walking briskly beside a quiet figure, sunlight catching on dark hair like ink on rice paper, a face half-turned that he had not recognized... yet had not forgotten.
So it's her.
The realization settled lightly, without fanfare. He did not realize he had been holding his breath until he exhaled softly, the fan flicking open in his hand with a casual snap.
Maomao noticed the pause, her sharp eyes flicking sideways. "...Lord Jinshi?"
He smiled at once, the expression sliding into place like a well-worn mask—charming, deflecting. "Nothing at all. I was just thinking how smoothly things seem to be going. A credit to you all."
But as his gaze drifted once more to Yelan —quiet among the trays, head still lowered, her movements a subtle anchor in the room's flow—something faint settled in his chest.
Not attraction. Not yet.
Just a persistent awareness, like a half-remembered melody tugging at the edge of thought.
Why do I keep noticing her?
He turned away before the question could deepen, fanning himself lightly as he moved toward Gaoshun-sama. "Let's continue the inspection. I'd hate to miss any... imbalances."
Gaoshun-sama glanced back, his expression unchanging. "The spacing here is improved. But the floral trays need better ventilation—see to it."
Neither lord Jinshi nor Maomao realized, in that moment—
The girl they had just spoken of now served directly under Gaoshun's authority, her quiet integration woven deeper into the palace's threads than either had guessed.
Yelan did not look up. She did not need to.
She returned to her task, fingers brushing a jar just enough to nudge it into better airflow. No one remarked on the small adjustment.
But the room breathed easier in its wake—a subtle easing, like tension uncoiling from shoulders held too long.
And the faint, unfamiliar fragrance that lingered around her—ethereal, like night orchids under moonlight—faded once more into the palace air.
Quiet. Unclaimed. Unnoticed.