Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The aristocrat’s mansion is dead silent. The personal secretary, his facial features stiff, has welcomed Jinshi with a cryptic, “Now that you’ll see the scene, Honored Inspector…” and his voice is the only thing resounding in the hall.

Then, the personal secretary’s gaze moves to Maomao briefly.

“Honored Inspector, I fear the sight would deeply upset a lady…”

Maomao turns to Jinshi. She’s sure he can see her ‘told-you-so’ expression.

See, if I presented myself as a servant…

“It’s fine,” Jinshi tells the secretary. “Please lead us to the scene.”

They walk through the large hall, then through a number of rooms whose only role is to display the aristocrat’s collection. Shelf after shelf, the ceramics and porcelains sit neatly labeled on wooden tablets, each of which also holds a small stylized illustration of the piece’s shape and design. Maomao, at first, sees an orderly arrangement — first the celadons, then the blue and white, then the five-colored — but at some point in their walk, the hues become slightly different, and the designs start to vary; the juxtaposition of different palettes and shapes almost feels wild.

The staff, who have been gathered after the fact, have remained in the hall with one of the constables sent by the local magistrate, who has already deferred the investigation to Jinshi, while two others are coming with them. Added to the exotic sights, there is a strange sense of uneasiness going through those deserted rooms. Even Chue, who is usually always ready to chime in with some comment from her ‘ditzy’ persona, is mostly looking around trying to get a sense of the environment—almost scared there’s something hiding in a corner.

Maomao is just making mental counts of how much the pieces would sell for—individually, and as a whole.

All this, until they get to the scene.

It’s a room functioning as a parlor, probably the largest in the aristocrat’s mansion. The furniture is finely lacquered, but with understated tones, as once again the ceramics and porcelains are the focus of the space. Considering the composition, Maomao guesses this is the core of the aristocrat’s collection, the room with the most value. Again, it’s full of exotic pieces, absurdly large ceramic plates with almost as absurdly large rims hanging on the wall, their designs dense with rich colors, no white at all — not something one would make in Li, and not something one would boast without being called ‘gaudy’. Over a credenza, there is a set of rabbit figurines, dressed as a marching band, their mouths open in laughter. A deep-red porcelain vase on a shelf — she recognizes it, it had been on display in the abandoned kiln the day before, when the aristocrat decided to meet the Honored Inspector without being first invited.

Maomao shakes her head. The room is so full of stimuli that she’s almost forgotten why she’s here, and looking at the others, she’s not the only one.

Only the secretary is unmoved, and is pointing at a round table left of the center.

Maomao sees, and, regaining her focus, instinctively rushes towards it, a handkerchief pressed against her mouth and nose.

“Lady Maomao, wait—”

Chue is scuttling after her, and Maomao senses Jinshi, too, moving abruptly, but she cannot think of this right now.

The aristocrat is sitting on a chair right next to the table, its back the only obstacle to the body falling on the floor. His arms hang at his sides; his head has fallen back, face up, eyes and mouth open. Blood stains his forehead, and his throat is faintly red. Even allowing for the hours that must have passed since death, his expression looks pained.

Well, it’s not like there’s anything she can do for him.

She takes a breath.

On the table, she sees the remains of a teaware set. Yes, remains: a finely decorated porcelain cup, its intricate design white and green, is chipped, but most of all, all over the table, and on the floor, too, there is a scatter of dusky rose porcelain shards. From the larger pieces, Maomao assesses that the whole was once a teapot. There is still tea placidly resting in a curved shard, and there still is tea in the teacup.

Careful not to step on the shards on the floor, she tries to reach for it—

“No.”

Jinshi only uses his voice, standing back, but to her, it’s like his hand is coming between her and the tea. She remembers that she can’t.

The real hand is that of Chue’s, gently taking hers away.

“Let me do it, Lady Maomao.”

Chue dips a finger into the teacup, and when she’s about to bring it to her lips, the personal secretary shouts, “What are you doing?” and then, realizing it’s not appropriate, he adds, “Please, do not…”

Maomao turns, and sees the secretary standing next to Jinshi, his expression outraged and slightly panicked. Jinshi, on the other hand, is staying there impassive.

“We need to know what’s in it,” Maomao says.

Jinshi sighs.

“Proceed.”

Maomao sees that the secretary tries to protest, and the constables, too, are asking to speak, but Chue has already licked the tea off her finger by the time Jinshi deigns to look at them.

“I’m not sensing anything here—maybe we need a good sip of it,” Chue finally says.

“Let me—” Maomao starts, and then has to stop herself again.

Ah, dammit.

This is trouble.

*

“So, he was having tea by himself when he was hit in the head.” The secretary is trying to make sense of things, but he wasn’t on the scene—or at least, this is what he’s claiming.

The servant in charge of serving the tea is missing. The constable has interrogated the rest of the staff, but they seem to have no idea of his whereabouts.

Maomao, unable to taste the tea for poison, is making rough sketches of the scene, from the side and from above.

“This looks interesting, Lady Maomao. Is this a treasure hunt?”

Maomao looks again at the piece of paper the secretary reluctantly gave her after Jinshi asked for it: the circle for the table at the center, a line for the position of the seatback, and crosses to mark the fragments.

“My drawing skills are lacking, but it’s the relation between the objects that is important.”

Most of the teapot fragments are at the center of the table, while the rest can be found at different distances from that point, on the table and the ground.

“Aah. Well, should Miss Chue ask the other servants about the state of the room before this?”

“Please do.”

Chue rushes outside where the servants are now congregated. Even after drinking a more substantial sip from the cup, she’s still as lively as ever.

Good. Maomao sighs in relief. Then we can exclude some options…

Turning around, she sees Jinshi looking tensely at her while listening to the secretary’s meticulous recounting of Master Zhao’s routine in the day.

“… And after the pre-prandial nap…”

The door opens, and a maid comes inside. Maomao doesn’t pay much attention to faces, but she’s sure she wasn’t among the other group of servants. She’s too well-dressed: she must be a lady-in-waiting of sorts.

“Honored masters, Lady Zhao is here.”

Jinshi nods to allow the new entrance.

Lady Zhao? The insufferable man had a sister? Maybe a mother?

The maid moves to the side, and there comes in a woman of about fifty in a dress finely made, but austere. Austere is also the look in her eyes. Considering the age, she must be the sister, even though she looks nothing like the deceased.

“Lady Zhao,” Jinshi greets in acknowledgement.

“Honored Inspector, and Honored Inspector’s wife,” the woman says. “Yu,” she then says to the secretary.

Then, she turns her eyes to the table, and following the trail of shards from the center of the table to the chair, her gaze falls on the lifeless body of the aristocrat.

“Ah,” she says, simply, “I see.”

Lady Zhao Ruilan is the aristocrat’s wife. Incidentally, she comes from another branch of the family, and so she holds the same name. She lives in a different wing of the mansion, and has decided to traverse the courtyard only because the Honored Inspector requested it.

Very visibly, she’s neither particularly sad nor shocked to see her husband dead. Smug would be a good bet.

“With ‘I see,’ I just meant that it was bound to happen, sooner or later,” she says, regarding the death.

Geez, one of those marriages, huh?

“You mean he was ill?” Jinshi asks.

Indeed, a heart attack would explain a lot.

“Always lamenting a variety of ailments, but no,” the wife responds.

“Then, considering foul play, do you mind telling us if someone had it in for him?”

“I’d rather ask about the few who didn’t.”

She’s of little help with the investigation: she claims she hasn’t seen her husband in at least three days. She knew he was busy with the arrival of the Imperial Inspector, of course, but wasn’t interested enough to care about his whereabouts at any time.

“I just assumed he would be either out and about to acquire some piece, or here, immersed in his collection.” This, she says with a sneer.

It’s only when she leaves that she turns around to look at her dead husband for a second time. Her face remains expressionless.

Chue is back with a servant, who’s ready to explain to Maomao that the furniture arrangement in the room hasn’t changed, and that nothing appears to be missing.

“Of course, except for the broken teapot, that, I don’t know if all the pieces…”

“Was it an important piece of the collection?” Maomao asks.

“I think so! It’s usually displayed there.”

He indicates a high shelf; Maomao has to ask for help to get to the wooden tablet with its label. The small illustration shows a classic teapot with a floral design, Maomao thinks. The label says, ‘Lotus, Duan Lianyu.’ It’s dated a couple of years back.

“Did your master use this teapot a lot?”

“I wouldn’t say a lot, m’lady, but it was indeed used occasionally.”

So the servants would be familiar with handling it.

Maomao turns to the table, makes her way to it, pretending to hold a teapot full of water. Pour the tea, step back, place it on the table.

No, it doesn’t make sense.

She turns and looks around briefly.

Jinshi catches her gaze for a moment, and she sees he’s on the verge of saying her name, imploring her to explain.

But she doesn’t have an explanation to give, yet.

“Is she trying to replicate the moment the servant threw the pot on the poor man’s face?” she can hear one of the constables whisper to the other.

“But then, where is the part in which the teapot was thrown? She just moves the pot around…”

Because there was no such moment, you idiots, Maomao thinks.

But it’s true she cannot reason well. She feels tired. Carefully, she places a hand on the table to support herself better. It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Again, she looks down at the shards on the table, and then at her sketch. Something doesn’t quite fit.

“Honored Inspector, Honored Inspector’s wife, wouldn’t it be better if we moved this discussion elsewhere?” The personal secretary even takes a few steps towards Maomao, stepping on a porcelain fragment. This alerts both Maomao and the secretary himself, who tries a softer tone, “I mean that maybe, considering…” he points vaguely at the corpse.

A good time to be respectful of the dead.

Maomao, her handkerchief tied behind her head, shakes her head, and reaches for some of the porcelain fragments.

“Really, Honored Inspector’s wife…”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Yu?” Jinshi asks, his voice turned amiable—the threatening kind.

“No, no, absolutely not,” the secretary says, “I’m here to help you and give all the information you need.”

“Then,” Maomao says, one hand still on the table, “would you care to tell us who Master Zhao invited over for tea, this morning?”

The personal secretary jolts, and doing so, he takes a step back, another fragment breaking under his shoes.

Crack.

“What? Master Zhao wasn’t meeting anyone this morning,” the secretary says, shocked, but resolute.

Maomao sighs.

“I beg to differ,” she says. Slowly, she reaches for a thin shard on the opposite side of the table. Its broken side is up, but when she picks it up, she turns it, and an intricate design in green is revealed to all.

“But that’s the a piece from the teacup…” the personal secretary says.

“Yes, it is,” Maomao says, and moves the shard next to the chipped teacup. The piece is larger than the part that is missing. “But not this one.”

The secretary opens his mouth, horrified.

“So, are you really sure nobody was expected for tea this morning?” Jinshi asks again, smiling.

The secretary is escorted outside the room; later, Jinshi or someone in his stead will interview him thoroughly. The servants are also outside, and so are the constables, both groups waiting for the Honored Inspector’s requests. The Honored Inspector’s retinue is alone.

Maomao, still standing next to the table, one hand resting on its surface, is still thinking.

“Maomao, maybe you should go back to the governor’s house, to rest a bit,” Jinshi says once he’s near her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Maomao replies, not looking at him in the eye. Instead, she tells Chue, “I assume Master Zhao cared to document his collection thoroughly.”

“I bet, Lady Maomao.”

“Is it possible that he also has more detailed illustrations of the pieces of his collection, like in a book?”

“I’ll go ask.”

“Thank you.”

As Chue leaves the room, Maomao decides to take another approach to her simulation of events. She takes a few steps from the table, and now she’s about as far from it as the aristocrat’s head.

“What’s it for? The book of illustrations?” Jinshi asks, carefully following her. Basen, who has said nothing since they came here, is giving Maomao a surly look. Yes, to make the Young Master go around in circles, what a horror…

“Just a hunch,” Maomao says, nonchalant, going around the table again. Is it important to know how the servant moved the trolley with the hot water around? “Either way, I’d love to know the value of all these pieces.”

She gestures at the shelves and the credenza and the porcelain sitting on the floor.

“Maomao…”

“Yes, yes, good sir…”

Chue comes back, and Maomao stops walking. “The servants say there are several books, in fact. What are you interested in?”

“The teaware set in its entirety.”

Maybe they’ll be able to find the second teacup, or its remains, and find something there.

“Miss Chue will look for them and bring them to you.”

Maomao nods.

She’s positive she can find the solution, now. She only needs…

But while taking a sudden step forward, this time, she catches a shard under her foot, and slips, and falls.

“Maomao!”

Crack!

She must have lost consciousness for a moment, but when she opens her eyes, she’s relieved to find out she’s not lying on the ground. What’s less relieving is that it was Jinshi who caught her, his arms safely wrapped around her waist and shoulders.

“Maomao, are you okay?”

Maomao shakes her head. “I’m fine, I just need to stand again.”

He helps her with it.

Maomao pulls away, and looks down at the floor. Dammit: Jinshi, while catching her, stepped on many shards, and broke them down further.

Well, she can’t say she didn’t do the same, or that this isn’t her fault.

For a moment, she feels like falling again.

“Lady Maomao!” This time, it is Chue who comes to help.

Even so, Jinshi approaches her again. “Maybe it’s better if—”

“Yes, yes, good sir: I’m going to go home,” Maomao says, resigned.

They walk out of the mansion. Jinshi is going to handle the rest of the procedure at the magistrate’s office in town; before she climbs into the carriage that would lead her to the governor’s house, and a bed, he grabs her arm and draws her close.

“Please have some rest,” he says, looking straight at her. “Do not think about how this man has died. It doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have—”

“Of course it matters,” Maomao replies, “and besides, I already know how he died: he’s been poisoned.”

“But…!”

Maomao ignores Jinshi’s protest and enters the carriage.

“See you later, dear husband.”

*

She realizes she’s been rude to him only when she gets to her apartment, Suiren and Xiaolan rushing in her direction to welcome her—to avoid her falling?

She eats a light lunch, and after, while waiting for Chue to come back with the catalogue books, she takes a bath.

Chue comes back with the books: one for the schematic illustration of the teacups, and one for the teapot. She tells Maomao that according to the book, the teacups were four in total, but on the shelves, there are only two of them. Minus the one on the table, it confirms that one is missing. Chue has tried to look for it, but didn’t find it, and decided it would be better to go back to Maomao to deliver the books instead of continuing the search. Maomao agrees with her assessment, and tells her to go have lunch.

She remains in the parlor, sitting at the table, studying the books. Each piece has a note on how it was acquired. (Maomao would have expected a man so devoted to his collection to drive a harder bargain, but apparently he simply had money to throw away.) On the facing page there’s a schematic of the piece, and beneath it a reproduction of the design, with a list of the colors used.

The page for the teacups tells her nothing of value, but she remains fascinated by the one for the teapot.

Ah, the little sketch on the wooden tablet hadn’t read as lotuses, and this is the reason I didn’t catch it, Maomao thinks, this is an autumnal piece. Strange to use it in early summer. On the outside of the teapot the lotuses are withering; inside, at the very center, where the leaves are meant to steep, a lotus seed pod has been sculpted into the porcelain. She has seen similar works in ceramics before, but never in porcelain, where the sculpting is usually kept to the outside. It surely must have cost a lot. Master Duan, the late kiln master, even crafted this. It’s recent, so it must have been one of the last pieces he made.

She wonders if Jinshi has found out who was having tea with the aristocrat. The wound on the forehead wasn’t deep, barely a cut. Considering the position of the body, only a hit in the back of the head could have worked, but the clues she has do not lead that way. A heart attack is the closest explanation she can give, if she excludes the poison, but she knows it’s poison. If the poison wasn’t in the teacup, and wasn’t in the liquid remaining in the teapot, it must have been in the other cup, and then, an exchange… but no, there is another solution. A slithering sensation catches her in the chest. No, better not to go there.

Again, she feels tired. Since Jinshi complained so much about last night, and since she owes him—she is honest with herself, so she’s capable of admitting it—she decides she will wait for him in his room, in the meantime.

The room is dark, dark. She dislikes the taste of the soothing tea she made for herself—one of the few opportunities she has to work with herbs nowadays, but given the limited choice, the result is far from exceptional, the starchy sweetness of the lotus seeds leaving a sort of filmy patina in her mouth, which drags her thoughts back to the poisoning.

Yes, the lotuses, the lotuses…

Ah. Hasn’t she become spoiled since she eased into this new life and position? Once, her personal preferences wouldn’t have impacted her to the point of stopping taking medicine, which is what she’s doing now.

Well, it’s just tea, anyway.

But still, how wasteful.

If Jinshi were here, he would tease her about it, her muscles tensing up, and then relaxing as he took hold of her.

“And tell me, Maomao,” he says, his tone still humorous, trying to be, at least, “What herbs would you plant in your garden? I assume you have plans, since you’re so keen on this.”

“I’m not keen on anything,” Maomao says. It’s just what’s requested of me. “And of course I have plans—if you really care to know, I will plant plenty of useful herbs, like for example…”

But her voice trails off, as no herb comes to her mind.

Maomao curls up on the bed.

“Like, for example, what?” he presses.

What, what, what.

Maomao’s heart is racing, and she feels it in her throat, to the point that her breathing has now become erratic. That’s the end of it: she can’t breathe anymore, she can’t see—a light coming through forcefully, blinding her—and she’s out, only her cry a residue of her.

Then, she’s back again.

It’s just another nightmare, she realizes, and yet, she is shaken. She sits up, suppressing an involuntary jerk, but she can’t touch her sides with her hands—she’s trembling too much. When she holds her hands in front of herself, she looks at her fingers, tries to count them, focusing on each one, just as proof of reality. You just have to breathe, she tells herself. You just have to—

“Maomao! Hey!” A different line of breathing. “Hey…” Warm hands on her shoulders, his figure finally standing out from the darkness. She hears herself whimper, and then, she tries to catch up with her breath again.

He slips out of bed and opens a shutter just a bit, to let some light in. It’s still late in the afternoon. He sits on the bed again, his hands caressing her arms and then descending until they reach Maomao’s own hands, which are cold. He starts rubbing them.

“What’s wrong, Maomao? Please, talk to me…”

Finally, her eyes lock onto his, and she starts following his breathing. He’s worried, but he’s able to regulate himself, which is more than Maomao can say for herself right now. Besides, this should never have happened.

Not now. She needs to focus. Breathe, do not think. Do not think.

He’s smart, he gets it quickly. He doesn’t ask her more questions; instead, he tells her that Suiren is making dinner; that when he came back from the town, he found Maomao asleep, and so he thought it appropriate to get some rest, too. His breathing slows down and so does hers.

He gets her water. While she drinks, he tentatively reaches for her hair, smoothing it down—it must be a mess, since she’s not, well, him. She turns to place the empty cup on the bedside table, her thoughts starting to come back; he does it for her.

“Maomao. Do you… Do you need help?” he finally asks.

He means medical help.

Maomao doesn’t even need to check anything to know, but she still does it, quickly, just to reassure him.

“I’m fine, Master Jinshi. It was just a dream. I apologize for waking you up while you were napping.”

She should add something else, she thinks—she remembers that she was flippant with him before and wants to make up for that, too, but she doesn’t know what to say.

“A dream,” he repeats, somewhat confounded by the concept, apparently; yet, he doesn’t give up on understanding: shifting his weight to get closer to her, he gently places a hand on her back.

Oh, this is bad.

“I think I should go change, Master Jinshi,” she says, turning to look at him, “if it’s almost dinner time, then Suiren—”

“Say, Maomao,” he says, ignoring her words, his dark eyes fixated on hers, “you had such dreams before, didn’t you?”

It’s really time to go.

“Nothing to worry about, sir,” she says, her hands already moving her to the side of the bed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

His hand is already over hers, but as she maintains eye contact, her head raised high, he finally capitulates and lets her go.

Before she can take a few steps, however, he speaks again. “Just… just tell me one thing.”

Repressing a sigh, she turns again. Only half of his face is illuminated by the late afternoon sun.

“What, sir?”

“The thing you said when you were—waking up… ‘Then there will be nobody to console her,’ what did you—what was that about?”

To this, she must have pulled a face, because she sees him wince.

Yet, it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing to say about it; there are other, more pressing matters to care about.

Maomao shakes her head, her chest feeling strangely compressed. “I have no memory of any of this, sir.”

There, she turns again and leaves the room.

*

Maomao expects her little accident to be mentioned again by Jinshi at dinner, softly, and she dreads the moment, but it never happens. It never happens because Jinshi is asked to get to the magistrate’s office in town before dinner is served.

“I can only assume they’ve apprehended the missing servant,” Maomao says.

Jinshi takes a long breath before saying, “I’ll do the best I can, Maomao.”

She knows he will, as she knows there’s a hidden request in his promise. This time, dinner is held privately, and is a light meal cooked by Suiren herself, but somehow she can’t get herself to eat any.

After a few futile attempts at eating, she asks Suiren to put the food away and to keep it warm for Jinshi when he comes back.

“Xiaomao, I know this doesn’t come easy to you,” Suiren says, apprehensively, “maybe, for once, you should consider…”

“I get that, in my condition, I should just do what I need to do,” Maomao says curtly.

“You assume that’s what I’m thinking, but that’s not the case,” Suiren replies.

Maomao doesn’t agree, but before she can reply, they’re interrupted by another visit. It’s not unexpected, exactly, but neither of them wants to deal with it.

The governor’s niece has come to deliver a basket of fruit on behalf of the governor’s family. When she’s let in, she presents the gift, making the formal greetings and doesn’t linger, as it would not be appropriate, but it seems she is both disappointed by the lack of Jinshi and terrified by Maomao’s dark look. Maomao herself realizes how foolish that is, and tries to correct herself, but there’s not much to do. The young woman and her servants are dismissed without sweetness.

Maomao sighs.

“What shall I do with the basket?” Xiaolan asks. “Do you want to look through it?”

Maomao shakes her head.

“Put it in the backroom with the other gifts,” she tells her. Suiren will later go through it and make sure nothing gets wasted—and that there are no horrifying love charms attached to it. Fresh fruit is also troubling; non-perishable, non-edible gifts are much better in that sense, right now. They’ve received some, and it’ll be her job to evaluate them and give proper thanks for them appropriately. The mere thought of it—

No. Wait.

That one gift.

She quickly sends for a household servant. It’s one of the ladies accompanying the niece that comes back.

“Are the entertainers still quartered at the governor’s residence?”

“Yes, my Lady. They’re staying until they perform at tomorrow’s banquet.”

Maomao nods and tells the servant, “Then I need you to get me this woman, now.” Maomao gives a short description of whom she’s looking for.

“At… at this time, my Lady?”

The servant looks both confused and somehow horrified.

“Lady Maomao, Lady Maomao, I can do that for you! I know who you’re describing!”

“No, Chue,” Maomao says, “I need you to get to the town immediately, instead.”

It takes a while, after Chue leaves, for the household servant to come back with the person Maomao asked for. Maomao is sitting on the couch, a few cushions behind her back and under her feet, her energy once again low, but she has to find confirmation—quickly. In turn, the courtesan’s young assistant, her steps shy as she enters the parlor, turns pale when she realizes she’s been called not by the Imperial inspector, but by his wife. Her formal bow is stiff, on the verge of breaking into shivers as she straightens again.

Maomao shakes her head.

“I understand your name is Xiaoyun?”

The girl nods, still trembling.

Maomao turns to Xiaolan and tilts her head. Xiaolan rushes out and comes back immediately with a large paper scroll in her hands. She helps Maomao open it on the table, facing the girl.

With some effort, Maomao, now standing, reaches for a point on the music scroll.

“Do not fear. I just wanted to ask you to tell me more about these leaves,” she says to the girl, tapping where oak leaves arranged in a ring cover part of the scene. Darkly green, they are pretty much even in size, and each of the lobe of each leaf is pointy and spiky.

Maomao sees that the eyes of the girl, while she’s still shivering, have turned from fear to paralyzed surprise.

“You did draw this, didn’t you? It’s incredibly detailed and refined. I thought it strange that such a fine painter would only find work as a servant in a brothel, in this town, unless something went very wrong,” Maomao continues, then. “You’ve been trained as a ceramic painter, haven’t you? Maybe, even under the late Master Duan?”

The girl finally speaks.

“I—I,” she says, stammering, her voice half-broken, “I just hate these rotten porcelains.”

Maomao is playing a silly card game with Chue when Jinshi comes back.

Jinshi tells her, “The servant says he doesn’t know anything about Master Zhao’s death, or about his secret guest. They will probably have him accused of the murder by tomorrow. Maomao—”

“Oh, Chue here has got something that will make the secret guest capitulate first,” she says. Chue smiles brilliantly, produces streamers from her sleeve in the direction of the something Maomao just mentioned, at the very end of the table. “But I fear we don’t have much time for it, or rather, that you and Basen will need to make another trip out tonight.”

*

It’s easy for Jinshi, the morning after, to make the overseer confess to being Master Zhao’s secret guest. He doesn’t even have to use his real identity to make him; just words.

He is good that way, Maomao thinks.

When she finally joins them at their meeting, promptly finding a place to sit on a couch on the side, the overseer seems pressed only about claiming his innocence.

“I didn’t murder Zhao! I would never dare, not when—I mean, not with—”

“Not during the Imperial inspector’s visit, you mean?” Jinshi asks gently.

“Yes, I mean—No, nor ever! I had no reason to harm Master Zhao; I held no grudges against him. When I arrived in the room, he was already dead! You have to believe me, Honored Inspector!”

Jinshi sighs. “Whether or not I believe you, indeed, I understand that Zhao’s death was not something you planned. On the contrary, it was rather inconvenient for you, was it not? You worked so hard at making this Imperial inspection work your way, and Zhao—somehow, even in death—made sure to put a spoke in your wheel, didn’t he? Like with his performance at the demonstrative kiln.”

The overseer seems even more struck by this passing comment.

“What? Why mention this now, indeed he was… a very theatrical man, but… you did find your visit educational in the end, didn’t you?”

“Educational, perhaps—but also suffocating,” Maomao finally interjects, “so much so that I had to go out to get some air.”

“My—My lady…”

“Oh, poor Lady Inspector’s Wife!” says the governor. They are hosting the meeting at his office in the main house, but he has all but lost control of the situation, and he is trying to do his best to win some of it back.

The overseer, who only now seems to have noticed Maomao, just blinks.

“What—I sincerely apologize, my lady, but what does this have to do with anything?” he asks.

“I’m going to tell, but first, I think we have other participants we must let in.”

She gestures at the door, and a servant lets two people in: Master Zhao’s wife, and Master Zhao’s personal secretary. While the first holds high her air of polite indifference, as always, the other shows fear in his movements.

“We’ll discuss what kind of deal Master Chen, the overseer, and Master Zhao’s personal secretary struck to not talk about Master Zhao’s death and blame his servant later,” Jinshi says. “But first…”

“Chue,” Maomao says. “If you please.”

“Of course, Lady Maomao!”

Chue carries in a blue-and-white porcelain vase, her good hand on the handle, the other steadying it, and sets it on a table next to Maomao.

“Sir…?” the overseer says, addressing Jinshi.

“Quite a curious piece, isn’t it?” Maomao says, touching the surface with her fingers, “I saw this during my time at the town’s market and it really struck my imagination. See the handle? It’s sculpted in the shape of a dragon—very nicely, but so unlike any production here, one would even call it improper: a dragon’s place is not on some random piece of porcelain, isn’t it?”

The overseer is silent.

“Besides, I’m most fascinated by its design, for the blue pigment looks a bit dull, as if it came from the lesser local cobalt blue pigment you’ve been trying to employ in your more commercial production for a few years now.”

“The court granted us the usage of the local blue pigment,” the overseer replies.

“I know that. But our Western trade partners, like Shaoh, which supplies a far superior quality of this pigment, would reject the outcome of this production. One would think that some countries in the south-east of the Empire would be interested in buying cheaper pieces, then, if it wasn’t for the design itself.”

“My lady—”

Maomao points at the main surface of the vase. “See? This rather curious design is made of lobed leaves—I’ve learned it should be oak, but I’d say the drawing is rather imprecise. This is also very uncommon in our ceramics, isn’t it? And most interestingly…” Here, she turns the vase to its other face. “… on the other side, the leaves are arranged in a rather dense ring, one might call it a wreath, and inside it a different design: a kneeling figure of a man in some kind of round hat. Now, I know this isn’t something common to Li’s porcelain art, nor Shaoh’s. I can’t speak for the countries in the South-East from here, sadly, but I remember seeing similar art in some of the books brought back by my father, from his travels farther west, where oak wreaths have a deep symbolic meaning.”

The overseer is now speechless again.

Jinshi nods and Maomao lets him finish.

“We were curious to understand whether the region had commenced a trade with the western traders who come by perilous sea routes and are now settling in a certain major southern port city next to the vassal state of Anan.”

“You—you can’t—it’s just one piece…” the overseer stammers.

“Indeed it’s just one piece, but I’m sure we can find many more in the back of the market’s shops, residues of production, as much as we’ve already found a lot more proof of unsanctioned commercial production in the unused kilns we raided this morning.”

The court asked for a tour of the unused facilities, and the overseer rushed to have one kiln cleaned and used as a demonstrative site while temporarily shutting down production in all the other ones, but the vegetation around it could not recover from the smoke and cinder on such a short notice.

Maomao turns to the governor. He looks both shocked and horrified.

He’s been played for a fool, all this time.

“Honored Inspector! No, Your excellency, please,” he kneels in front of him, “I had no idea, I’ve been shown numbers and I couldn’t gather…”

“But you suspected, and still did not want to fall in disgrace having allowed anything improper to happen, whatever it could be, and so you tried to, well, offer me ample distractions,” Jinshi says, impassive.

Oh, he can be frightening like this.

“Master Zhao of course knew of this,” continues Maomao after a while. “It would have been impossible to make a fool of him and his knowledge about ceramic art, and so you found a way to bribe him, in a certain sense. You made sure the western traders brought him beautiful foreign ceramics and porcelains in exchange for his silence… and maybe even his tips. He only had one cause close to his heart, after all.”

Basen instructs his men to take the overseer and the personal secretary away. There are many more questions to be answered before justice can be enforced. The governor, too, will have to pay a price, but a certain lenience in the name of the stability of the region has to be offered.

“I’m glad I could become aware of the fate my husband reserved for my and my family’s name before it would be just handed to me,” Master Zhao’s wife says. She, too, expects a punishment, even though, considering that her husband is now dead and can only be accused of collusion—his catalogues’ acquisition logs showing only the most innocent part of trade, and considering the position of her family as well, she could even get away with it, mostly undamaged. “I am most grateful to you,” she repeats, sardonically, “but if you’ll allow me—what am I to do here?”

*

“You’ve been asked here because I still have a question about Master Zhao,” Maomao says. “How well did your husband know Master Duan?”

Lady Zhao looks even more irritated. For a moment, she even grits her teeth.

Bear with it, Maomao thinks, it’s in the past.

“They were milk siblings,” she finally answers, “So I’d say they did know each other very well. Indeed, Zhao’s obsession with ceramics would have diluted with time, if he hadn’t had to compete with such a strong rival.”

Or maybe, it was the other way around, Maomao thinks.

“Duan’s mother, Zhao’s nursemaid, died not ten years ago, quite old indeed,” Lady Zhao continues, “I remember because I arranged the payments for the funeral as well as the periodic offerings.”

A wife’s job. Of course, with such a strong tie to a milk sibling, one expects Zhao would have seen her properly mourned. But did he care about anything other than ceramics, at all?

How would Duan have taken this disinterest?

But maybe this is all in Maomao’s head. She’s received her answer, and now she’s just tired.

“Wait,” says the governor, “so, how did Master Zhao die? Who murdered him?”

Jinshi turns to Maomao with a questioning look. Indeed, she didn’t share her conjectures with him.

She sighs heavily.

“Dear governor, it’s very simple,” she says, “nobody murdered Master Zhao; or rather, the porcelain teapot did, because it exploded.”

“The porcelain teapot exploded?”

“Yes. You should be familiar with that. If the piece of ceramic or porcelain gets fired incorrectly, it explodes.”

“But in the kiln!” the governor exclaims, proud of his knowledge.

“Yes, in the kiln, mostly, but some pieces may reveal their weaknesses after the firing, just as well. Most simply break, sometimes for even lesser impacts; some, however, may still explode, when put in contact with heat—like hot water for tea. It’s possible that the water poured was too hot for the teapot to handle, this time,” Maomao explains. “It broke where it stood, which is why the pieces centered.”

“But then, Zhao’s servant…”

“The servant has nothing to do with it,” Maomao says, “Not just because he could not predict it, but because, in the end, Zhao hasn’t been severely hit by the broken shards, anyway.”

“Then how did he die?”

“Lady Zhao can testify that Zhao suffered from minor ailments—this could suggest an illness of the heart. And not later than yesterday you all were discussing who knew better about the quality of a piece, if it was the artisan who crafted it, or the evaluator. Zhao thought himself able to assess the quality of any piece better than its author. Well, imagine the blow to the heart, when he realized he was wrong.”

Everyone is dismissed then, or rather, Maomao can finally go back to her rooms.

“Maomao, wait,” Jinshi says, following her as she crosses the courtyard with Chue. “Wait, please.”

Maomao stops walking and turns to him.

“What is it, Master Jinshi?”

“This isn’t all, isn’t it? About Zhao’s death,” Jinshi says. “You said he was poisoned.”

“Forget about it,” Maomao says, turning again. “It’s impossible to know for sure, anyway.”

“At least—at least tell me,” Jinshi insists, “Even if you’re wrong—it’s going to be fine, you can tell me.”

Maomao turns again to him, and says, “No. It’s not going to be fine if I do, and that’s why I can’t tell you.”

She thinks it hits him too hard, but it’s too late to care. They won’t be busy thinking about this anymore pretty soon, anyway: each of them will go their way, and then…

“Please go tend to the loose ends of this mess,” Maomao says.

It’s then that she sees her: Xiaoyun, the courtesan’s assistant, is standing behind a pillar; is she watching their fight? No, maybe she’s ignoring it, and waiting to ask Maomao how it went.

It was thanks to her that she found out about the missing piece of this mystery—the girl had decided to put the oak wreaths in the music notes scroll for the Imperial inspector for that very reason: to tip him off about the unsanctioned trade. She had accepted the madam’s offer to take up an apprenticeship, in exchange for that spot under the lanterns, during the show. If only Jinshi would not decide to ignore all the flowers that have been offered to him!

That made her even angrier.

But the girl’s face was as pale as a cadaver. Of the things she’d said, was it possible she too had been poisoned by metals, like every other worker around here?

Maomao heads towards the girl, cups her face with her hand and observes for a moment. Finally, she sighs.

No.

“It’s all fine,” she tells Xiaoyun, “you can go back to town to do… well…”

While she’s at a loss for words, she turns to Jinshi’s direction. He’s still there. Did he understand? His expression is softer now. He nods, and walks away.

“I’m not a courtesan, nor a ceramic painter,” the girl said to Maomao. “I’m a cook, like my mother before me. Or at least, I’m trying to be. But.”

This was after she told Maomao about the provenance of the design. One could see many things, when you lived among all kinds of artisans. You could see their art, and the way it changed; you could also see their confusion, with the flood of new work, and their ailments, when said new work was to be performed at impossible rhythms.

“Not that those who did not accept it didn’t die anyway,” she said. She was referring to Master Duan, who was busy with the Imperial production but who in later years still liked to take on pet projects. The trade with the western foreigners wasn’t one of them, he found it disloyal and distasteful; Xiaoyun was.

“If you’re really my daughter, as your mother says,” he had said to her, “then you will have inherited my talent. This talent is to be trained in order to turn you into a good painter. A kiln master, as you’re a woman, you will never make, so I don’t even know why I bother.”

He gave her lessons every evening after she brought him dinner, a job that her mother performed before her, and that was, well, the origin of her own existence.

“I was decent, for a little girl, but probably not enough. I didn’t know why he kept giving me lessons. I hated it, anyway. I was happy to return home to my mother.”

But Xiaoyun did not just attend painting lessons with the famous kiln master; staying with him for such a long time, she saw a lot of his dear projects, and of the people he frequented.

One of them was Master Zhao. Xiaoyun was always sent in another room when he came, but she heard many of their conversations anyway.

“My, my, dear Duan,” Zhao said once, not long before Duan died, “Your beautiful lotus piece, you want it back? I’ll never agree to it, and you know it. You think me a fool? It’s your most marvelous piece. You said you’ve made it for me, and for me alone, remember? How can you say, now, that it’s been badly fired? You know that’s not true. Should I take offense? Ha, ha…”

“Stop it! You think you understand everything about ceramic art, but in truth, you don’t! You don’t understand a thing, Wenji!”

She had heard them talk about the western traders, too, in vague words that she only understood later, but that is not important for the time being.

Duan died, possibly due to continuous exposure to metals, and now, not two years later, Zhao was dead too.

A heart attack, then, brought on as Zhao learned that Duan had been right, and he wrong all along. Indeed, indeed.

But Maomao’s mind cannot stop itself from going places.

The thing is, when you’re such a skilled craftsman, you can not only fire pieces to perfection, but possibly, also bake imperfections into them.

A beautiful teapot with a withering lotus sculpted inside. Exposed to hot water again and again, the imperfections in the lotus would give in and break, silently. Maybe, they would release something into the water, too. But make it poison, and anyone sharing the tea would taste it.

The piece was baked with Zhao in mind, alone. Zhao who did not understand a thing about ceramics, or about the world, after all this time.

And who better than his milk sibling would know about how little his stomach agreed with crab? A lack masked by snobbery and turned into obsession for the only way he could taste it—its design.

Yet, Zhao kept brewing his tea in that teapot, even after feeling ill, because he thought he knew better. Or maybe, because he knew, and he still wanted to do it.

It was an exhaustingly long calculated murder. The final blow came with the full breakage of the flower, and then the explosion.

Maomao wonders if then it was really the crab powder that got to Zhao’s stomach first, or whether it was really the shock to struck him fatally.

But why think so long about this fantasy? Because that’s what it was, all a fantasy.

And even if it was true, then Duan could have been the most incredible kiln master to ever exist, and also the cruelest man. He knew he had a child who would bear his faults after his death.

Old, foolish men and their obsessions, and the obsession for one-upping the other—why couldn’t they just say things as they were?

Her chest hurts.

“Oh, Xiaomao, it seems that you’ve overexerted yourself again,” Suiren says, coming to her help. “Here, sit down, the bath will be ready before you know it. Forgive me if we weren’t ready, you must accept my bones are becoming too weak…”

“It’s no problem, Suiren, really,” Maomao says.

“Oh, but it is. You know how much there will need to be done at some point.”

“I don’t expect you to carry out this job for me,” Maomao says. Truly, she expects Suiren will keep being with Jinshi: he needs someone to care for him that way. “There are many to help me.”

“But are they enough, Xiaomao?”

They must be.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Suiren adds, “but I would think this through a little bit more. Remember, the Young Master may be a bit frustrating at times…”

Frustrating! If he only cared to look at the flowers, then…

“But he will still do as you’ve chosen, in the end.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

*

Especially as he does not give up, ever.

After the bath, when she goes back to her bedroom, she finds Jinshi sitting at her desk, waiting for her. He’s removed his makeup and has his hair down. His head doesn’t need to be raised for his eyes to meet hers. Once again, it’s like he’s asking her all the things at once, just with his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

She means to ask why he isn’t off with Basen, handling the logistics of getting them south, but still tense with unease, she manages only this. She realizes her tone is accusatory when his expression stiffens, and he replies, curt, “I am confident I have a right to visit my wife’s bedroom whenever I choose to.”

This takes her aback, and apparently, it does the same for him, for he immediately stands up and says, his hands raised, “I’m sorry, Maomao, I didn’t think—I should not impose myself like this. I’m sorry.”

Maomao shakes her head, but other than a confused “No,” it’s like she can’t say much. She’s lost. How did everything turn into this situation?

“I’ll wait for you in the dining room; when you’re ready—”

“Stay.”

She sits on her bed, and gestures for him to take the space next to her. “Please, stay.”

While she barely knows how she got those words out of herself, she feels stupidly awkward as he sits next to her, his hands clasped in his lap. They stay silent for a while.

Finally, Maomao says:

“I’ve been rather flippant about your duties these past few days. It’s not my place. I apologize.”

In any other world, she would have lost her head already. Just because he’s Jinshi—

“It’s fine; I agree I’ve also been quite distracted,” he says.

“It’s not fine,” she replies automatically. “I disrespected—”

“Fine,” Jinshi says, “then give me something in exchange.”

“… Something…?”

“I’ll make sure the girl is going to be safe, no matter what,” he says, “so please tell me about what happened—your version of events.”

Given his promise, and her state, at the end of the rope, she has to give in. She tells the story again to him, flatly, and even so, going through it once more, she finds herself getting angry again, and then she’s mad at herself for that anger. It has nothing to do with me.

After she’s finished recounting her version of events, Jinshi doesn’t say anything for a while.

“So? Nothing to say?” she prompts him finally. “Didn’t you want to know my conjectures so badly, good sir?”

He turns to her and blinks slowly, his dark eyelashes particularly lustrous in the somber light penetrating the shutters. He shakes his head.

“It’s not that. I just find it sad. The story, that is.”

Of course he would, with his heart so soft, even now.

“Anyway,” he says, sometime later, “it’s not that I would have gotten to it, even if I paid more attention to the girl and her offering. I didn’t have knowledge of those western motifs, I would not have noticed.”

“You would have noticed their unfamiliarity with your fine education,” Maomao replies.

“Yes, and I still would have needed you to connect every—” he stops. “Sorry,” he says then.

Sorry for what?

Maomao sighs.

“You’re just saying it as it is. I’m glad I can be of service to you, Master Jinshi.”

To that, he turns away. She feels it through the tension in his arm, his long breaths—is he irritated? No. He’s concerned.

“I… I don’t want you to say that.”

Maomao wants to change the topic, or at least shift the focus to him rather than her. She knows that playing his sweet-talking persona takes a toll on him, that he’s served as bait before, but this is the situation they’re in now, and he sees it through.

“What I’m trying to say, Master Jinshi, is that you should exploit fully what’s available to you. It doesn’t have to be me. If you looked at the flowers—”

Wrong words again? He turns to face her again, abruptly—so abruptly that he stops her from continuing—his expression contorted in frustration.

He says, “I’d pay more attention to the flowers if I knew it didn’t hurt you.”

It takes her a moment to register his words.

“Surely… surely you jest, Master Jin—”

He grabs her wrist and places her hand on his chest.

“I don’t,” he says. He grabs her other hand, too, and holds it in his. “Can’t you…” He sighs, and shakes his head. Maomao looks away. What does he expect her to say? There are some things—

“No, you can’t, can you?” He releases her wrist; which slides down his chest and then rests there. Then he lets go of her hand, and it stays where it is, in mid-air. “You’ve been working tirelessly to prepare for this doomed separation… you can’t busy yourself with anything else.”

Of course she can’t be preoccupied with these things!

“I always love to pursue you, Maomao, but not when it’s like this.”

She looks at him, and sees that his smile is full of bitterness, in a way that is almost scary.

“It’s macabre, you know?” he continues. He takes a long breath, and then asks, “Is there any reason you may be worried about the—about your health?”

It strikes her. Did she make him think that—

“Considering all risks associated with gestation and birth, and the differences from woman to woman, I would say my parameters have been normal for now, sir.”

He sighs again—this time, in relief.

Good, because having answered his doubts, then Maomao can—

“Then what is it? Just tell me.”

He never gives up, he never relents.

“Master Jinshi,” she begins saying, pragmatically, “You know you shouldn’t concern yourself with—”

She doesn’t finish. It hits her that no matter what she says, he’d still do it—he’s doing it constantly, even as she’s said nothing to him. It’s troubling. Why does her chest feel like it’s all stinging?

“Right,” she says, trying to collect herself, even though her words escape her, “You want me to say as if I could choose… well. No matter!” She sighs, and then turns to stare him right in the eye. “Of course I detest the idea of going through with this pregnancy with—with you away.”

When has she become so weak?

“But we can’t live on wishes, can we?” she continues.

His eyes open wide, and she feels his hands covering hers again.

He says, “But you’d rather have me by your side, wouldn’t you?”

He looks so genuine, but there’s something wrong in his words, and in what she’s said, she knows it. It’s not about having him at her side, but rather what he needs for—for—

“Yes.”

“That is your wish.”

“… Yes.”

He bows his head, and his hold grows stronger.

All wrong. She’s failing her negotiation completely. She’s making a mistake…

“Jin—Master Jinshi, please do not try—” she says, “I cannot have you get sick over this. This assignment is already taking so much of you, I can’t—”

He raises his head again. He seems calmer now, even though his smile is tinged with sadness. “I accepted the assignment in order to be able to live on my terms, with you—it wouldn’t be worth it, otherwise.”

The firmness of his statement is matched only by the stillness of his beauty, his face at once soft and unyielding, like a god’s—and that is that, she’s undone, enraptured at last, and and at last, she folds into his arms.

It is calm, here.

She’d like to remain like this at least for a while. After, she’ll deal with the rest, but now, a small moment of peace—she’d enjoy that, even though her chest still stings.

“Maomao,” he says after a while, somewhere above her, “I was thinking…”

“Mmm?”

He passes a hand on her head, softly.

“Considering what we have found about the unsanctioned trade with the westerners coming from that major Southern Port City, before voices could reach them, it could be best to surprise them when they least expect it.”

For a moment, she doesn’t get what he’s saying, but it soon becomes clear.

“Indeed there is a long schedule of commitments in many more southern cities before one could just reach that one, but given the situation, it would be better to get there directly, and settle. It would take no more than two weeks to get there, and then, I could just work out my other engagements from there. We have allies in that place, and we’ve been promised a nice independent estate to stay in. I’ve been told the vegetation is especially beautiful in summer. ”

Oh.

“Maomao…?” he asks after some silence.

“This… this could work.”

“Can it?”

He pulls away to look her in the eye, his hands on her shoulders, and his expression is now akin to that of an excited child. He kept looking for solutions, didn’t he?

Slowly, she nods. She can take two weeks of travel.

“And I thought—before we leave, tomorrow, we can send for a few letters to be sent to the capital, via sea,” he adds, “So that travel to our destination can be arranged for a few key helpers—and also, if that is okay, your older sister, maybe she’d like to join us?”

He means Pairin. That way, she’ll be reunited with Lihaku, and Maomao, too, could have her by her side.

He’s been thinking about it thoroughly, too.

“I’d like that,” she simply says.

He cannot contain a smile, but he surely knows how to quickly hide it by drawing her into his arms again.

Everything is calm again.

Ah—now her throat stings too. Surely, it should be some reflux—she hasn’t dealt with it enough in her opinion, up to now, but she’ll get what she’ll get. Either way…

“So don’t worry, Maomao,” he whispers, “I’ll be there. Do not fear…”

When was the last time she took a controlled dose of poison? She misses it sorely: that state of exposed frailty on the one hand, and on the other the safeguard she always kept close, her knowledge. It’s exactly like this now, his soft words lost in the surge of her pain, and his body wrapped around hers at once what contains it and what makes her content.

It’ll pass, for everything passes; but like with her dear experiments, her mind, even at rest, cannot help but wonder—quivering, eager—at the new knowledge she’ll gain from it.