9. Seating Arrangements
Seating Arrangements
The physician cleared me for the second trimester yesterday.
This sounds like good news. It is not good news. It is a fancy way of saying “the danger of losing the pregnancy has decreased, so now we can subject you to real examinations.”
I have been stabbed, poisoned, drowned, and once, actually eaten. None of that prepared me for a palace physician with cold hands and a professional interest in parts of me that are absolutely not his business.
“The fundal height is appropriate for sixteen weeks,” he announced, pressing on my abdomen like I was bread dough he was testing for readiness. “The nausea should continue to ease. You may begin to feel movement soon—small flutters, easily mistaken for digestion.”
“Wonderful. I’ll look forward to confusing my daughter with gas.”
He did not laugh. Palace physicians are not selected for their sense of humor it seems.
Ren asked how the appointment went. I told him I’d had more dignity during my execution in the Year of the Copper Snake—and that one involved a beheading.
He made a noise that might have been sympathy. Might have been suppressed laughter. With him, it’s hard to tell.
The guest list is also done.
This should mean we’re finished. This should mean I can stop thinking about four hundred names and their interconnected grievances and their tedious, exhausting opinions about where they deserve to stand while watching me get married.
The guest list is done, and somehow everything has gotten worse.
“The seating arrangement requires consideration of factional—”
“I’ve mapped sightline vulnerabilities for the eastern—”
“Emperor Huizong’s third wedding established precedent for—”
Three voices. Three scrolls. Three people who apparently believe I have infinite patience for bureaucratic suffering. I don’t. I have approximately four minutes of patience on a good day, and today is not a good day.
Dumpling has planted himself in the center of the seating chart. He’s lying directly on the noble families section, and he’s shedding with what I can only describe as political intent. Orange fur drifts across inked names like tiny declarations of war.
Tianlong watches from the windowsill, coiled in his small form, golden scales catching the morning light.
He’s chosen that spot specifically because it’s the best sunbeam in the room.
He’s also chosen it because Dumpling has noticed him, and the cat’s haunches are already wiggling with predatory focus.
“Your creature is preparing to attack me,” Tianlong observes.
I ignore them both. The seating chart demands my attention. Specifically, the part where someone has written Lady Chen — Front Row, Center in handwriting I don’t recognize.
“Who wrote this?”
Jing freezes mid-sentence, her scroll trembling. Wei’s hand twitches toward his sword, because Wei’s hand twitches toward his sword when someone sneezes too loudly. Mei doesn’t react at all, which means Mei definitely wrote it.
“The notation was present when the chart arrived,” Mei says. Bland. Uninflected. The voice of someone who has never done anything suspicious in her life.
“Lady Chen is not sitting front row center.”
“The notation—”
“Lady Chen told the entire court my pregnancy was ‘unfortunate timing’ for the succession. Lady Chen can sit in the courtyard with the horses.”
“That would be a diplomatic incident.”
“So is my foot in her—”
The door opens. Ren.
He takes in the scene with the particular expression of a man who has walked into chaos and is deciding whether to retreat. The scrolls. The charts. The cat. The three people who have stopped talking mid-sentence. Me, standing in the middle of it all like the eye of a very bureaucratic storm.
“I see planning is going well.”
“I will end you.”
“Noted.” His mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile. Almost. Not quite. “Shall we begin?”
My new family disperses. Mei vanishes without sound.
She doesn’t use a door, because Mei obviously doesn’t understand how useful they are.
Wei stations himself outside with his hand on his sword, because Wei doesn’t understand relaxation.
Jing gathers her scrolls and bows seven times on her way out, because Jing doesn’t understand that I’ve told her she doesn’t need to bow.
Tianlong shifts on the windowsill. Dumpling’s haunches wiggle more intensely.
“If that creature touches me,” Tianlong announces, “I will remember this indignity for centuries.”
Dumpling pounces.
The collision is spectacular. Ancient dragon reflexes meet seventeen pounds of orange determination.
Tianlong flows off the windowsill like liquid gold.
Dumpling crashes into the silk samples piled beneath the window—the ceremonial fabric for my wedding robes, worth more than most houses, now scattered across the floor in a explosion of crimson and cat.
“I have ended dynasties,” Tianlong says, coiling onto a high shelf with wounded dignity. “I will not be defeated by an orange simpleton.”
Dumpling looks up at him from the silk pile. His tail swishes. His eyes are full of promises.
“That’s going to be a problem,” I observe.
“The cat?”
“The silk. I’m going to have orange fur woven into my wedding robes. This is my life now.”
Ren crosses to the seating chart. Examines Dumpling’s position on the noble families section. Examines the trail of orange fur drifting across carefully inked names. Examines me, standing amidst the chaos, already exhausted and we haven’t even started.
“We could postpone,” he offers. “The wedding planning. Not the wedding.”
“No.” I take my position across the chart from him. “Let’s get this over with.”
The seating chart is a battlefield.
Not metaphorically. Well, yes, metaphorically. But also practically. Every name is a faction. Every placement is a message. Sit someone too close to the throne and you honor them. Sit them too far and you insult them.
“Lady Chen cannot sit next to Minister Wu,” Ren says, marking the chart.
“They’re both traditionalist bloc. Wouldn’t factional unity—”
“Last time they were seated together, she spilled tea on his robes. He referenced her late husband’s gambling debts in his toast.” Ren’s voice is dry. “It escalated.”
“How far?”
“Someone’s wig caught fire.”
I stare at him. “Whose wig?”
“Unclear. There are conflicting accounts. But someone left the banquet smoldering, Lady Chen looked smug about it, and Minister Wu hasn’t spoken to her since.”
“When was this?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Seven years and he’s still—”
“He holds grudges. She holds grudges longer.” Ren moves Lady Chen to second row, far left. Minister Wu stays center. Eight seats between them. “Put them together and we’re planning a funeral instead of a reception.”
“The Xiang delegation,” I say, tapping the front section. “Here.”
“That’s a position of honor.”
“That’s a position of visibility.” I meet his eyes. “I want them where I can see them.”
He considers this. The Xiang envoy’s veiled threats. The suspicion around my heritage. The way their delegation arrived three weeks early, dressed as messengers, probing for information they shouldn’t have.
“Front row. Left side. The message works both ways—either honored guests, or suspects we’re too polite to name.”
“Both can be true.”
“Both are true.” He marks the chart. “Shen?”
This is the hard one. Lord Shen, who opposed our marriage publicly. Lord Shen, whose faction grows by the day. Lord Shen, who we agreed to invite because excluding him would give him ammunition, and who now needs to be placed somewhere that acknowledges his status without honoring his hostility.
“Close enough to feel watched,” I decide. “Far enough that Wei’s people can respond if he tries something.”
“Third row. Far right. Near the pillar.”
“The pillar blocks the view.”
“The pillar blocks his view. Of you.” Ren’s voice is careful. Measured. But there’s steel underneath. “If he cannot see you clearly, he cannot calculate clearly. Small disadvantage. But meaningful.”
I look at him across the chart. At the way his hands rest on the paper, still and deliberate. At the way his mind works—always strategic, always three moves ahead, always protecting what matters.
You matter, that placement says. I will put pillars between you and anyone who threatens you.
I should argue. Tell him I don’t need protection. I’ve survived eight centuries without pillars.
I don’t argue.
“Third row. Far right. Near the pillar.” I mark the chart. “But if he complains about his sightline—”
“I will express imperial concern for his comfort.”
“That means you’ll be insufferably polite until he wants to scream.”
“That is precisely what it means.”
I almost smile. Catch myself. Let it happen anyway.
The door opens. Mei.
She’s carrying a scroll. The scroll is color-coded. This is concerning.
“I’ve prepared supplementary materials,” she says, unrolling the scroll across our half-finished chart. “For your consideration.”
The seating chart is now covered in colored marks.
“What do the colors mean?”
“Red is active threat. Orange is historical grievance. Yellow is surveillance priority.” Mei points to a small cluster of orange near the back. “Green would be probably fine.”
“There’s no green.”
She shrugs.
Ren and I look at each other across the chart. The moment of silent communication we’ve developed over weeks of shared crisis. This is insane. This is our life. This is somehow normal for us.
“Mei.” I keep my voice calm. “How many people are you planning to kill at my wedding?”
“That depends entirely on the guests.”
“That’s not—”
“I’ve assigned response teams to each quadrant.
” She points to notations I hadn’t noticed, small numbers in the corners of each section.
“If you approve the seating, I can finalize positioning. The teams are trained in minimal disruption extraction. Most of the guests won’t notice anything unless someone actually tries something. ”
“Response teams.”
“For the wedding.”
“You’ve organized assassination response teams for my wedding.”
“Would you prefer I hadn’t?”