8. The Guest List #3
The court disperses with the particular efficiency of people who recognize a command that allows no argument. Within moments, only Lián, Wei, and the omnipresent Dumpling remain.
"We need to talk," I say.
Lián moves to stand beside me, no longer at my shoulder but at my side. "Yes. We do."
The Moon Garden is empty in the midday light.
We have retreated here by unspoken agreement—away from the throne room, away from the court, away from every pair of eyes that watches and calculates. Here, surrounded by jasmine and the soft sound of water, we can speak freely.
Or as freely as an emperor and his assassin fiancée ever speak.
"They know," Lián says. It is not a question.
"They suspect. There is a difference."
"A difference that narrows every day." She is pacing—short, controlled movements that speak to energy she cannot release. "Mei-Ling's bloodline is not common knowledge. Someone told them."
"The same someone who managed to infiltrate the palace and poison your food."
"The same someone I am going to find and—" She stops. Takes a breath. "Question. Thoroughly."
"Lián."
"I said question."
"You said question with a pause that suggested additional steps."
"The additional steps are implied."
I reach for her—catch her hand, still her pacing. She lets me, which is itself significant. Three months ago, she would have pulled away. Two months ago, she would have tensed. Now she simply stops, her fingers curling around mine.
"What do they want?" she asks.
"Leverage. Possibly alliance. Possibly war."
"And what do you want?"
The question catches me unprepared. I am accustomed to being asked what the empire wants, what duty requires, what protocol demands. I am not accustomed to being asked what I want.
"I want her safe." The word comes out hoarse, scraped raw from somewhere I did not know I was keeping it. "Both of you. I want—"
I stop. I do not know how to finish. I have not wanted things for myself in so long that the shape of it feels foreign.
"I want you to not have to run," I say finally. "I want our daughter to grow up without looking over her shoulder. I want—"
Something.
Everything.
Too much.
"I can kill the envoy." Her voice is practical, as though she is discussing weather. "Make it look like an accident. Food poisoning. A fall. It would not be difficult."
"That would not solve—"
"Or I could kill whoever sent him. More efficient."
"Lián."
"I am problem-solving." She meets my eyes, and I see something there that I do not have a name for. "This is me being supportive."
And despite everything—the threat, the fear, the weight of an empire balanced on this moment—I almost smile.
Almost.
You are both terrible at emotions, Tianlong observes. You are also perfectly matched.
Is that meant to be comforting?
I have not yet decided. I will inform you when I reach a conclusion.
Lián has not released my hand. I have not released hers. We stand in the garden where I have made two attempts to propose to her, where she has rejected pickled radish and accepted tea, where everything that matters seems to happen without warning.
"We will figure it out," she says.
It is not a promise. It is not even a plan. It is simply a statement—the kind of certainty that comes from someone who has survived eight hundred years by refusing to accept any other outcome.
I hold onto it anyway.
"Three weeks to a wedding," I say. "External enemies circling. Internal factions calculating. A monster sending baby gifts. And you, beside me, planning how to kill everyone who threatens what we are building."
"Is that a complaint?"
"No." I tighten my grip on her hand. "It is an observation."
"And what do you observe?"
I consider the question. I consider her—this impossible woman who walked into my palace with a vial of poison and walked out with something neither of us expected. I consider the child growing inside her, the future stretching before us, the thousand ways this could end in disaster.
"That I should find this terrifying," I say. "And I do. But I also find that I do not want to face any of it alone."
She is quiet for a moment. Then she steps closer, eliminating the distance between us, and rests her forehead against mine.
"You are not going to," she says. "Face it alone. That is not how this works anymore."
"How does it work?"
"I’m not actually sure. But I’m assuming we fight. We probably argue. I suggest assassinations you refuse to authorize. You try to protect me. I let you, sometimes. We figure it out."
"That sounds exhausting."
"That sounds like marriage," she says, and kisses me.
It is not a gentle kiss. It is not a careful kiss. It is a kiss that says: I am here, I am staying, I am yours whether either of us planned for this or not.
Dumpling, who has apparently followed us from the throne room, meows loudly from somewhere nearby.
I ignore the cat. I ignore the empire, the threats, the endless weight of duty and expectation.
For this moment—just this moment—there is only her.
It is enough.
It is more than enough.
It is everything I did not know I was allowed to want.