CHAPTER ELEVEN
A breath from morning, the stars linger across the skies.
I stifle a yawn as I follow Chief Attendant Mai from the Grand Hall, heading east. He stalks ahead in silence, his steps impatient.
Rather than hurrying to catch up, I fall into stride with the attendant behind me, a freckled young man in a gray robe, holding a lantern to light the way.
“What is your name?” I ask him.
He bows to me without slowing his pace, casting a furtive look at the chief attendant. “I’m Shan, Lady Yining.”
“I’m not a lady,” I correct him with a laugh.
His eyes widen. “But you were sitting with His Highness. Your dress… you have pearls on your shoes.”
“A gift,” I explain. “And I only met His Highness because I was accused of theft.”
“These nobles think we’re thieves anytime something goes missing,” he mutters. “I’ll tell you, there are as many rich thieves as there are poor ones.”
I think of the merchants who price their goods too high, of the taxes levied on those who can least afford them. “You’re right, Shan. Maybe more.”
He smiles, revealing a gap between his front teeth.
“I hear His Highness invited you to stay. It’s rare for His Highness to show attention to anyone.
His father was a stern parent, imposing harsh punishments for any infraction, urging his children to focus on their studies and the affairs of the kingdom. ”
That might explain why the prince appeared aloof at times, and the distant way he spoke of his father. “He didn’t invite me; I invited myself.”
“Since His Highness agreed, he must like you,” Shan declares. “Just imagine—with a little luck and a lot of help, you could be our queen.”
“And pigs will fly,” I scoff, grinning at the thought.
“Anything can happen,” Shan replies, undaunted. “Did you think you’d be sleeping in the Palace of Nine Hills tonight?”
Maybe in one of the prison cells. “No, I did not,” I admit. “Do you know His Highness well? Does he have many friends?”
“In his childhood he did,” Shan says. “But now, His Highness keeps to himself, though he is close to his sister and those loyal to him: Chief Attendant Mai and General Xilu.”
“Where are his companions from before? Are they still in the palace?” I ask, wanting to learn more.
The chief attendant swings around. “Enough with the gossip,” he says sharply, glaring at Shan. “Don’t speak of things you know nothing about; you were only a child yourself back then.”
Shan ducks his head, mumbling an apology. The chief attendant’s temper seems as mercurial as Mistress Henglan’s. Though he stalks ahead of us once more, I refrain from speaking to Shan to avoid getting him in more trouble.
As we walk I examine our surroundings, assessing potential escape routes out of habit.
They are scarce, if any—unease prickling me.
The sprawling grounds of the palace are closely guarded, the troops of soldiers we pass alert and well-trained.
Beyond the Grand Hall, the other buildings appear stark without the glow of lanterns to soften their exterior.
As we round a corner, the chief attendant stops before a circular wooden door, painted black to match the roof tiles, a stone wall enclosing the courtyard.
Twin pillars lacquered in deep green flank the entrance, the name of the place inscribed on a plaque that hangs above it.
As the chief attendant fumbles at the rusted lock, Shan whispers, “We haven’t used the Pear Blossom Courtyard in a while. While it’s small, this one is close to His Highness’s quarters.”
The chief attendant flings the doors open, entering ahead of us.
It is dark inside, the lanterns unlit on wooden pedestals.
Trees tower above like shadowy giants, their leaves appearing like whorls of ink.
A marble table and four stools are tucked within a pavilion, just in front of a low building with latticed windows.
“Who prepared this place?” the chief attendant barks out. “Unlit lanterns. No guards by the doors. They should be relieved of their positions—”
“I can light the lanterns myself,” I interject. “And there’s no need for guards either.” I utter the last with more feeling than I should.
“Things might be very different where you come from, Miss Yining,” the chief attendant says in a cool tone, “but in the Palace of Nine Hills, standards must be met.”
He stalks to the end of the garden, staring up at a tall tree, its branches clustered with tiny white blossoms. “The pear trees are in bloom,” he remarks with surprise.
“There don’t seem to be many flowers planted here.” I look around the garden. “Just the chrysanthemums by the Grand Hall.”
Shan nods. “King Baoyu didn’t like flowers—”
“Quiet, boy,” the chief attendant snaps at him. “His Majesty was far too busy with the affairs of our kingdom to indulge in such frivolities.”
I suppress the urge to say something rude to the chief attendant; I’m not here to make enemies or friends, just to get my ring back—even as the prince’s black eyes flash through my mind.
I follow the chief attendant into the building.
Four rooms are tucked within for sleeping, changing, dining, and bathing.
Shan called it small, but I’ve never had such space for myself.
How quiet it is without Mistress Henglan’s demands, the rattle of doors when the wind blows.
Back home, I’d have to swim in the freezing river to get clean, yet here is a large copper tub already filled with water.
The tables and chairs are crafted of a wood I don’t recognize, a lustrous brown inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Silk curtains are draped across the bed frame, pooling on the floor.
I run my fingers along the soft covers, the precious jade pillow.
A scroll painting of beautiful ladies hangs on the far side of the wall.
This room, the elegant garden beyond—none of this feels like they belong to me.
I pick up a piece of amber carved into a bird, a treasure that could feed a family for a year while here it languishes forgotten.
“Do you like working in the palace?” I ask Shan as the chief attendant strides through the rooms to inspect them.
“It’s a good place. Sometimes Cook Feng lets us bring the leftovers home. My sisters are always eager to hear about the latest fashions in court. Most importantly, it pays well.” His smile falters. “My youngest sister is sick, and medicine is expensive.”
“I’m sorry, Shan.” I think of my aunt and uncle, the despair of being unable to help them when they needed it.
My fingers close around a piece of silver in my handkerchief, wanting to give it to him—but I release it again, hating myself a little.
This silver is precious to me, the only money I have.
Chief Attendant Mai rejoins us, sitting by the table and gesturing for me to do the same. Shan hurriedly pours out two cups of tea from the pot on the brazier. I thank him, then take a gulp, the hot tea scalding me. As I blow to cool it, the chief attendant’s eyes narrow.
“Small sips,” he snaps at me. “Whatever manners taught to you are unfit for court. We will find a tutor to instruct you on how to conduct yourself here.”
Anger fists in my chest. My aunt and uncle taught me to respect my elders, to treat others with courtesy, to hold my tongue as I’m straining to do now—and most definitely not to spill this scorching tea all over the chief attendant’s immaculate robe.
“I will learn,” I say through gritted teeth.
As Chief Attendant Mai takes a drink from his cup, he slams it back down on the table. “Shan, throw out the tea. These inferior leaves are a disgrace to our hospitality.”
“I like it.” Defiantly, I take another long sip. It’s bitter, more so than whatever Mistress Henglan used to drink—but I smile like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
The chief attendant sniffs as he heads to the doorway, gesturing for Shan to follow him. “The tutor will also instruct you in good taste. She will come tomorrow.”
After they leave, a weight vanishes, my spirits no longer tempered by the chief attendant’s surliness and condescension.
Almost giddily, I fling open a closet to find piles of garments neatly stacked within.
Back home, our clothes were chosen for practicality: of sturdy cloth for both the hot summers and freezing winters, material that itched, yet was worn till threadbare.
While here, each dress and robe is a creation of beauty, where cost is no consideration.
One dress has dozens of gauze butterflies sewn on the silk skirt, another is so thickly embroidered with silver it gleams like metal.
The most beautiful is a green brocade with a design of camellias, snowdrops, and plum blossoms. The stitches are so fine, an echo of the flowers’ fragrance seems to cling to the cloth.
I open a wooden box on the dressing table to find hair ornaments and pins.
Another is crammed with pearls, bangles, sandalwood combs.
Picking up a pair of emerald earrings, I angle them so the stones catch the light, then I slide on a jade bangle, smooth and cool against my wrist. As my gaze roams over the glittering jewels, I pick up a gold chain studded with rubies, draping it over my neck.
My reflection looks back at me from the bronze mirror—almost jarring.
In these jewels and my dress, I don’t look like myself, but the lady Shan thought I was…
and a voice whispers in my mind: What if I were?
I shake my head, turning away from the girl in the mirror.
These clothes, the ornaments, the comforts of this room…
I like them too much. It would be dangerous to grow accustomed to this.
Yet I feel reckless, almost greedy, wanting everything this place offers—like gulping down plum juice when I’m thirsty, except it leaves me craving more.