5. Overthinking #2
“Poison,” I say. Not a question.
“White Lotus. Modified for delayed onset.” Mei’s expression does not change. “If she had eaten the cold noodles—”
“I did not eat the cold noodles.” Lián’s voice is calm. Too calm. “I was going to eat the cold noodles.”
This proposal is becoming statistically unlikely, Tianlong observes as the first of my guards appears at the pavilion entrance, armor catching the lantern light.
Not helpful.
I am being supportive. In my way.
Your way is terrible.
Guards swarm the pavilion. The romantic dinner I spent three days planning becomes a crime scene.
The dishes are removed for analysis, handled with the careful precision of evidence rather than sustenance.
The servants who prepared the food are already being gathered for questioning.
Mei is issuing orders in the clipped tone she uses when she is genuinely angry rather than performatively dangerous.
I watch it happen. I watch the lanterns I chose continue to glow, warm and golden, illuminating a scene they were never meant to witness. I watch the cushions I arranged scattered by the movement of guards. I feel the ring sit in my pocket cold and waiting.
I watch Lián move through the chaos with the efficient grace of someone who has survived hundreds of assassination attempts and expects to survive a few hundred more.
She is examining the cold noodles before the guards can remove them, her eye registering details that the investigation will spend hours uncovering.
She does not look afraid. She looks professionally curious.
She also looks like someone who has already forgotten I was trying to tell her something.
“The sauce,” she says. “Whoever did this knew the recipe. Knew which dish to target. Knew my preferences.”
Mei nods. “Inside knowledge.”
“More than that.” Lián’s fingers hover over the bowl without touching. “The sesame masks the bitterness. White Lotus is difficult to hide in most preparations. This required research. Time. Access.”
“I want the kitchen staff assembled,” I say. “Everyone who touched this meal. Everyone who entered this pavilion today.”
“Already in progress, Your Majesty.”
“And the food tasters?”
A flicker in Mei’s expression. The closest thing to shame I have ever seen from her. “They tested the dishes. Standard protocol. The poison was added after.”
After. Which means someone with access to the serving process. Someone who knew exactly when and where to strike.
“Names,” I say. “I want names within the hour.”
“You’ll have them.”
Mei vanishes. The guards continue their methodical dismantling of my carefully planned evening. Lián is still studying the crime scene with the detached fascination of a professional reviewing a colleague’s work.
I should be focused on the investigation. I am focused on the investigation. I am also acutely aware that the ring is still in my pocket, that the speech is still unfinished, that the moment I had been planning for a week has been consumed by someone’s attempt to murder the woman I love.
The interrogation room is cold and functional, designed to discourage comfort. Stone walls absorb the heat of the single brazier. The table is scarred with decades of nervous fingernails. The air smells of old fear and lamp oil.
Lián takes the lead without asking, settling into the chair across from the first kitchen servant with the easy authority of someone who has asked questions like these before. I stand behind her, arms crossed, playing the role of imperial menace while she plays the role of reasonable alternative.
We make an efficient team. We have been making an efficient team since she stopped trying to kill me and started trying to protect me instead. I do not allow myself to dwell on this.
The servant is young—a girl of perhaps sixteen, her hands shaking where they rest on the rough wooden table. She was responsible for the final presentation of the dishes. She was the last person to touch the cold noodles before they left the kitchen.
“You arranged the plates,” Lián says. Not accusing. Curious. Her voice is gentle in a way that surprises me, though it should not. She knows how to be soft when softness serves her purpose. “The noodles, the dumplings, the soup. In that order?”
“Yes, my lady.” The girl’s voice trembles. “Just as I was instructed.”
“And you were alone?”
“For—for a moment. Cook Li stepped out to speak with someone. A messenger, I think. I don’t—I wasn’t paying attention—”
Lián’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly. Interest. “How long was Cook Li away?”
“Not long. A few minutes. Maybe five.”
Long enough.
I watch Lián work. There is an art to interrogation, and she practices it with the same precision she brings to everything else.
She does not threaten. She does not pressure.
She simply asks questions in an order that makes answering them feel inevitable, and piece by piece, the truth assembles itself.
Lián presses further, extracting details with the patient precision of someone untangling a knot: the timing, the messenger’s appearance, the exact moment the girl turned her back to check the temperature of the soup.
A window of opportunity opens in the narrative, and through it, a figure who should not have been there.
“A man,” the girl says finally, her memory surfacing slowly. “I thought he was one of the servers.”
“Was he one of the servers?”
“I—I’m not sure.” She stutters. “He could have been new.”
“And how did he act? Did he ask questions? Did he know where he was going?”
“He walked quickly. That’s all I remember.”
“Quickly how? Nervous? Late? Did he look worried?”
“No. He walked quickly and smoothly. Like he knew exactly where he was going.”
“Did you find that odd? A new server walking around quickly and smoothly. As if he knew exactly where he was going?”
“My lady, I’m sorry—I had a lot to do.” Her eyes dart to me briefly. “We were under strict instructions. The emperor specifically asked for perfection.”
“The emperor of the Jade Throne always expects perfection. Surely you are trained for this?”
“We were specifically told that this evening’s meal was to be perfect.
” Her eyes, again, flit toward me. “I was measuring the distance between the spring rolls. We were told they had to be precisely one finger width apart. I’m sorry, my lady.
I should have paid more attention. I should have been looking. ”
She bursts into tears, and I feel like the worst person in the world.
You should, Tianlong says. Your overthinking nearly led to the death of your consort and your unborn child. And now there is an innocent teenage girl sobbing in your interrogation room.
Once again, Tianlong. You are not helping.
Lián has the girl in an embrace, patting her back, shushing her gently. I do not know what I am witnessing.
Her maternal instincts are strong, little flame.
He is correct. I have seen Lián fight, swear, stab, kick, and punch. I have never seen her console anyone.
She looks up at me. There are tears on her face.
I retreat to the wall. Partly to give them a moment. Mostly because I have no idea what to do with myself. I never had sisters. In fact, I have seen a woman cry exactly four times in my adult life. Each time, I dealt with the situation by agreeing to some minor request.
I am completely and utterly out of my depth.
Tianlong laughs. Not a chuckle. A deep, rumbling laugh that probably resonates through his entire massive body, wherever he is lounging right now.
Little flame, he says. Your partner will soon be giving birth to a little girl. You will get used to demands and crying and sulking and tantrums. It is the way of things.
A little girl.
The realization hits. And it hits harder than anything has ever hit me before.
Once the girl has been escorted to her quarters—Lián insisted on accompanying her personally—I wait in the interrogation room. The silence is not comfortable. It is the silence of a man reviewing his failures.
Lián returns, closing the door behind her. Her eyes are dry now, her posture professional. The shift is seamless. I have never met anyone who can move between softness and steel so quickly.
“Trained,” she says without preamble. “Whoever he was, he was trained.”
“The walk,” I agree. “Quick and smooth. No hesitation. No looking around to get his bearings.”