Chapter 42
The next morning arrived soft and silver, the mist still clinging to the stones outside Poppy’s pavilion. She woke with a strange, quiet steadiness—like the world here breathed differently, slower, more gently.
A knock sounded.
“Lady Penelope?”
A calm healer’s voice—older, warm.
“Come in,” Poppy said, pushing hair from her face.
The door slid open to reveal Healer Shuyan, the elder healer from Poppy’s first night here—the healer with the fox-tail charms in her braids. Behind her stood Minghua, bouncing on her toes like she had been vibrating in place for the last ten minutes.
“Good morning,” Healer Shuyan said with a small bow. “If you’re willing, I would like you to join us in the healing grove today. Your hands showed natural steadiness yesterday.”
Minghua leaned in, whispering loudly, “It means she likes you.”
Shuyan gave her apprentice a patient look. “It means she listens well.”
“I said that,” Minghua insisted.
Poppy smiled despite herself. “I’d be honored.”
Minghua brightened as if she had been personally validated by fate.
“Come on! You’re going to love the healing gardens.”
They walked together through a winding path lined with dew-heavy leaves. Kits darted across their feet, chittering, chasing each other through the sculpture gardens. Poppy paused to admire it all—the foxfire lanterns, the hum of morning wards, the faint scent of warm herbs drifting on the breeze.
She had never woken anywhere that felt so alive.
“Don’t be nervous,” Minghua said, swaying happily. “The healers are very nice. Also, they gossip a lot, but only about fun things. You’re safe.”
“Minghua,” Shuyan warned gently.
“What? It’s true.”
They reached the healing grove—a circular pavilion beneath an enormous gingko tree, golden leaves above them like sunlight caught in branches. Shallow basins steamed over gentle flame-runes. Herbs hung drying from the rafters, swaying softly.
It felt… sacred. Safe.
Shuyan guided Poppy to a low table filled with tools.
“We begin simple. Burn salve.”
Poppy nodded. “I’ll try my best.”
Minghua puffed her cheeks. “You’ll be amazing.”
“Minghua will assist,” Shuyan said pointedly.
Minghua’s jaw dropped. “Assist? Assist is so much less fun than supervise.”
“Precisely.” Shuyan placed bright silver leaves on the table. “Silver-lace fern. Grind clockwise, never counterclockwise.”
Poppy leaned closer. “Why clockwise?”
“Moon-aligned herbs bruise under reverse pressure,” Shuyan said. “They turn bitter.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry,” Minghua whispered. “I ruined an entire jar when I was nine. It exploded.”
Shuyan sighed. “A memorable day.”
Poppy began to grind. Her movements were careful at first, almost hesitant.
“Stronger,” Shuyan suggested.
She pressed harder.
“Good. Now smoother.”
Her arm steadied. The herbs broke into a shimmering green-silver paste.
Minghua let out a dramatic gasp. “Poppy. You’re a natural.”
“She is learning,” Shuyan said. But her proud smile betrayed her.
They added powdered foxfire; the mixture hissed and cooled instantly.
Poppy flinched as a puff of frost brushed her fingers. “It’s cold!”
“The salve heals by drawing heat out,” Shuyan explained. “Try placing some on your wrist.”
Minghua beat her to it, dabbing a tiny bit onto Poppy’s skin.
The cold hit first—sharp, breathtaking—and then warmth followed, spreading deep and steady beneath the surface.
Poppy exhaled. “It’s wonderful.”
“You made it,” Shuyan said simply.
The next hours passed in a gentle rhythm.
Grinding herbs. Mixing oils. Learning which petals eased ache and which soothed nightmares.
Laughing when a fox kit climbed into Poppy’s lap and refused to leave.
Listening to Minghua chatter about clan traditions and who in the healer corps was secretly dating whom.
“You don’t have to tell her everything,” Shuyan scolded.
“Why not?” Minghua said. “She’s practically family—”
Shuyan cleared her throat sharply.
Minghua corrected without missing a beat: “Ish. Potentially. Eventually.”
Poppy fought a blush. The warmth around her—the laughter, the gentle corrections, the kits underfoot, the easy kindness—felt like sunlight after years of winter.
She didn’t know she was smiling until Shuyan said softly, “It suits you.”
Across the grove, half hidden behind a pillar, Mingxi watched. He hadn’t come to intrude. He had come to check on her. Just to ensure she was safe.
That was all.
But when he saw her brushing moonmint petals with delicate fingertips… When he saw her laugh at Minghua’s antics… When he saw the way the healers naturally drifted toward her, drawn in by her quiet steadiness… His breath caught.
She looked at home. More at home than he had ever seen her.
Mingjun appeared beside Mingxi at the exact wrong moment. “You’re staring,” Mingjun murmured, munching on a plum.
“I am observing,” Mingxi said.
“You’re observing like a fox struck stupid.”
“Mingjun.”
Mingjun grinned. “She’s good for you.”
Mingxi stiffened. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“Mm-hm. And I suppose your aura isn’t doing that little sparky thing every time she smiles?”
“My aura does not spark.”
“Oh, it definitely does.”
Mingxi glared at him.
Mingjun only raised a brow. “Better fix your face before someone else notices.”
But Mingxi didn’t move. He watched Poppy accept a jar from Shuyan with shy pride. Watched her tuck a fox kit closer so it wouldn’t fall off her lap. Watched her look up at the gingko tree as if storing every shade of gold in her heart.
She looked…
He clenched his jaw. She looked like she belonged. Something in his chest stuttered, unsteady and unstoppable.
He watched as Poppy thanked the healers for their patience and bowed before stepping out of the grove, the afternoon light warm on her cheeks. She still smelled faintly of moonmint and foxfire salve. Kits followed her for a few steps before scampering away.
Mingxi was waiting in the walkway just outside the healing pavilion longer than he wanted Poppy to know.
“How did it go?” he asked, voice gentle.
She held up her fingers, still stained silver-green from the herbs. “I didn’t explode anything.”
His lips twitched. “A success.”
A breeze rustled through the gingko leaves. Poppy glanced around the sunlit courtyard, still unsure of what to do with the quiet that had settled in her chest.
Mingxi seemed to sense it.
“Would you like a walk?” he asked softly. “Somewhere quieter?”
Poppy nodded. “Yes. Please.”
He led her along a path that wound through flowering trees and moss-soft stone. The foxfire lanterns thinned out as the forest grew thicker, the air cooling with each turn. Birds chattered overhead, and small foxes flickered in and out of view.
Poppy kept close enough to match his pace, but not so close as to brush his arm. Even so, his warmth reached her like a steady heartbeat. She didn’t realize where he was taking her until the trees parted.
A waterfall spilled down a massive stone cliff, its waters glowing faintly blue in the afternoon sun. Mist hung in the air like scattered stars. A pool gathered at the base, so clear she could see pale koi drifting beneath the surface.
Poppy gasped softly. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is quiet,” Mingxi said. “I thought you might prefer that today.”
She stepped closer to the water’s edge, letting mist kiss her cheeks. The sound of falling water drowned out everything else—the ache in her chest, the worry looming behind her thoughts, the memory of Lysandra’s ruined face. For the first time that day, she let her shoulders drop.
“You bring everyone here?” she asked lightly.
“No.”
He said it too quickly. Too honestly.
She turned toward him. He stood half in shadow, watching her with an expression she had never seen on him before—something soft, something reverent, something unguarded.
“This place…” he said carefully, “was where my mother used to sit. She said the waterfall sounded like truth washing the world clean.”
Poppy felt her throat thicken. “She sounds kind.”
“She was.”
His jaw softened. “I think she would have liked you.”
A breath caught in her chest. “What makes you think so?”
Mingxi lowered his eyes, considering his words before speaking—as he always seemed to do around her.
“You laugh easily,” he murmured. “Even after everything.”
Poppy smiled faintly. “I don’t think I laugh easily at all.”
“You do,” he said. “Most people simply never tried to see it.”
The wind shifted, blowing her hair into her face. Mingxi reached up and then paused, hand hovering an inch from her cheek.
“May I?”
Poppy nodded.
He brushed the stray strands back with a gentleness that made her breath shake. His fingers grazed her cheekbone—light, careful, reverent. The sound of the waterfall deepened around them, the mist glowing brighter.
Her heartbeat felt like a secret she hoped he couldn’t hear.
Mingxi lowered his hand reluctantly. “We should go back before dinner.”
She nodded, though part of her wished they could stay here forever.
The walk back was quiet—the kind of quiet that held warmth instead of distance. Mingxi walked slightly closer than before. Once, their hands brushed. Neither spoke about it.
By the time they reached the Shen residence, lanterns had begun to glow along the eaves. The scent of stew and jasmine rice drifted through the open windows. Xu Yunlian waited at the door, eyes soft with welcome.
“Come,” she said warmly. “Eat. You both look tired.”
Minghua barreled into the hallway moments later, arms full of bowls. “Poppy! Did you tell Mingxi the healers taught you to make burn cream? Doesn’t it smell weird? Did you ruin your sleeves? I ruin mine every time.”
“Minghua,” Mingxi said with quiet warning.
“What? I’m being supportive.”
Dinner was warm and full of chatter—Minghua excitedly recounting the day, Mingjun smirking into his tea every time Mingxi glanced at Poppy, Xu Yunlian gently ensuring Poppy ate enough, Mingzhao observing with approval and something like protection.
It felt like being wrapped in a quilt of voices.
A family she didn’t know she’d missed.
Later, when she returned to her pavilion, the lanterns were soft and the night air cool. Her room smelled faintly of herbs from the healing grove, grounding her in a way she didn’t expect.
Before she closed her door, Mingxi paused in the doorway.
“Rest well,” he said quietly. “You did good work today.”
“So did you,” she replied.
He blinked—surprised, warmed—and then bowed his head. “Good night, Poppy.”
She fell asleep with the sound of the waterfall still echoing in her chest.
The days began to blur in the way only safe days could.
Morning sunlight filtered through carved screens, warming woven floor mats and coaxing early blossoms from the plum trees.
Fox kits tumbled across the courtyard at all hours, their laughter bright as chimes.
Breakfasts were noisy, affectionate, overwhelming.
Mingxi arrived every morning with that composed grace that never hid the warmth in his eyes when he saw her.
Yunlian always set extra tea in front of Poppy.
Mingjun stole dumplings until Minghua smacked him with her chopsticks.
Mingzhao watched everything quietly, gaze deep and unreadable.
Afternoons were slow and soft—Yunlian teaching her how to ground her magic under the plum blossoms, how to breathe with moonlight instead of against it.
Kits crawled into her lap. Mingxi watched more often than he pretended.
Evenings were walks along the perimeter, lanterns flickering awake one by one.
The days passed in warmth and routine, and then Minghua began practically vibrating with excitement.
“Tomorrow!” she squealed. “The first full moon with you here. We’re having a feast. A proper one. Lanterns, music, everything. You’ll love it.”
“A feast?” Poppy echoed.
“Oh yes.” Minghua bounced on the balls of her feet. “We celebrate the full moon anyway, but this one’s special. It’s your first in Huǒyáo Jìng.”
Poppy laughed despite herself. “That sounds like a lot of attention.”
Minghua grinned. “You’d better get used to it.”