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The fire breaks out at night with a sequence of explosions, but Maomao wakes up because of the smoke coming in through the window. It is coming from a nearby building. The alarm is given immediately, but as the fire is spreading quickly and the risk of losing their warehouses (and, most of all, their content) is too big, there is no other solution than to step in, devise a way to stop the fire before it got to the wheat. Chue helps enthusiastically, and enthusiastically tries to keep Maomao out of the actual action, but despite all that she is, Chue can’t do all.

So, at some point, they both are trapped in the building by the fire and smoke, and Maomao can only remember getting to the final stage of her plan, and then, of Lihaku carrying her and Chue out, to safety, before she passes out. 

“The burns are minor, but she inhaled a lot of smoke,” she hears saying. It is Doctor You’s voice. She passes out again.

*

When she wakes up, still feeling dizzy, she very quickly realizes she is, once again, in Jinshi’s bed. Looking under the sheet, she sees she is all whole, but has bandages around her legs and her left arm. She tries to sit up and check her wounds. She sighs, and doing that, she ends up coughing. It doesn’t hurt too much, but it doesn’t feel nice, either. The weakness in her arms and legs is staggering, and she suddenly feels cold. 

Despite the situation, she wants to just curl up on the bed, tightly, and disappear. Her coughs, however, alert Lady Suiren that Maomao is, indeed, awake. 

“Poor Xiaomao…”

She helps her sit on the bed and gets her honeyed tea; it is easier to swallow. 

What isn’t going to be easy to swallow is Jinshi’s reaction to her state.

Maomao doesn’t have to wait: he comes in after a moment, just enough for Suiren to help her get something presentable on. 

He is deeply upset.

It also looks like he hasn’t slept for days.

Maomao looks at herself in the bed, the one in which she medicated Jinshi’s burn many times (wasn’t that ironic?). Something isn’t right.

“Don’t you have someplace else to sleep, sir?” she asks him. 

“What kind of question is that?!”

But Suiren is softly chuckling behind her hand, and says to Jinshi, “There, there, see? She’s fine.”

“I wouldn’t say that. She threw herself in a building on fire, clearly—”

“But did we manage to save the warehouses, sir? How is everyone?”

His protests die down then. He gestures he’s going to sit down on the chair next to her. She nods, even if to her it sounds absurd that he even asks permission. 

Only after he sits down he responds to her inquiries. Yes, her plan worked out. Yes, everyone is okay, but Chue has to take some time off as well, as she too—thanks to Maomao, but Jinshi doesn’t say that—has inhaled a lot of smoke. 

Lady Suiren brings her a bowl of congee, and more tea, both for her and Jinshi. She also notes that Maomao’s wounds need to be cleaned and rebandaged soon. 

Maomao turns to Jinshi. 

“Miss Chue is in the same condition as myself, if not worse. Why do I get special treatment?”

“Chue is staying with her family for the time being,” Jinshi replies. “Taomei is taking care of her.”

The thought of Taomei as a caretaker gives Maomao shivers, and consequently, coughs, making Jinshi panic. She spits out some mucus on a handkerchief Suiren passes her. 

Nothing else to do, anyway: she quickly assesses that Chue’s husband Baryou wouldn’t be of much help.  

Well, it is Miss Chue, she thinks. I’m sure she handles that with levity and in her usual fashion.

What about her, then? 

“I’m going to suffer this cough for some more days, but there’s nothing to worry about outside that,” she says, checking on the notes that Doctor You left with her. “I can go back to work.”

“Absolutely not.”

This is Jinshi talking, but Suiren looks on the alert, too. 

“There’s no reason for me to stay here. I can recover while staying with the qu—with Master Guen, as well.”

Jinshi is angered by that too. What? How can he be jealous of the quack doctor, of all?

“Xiaomao,” Suiren says, crouching at her bedside, “The Moon Prince’s wound needs to be checked regularly, still.”

Maomao looks at Suiren and then at Jinshi, his eyes still two fissures until he looks away, pouting.

So, this is about indulging in his tantrums again, right?

She sighs.

“Fine.”

His expression softens a bit after, so much so that Suiren is able to leave them alone. 

“How could you think to risk your life like that…?” he still says to her, more tentatively now, his voice less firm.

What a question.

“There was no time to choose a better candidate or anything,” she replies. “Besides, it went well, no?”

In response, he hides his face in both his hands. “That fire could have killed you. This is no joke, Maomao.”

“Oh, so you admit that getting burned is no joke, sir.”

He glares at her.

“Besides,” she says, patting one of the burns on her leg, “These are pretty easy to heal, unlike others.”

He doesn’t look at her; turned to the side, he says, “Well, the ointments you need are all here.”

Right. The stuff they brought in (metaphorical) barrels to medicate Jinshi during their journey. At least they have enough of that, given the shortage of just about anything else. Maomao wonders if the fire created more damage, outside of that building, and herself. 

She then remembers their lineup in their journey.

“Does the old fart know I’m here?” she asks, a bit agitated. 

“He knows something,” he says. “We told him you need absolute rest. I don’t think it will work for long, however.”

Of course.

“He wanted to make camp at the clinic and then he threatened to take you to his lodgings. We had to take you away.”

She smiles at Jinshi.

“That was very thoughtful, sir.”

She means it, but he doesn’t take it as he normally would.

“I would have taken you here anyway, Maomao.”

*

It becomes clear to Maomao that Jinshi is sleeping on the couch in the study, much less worthy bedding for his heavenly limbs, and stays there during the day as well, to work, as always outside of the public eye; she knows, if anything, for the number of times he comes in to check on her during the day. Suiren has to tell him off at some point, for “Xiaomao needs to sleep properly.”

Maomao is sometimes just pretending to sleep, because she just doesn’t know what to say to Jinshi, and even if she has something to say, her throat feels itchy and she doesn’t have the energy to open her eyes, sit up and ask for a drink.

A drink, ha, she thinks under the blankets, I can only wish.

Suiren still wakes her up at regular times to clean her burns, despite Maomao protesting she can deal with them herself, and to bring her food. Jinshi’s figure appears only after those ministrations, with Maomao presentable, and eager to eat. Awkwardly, he walks into the room, and then, at a safe distance, stands agitatedly, moving his weight from one foot to another, until she, unnerved, asks him to sit next to her.

“You don’t need my permission to sit down, sir,” she tells him, bringing the congee bowl to her chest, and reaching for the spoon on the tray.

In response, Jinshi grabs her hand and squeezes it, while looking down at his feet. Maomao does not understand what he is about at that point. “Master Jinshi,” she says, “I’d like to eat.” Then, realizing that is a break of etiquette, she adds, “But I will wait until you’ve talked to me,” (she doesn’t really like the idea) “Or would you rather partake in it? Then I can taste it for you.” She wonders if she should put the bowl back, too. But Jinshi quickly releases her hand. “No, I’ve already eaten,” he says, “Sorry.”

She grabs the spoon; her hand still feels the presence of his grip, and yet, at the same time, it feels lighter, too. Quietly, she starts eating, yet she notices Jinshi staring, and feels unnerved again.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asks. 

Looking at her in the eye, he shakes his head, but then, he stands just enough to reach for hers with his hand, accompanying himself to bend over her and rest his chin over her head. 

What is he even doing? Maomao thinks, feeling uncomfortably flustered. 

In response, he moves to rest his face against the side of her head. Maomao would rather pull away from him, but the bowl of congee is still in her hand and she risks making a mess of it. She stays.

Sometime after, Suiren comes back for the steam inhalation.

*

Chue is a just few steps behind her, but Maomao feels bothered enough to check for her presence periodically. This part of the building hasn’t fully caught fire yet, but the destruction is close enough that she feels an intense soft rustling in her ears, so much so that it makes her vacillate, and at every turn, she feels like they’re more lost than ever. She stops.

“Miss Maomao, Miss Maomao, what is it?”

Maomao bends a little and tries to muster her remaining strength.

“Just the lack of oxygen. Keep your handkerchief tight around your mouth.”

She stands up again, and starts walking again, this time towards the lights.

“But Miss Maomao, the main fire is spreading from there.”

“Right.”

She still heads in that direction, and Chue follows.

*

She wakes up coughing, her cause for concern a spark of panic in her chest. She should get more honeyed tea, she thinks, but it doesn’t feel right to move, she can’t even bring herself to a sitting position, but stays curled up on the side. Besides, around her, it’s completely dark. It’s night, then. She searches for the handkerchief to expel the mucus. Calm down, she thinks. This is expected, I just need to go through it. 

But the next time she wakes, she even feels like she suffocating, and she can’t find her handkerchief anymore, she can just cough and cough, suspended between consciousness and a dark space beneath her.

Then she feels a warm hand on her back, and a soft, cool cloth close to her cheek.

“Maomao.”

It’s Jinshi’s voice. She opens her eyes and looks up, and there he is, in all his celestial splendor even in that darkened space. He’s looking at her with that contrite expression she saw on him a couple of times. 

He needs no other worries nor causes to deprive himself of sleep, she thinks.

She grabs the handkerchief with a hand, and tries to raise herself with the other, failing miserably, but before she falls down, he grabs her, and helps her sitting, propping up the pillows behind her. He even keeps on offering her the handkerchief. She coughs into it for a while, and then asks for liquids. 

“This job is too beneath you, no matter whatever ideas you have,” she tells him after the cough has calmed down. 

“You just stop saying stupid things, Maomao,” he replies. 

It’s not like she wants to inconvenience Suiren in the middle of the night, but even as he pledged to marry her, this is truly out of place for everybody.

“I just mean you have more pressing things to do,” she says, looking away, “And at this hour, you have to take your rest. It would be better for everybody if you do.”

“Be sure that I’m here because I can take the time to assist you.”

She says nothing.

“Maomao,” Jinshi says, raising one hand and reaching for her cheek. “Do you find it uncomfortable? The touch?”

His hand feels gentle and nicely cold on her cheek.

“It’s inconvenient for a man in your position,” Maomao replies. 

“You know I don’t care about that.”

Maomao doesn’t respond, and Jinshi, looking a bit dejected, sighs. She expects him to move away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits on the bed, right next to her, and encircles her in his arms, resting his head over hers. She cannot see his face, yet she understands his disquiet from the way he holds her, from how his fingers keep on moving, softly sinking through the many layers of fabric between him and her at different times, and there, she can anticipate the pleading that follows.

“Maomao,” he says, “Please let me take care of you.”

She thinks she better preserve the little energy she has to do something other than protest.

“Okay,” she says, simply. 

*

This time, Chue is not at her side. She can hear her voice at a distance, maybe in a different room, calling for her.

But Maomao is trapped: a lacquered wooden panel just blocked her last way out, and she is getting weaker. 

Crouching down, she absently observes the painting on the wood as she tries to recover some strength; it is difficult, she cannot even breathe right now. 

Even as she’s enveloped by flames, she can distinguish the subject painted on the panel and its colors, rich yellow and red over white. 

Why is this thing here, anyway?

She struggles to keep her eyes open, and can just tighten the grip of her arms over her chest. In her hands, a fistful of green seeds. 

*

That night, when she wakes, her eyes are soon wide open and fixed upon the light coming from the other room. A thought builds all the discomfort in her stomach; it grapples at her with unease; she feels nauseous. Yet, even in her weakened state, she reaches for her dressing gown and manages to stand up. All to go toward the lights.

In the other room, Jinshi is resting his head on his desk, a thousand documents he still needs to go through, when he hears the movements behind him, and turns abruptly, the lights tremulous and bright around him. 

“Maomao, is anything wrong?”

Wrong question, for it’s not something she can answer at all. She is well enough to walk, but not to run back to her—actually his—bed to hide there; something also tells her she would not be able to. 

“I mean, is there something…?”

In response, she coughs into the cloth she brought inside her sleeve, her only way out of the restlessness and of the forced stillness in her throat.

Jinshi stands and walks to her, and is already checking her eyes before she can even say, “Master Jinshi, you should rest at night.”

She still says it, and he stares back gravely in return, before saying, “I know, I know.” 

He reaches for her hands and she feels how warm his are compared to hers—hers are practicing constantly, over bodies, too, they cannot be cold—, before retracting them. “Sir, you better not touch me…” she begins, but is at a loss on how to go on. Of course, no passing fluids between them (but should she say it like this?). She’s not contagious but her hands are gross, she just coughed into them, no matter the cloth, a person of his stature should not touch her. 

Jinshi does, nonetheless; being who he is, he doesn’t let go. 

“Are you cold? Thirsty? I could ask Suiren for…”

But she’s just interested in the lights, and his voice dies down soon after he notices. 

He’s silent for a while afterward, just holding her hands like that, in mid-air, his fingers tentatively, slowly reaching for her wrists, and her palms. 

When he talks again, his register is different: commanding, childish, yet a bit awkward, as if he was not prepared for his usual routine. He tells her, “I need you for a bit,” and there he leads her to the desk and his chair, and sits her next to him, an arm safely encircling her. 

Maomao barely protests at this; there is no strength in her she hasn’t spent getting in the room already, and she doesn’t know what she’d rather do. She knows she should get back to bed, but she doesn’t feel like she can do it. So she stays, and accepts water from his cup, and doesn’t even protest as Jinshi, telling her he should at least finish reading this—pointing at some document—and lamenting that he needs both hands, instead of just retracting his arm from supporting Maomao’s back, he instead drags her into his lap. 

She looks at the lights; he caresses the back of her hands and then wraps one arm around her bust, and with the other, he keeps on doing whatever he was doing before she showed up, his head resting against her on the side. 

His way of replenishment, and hers to get a bit warmer, probably, but she doesn’t tell him. 

He offers her a good seat, he can stay still perfectly, and yet her legs do not find balance easily. She realizes he too is close to getting to sleep, and she throws a glance at the couch beside them, seeing that it was slept in and then discarded. 

“You should really get to sleep, sir,” she repeats. “Putting out all of the lights safely while you still can.”

She doesn’t know why she adds this information, for Jinshi is not stupid and knows how to care for things. 

Yet when she does, she senses his breathing deepen, then hears him say, “You’re right,” and soon he’s scribbling something down, and still holding her in his arms, he puts out all the lights on the desk, one after another. 

They remain in darkness. He doesn’t move; he does not approach her further than he is in his soft embrace, and she doesn’t move either. There’s a part of her that feigns impatience—but for what?—and another that rejects it. It’s a whole mess she doesn’t want to go into, so she just tries staying. So, for a while, they stay seated, in the dark, the only sign of life his breathing and hers, long and pensive, soon difficult to distinguish from one another. 

Finally, he says, “You should sleep too. I’ll carry you back to bed,” and the stillness dies as he gets ahold of her legs as well as her back. Like that, he stands and in fact carries her to the bedroom, and on the soft mattress and sheets he covers her with. She can barely see his face, in the dark, another cough fit catching her as she’s moved. He waits for it to die down, still supporting her back even as she’s sitting against the headboard; then, he stands again, and that’s the moment she feels a sting in her throat and the need to say something. Something, but what?

Please, stay.

Sleep here with me.

That is, of course, ridiculous, and turns her face away even if she knows that in the dark he could not see the change in the coloring of her cheeks. 

If he notices something, even in her erratic behavior, he says nothing. He rubs his hand on her back some more, then rests his head over hers, and places a kiss on top of it (her hair is sticky from the days spent rolling around in bed—yet he doesn’t seem to care). 

He wishes her a good sleep. 

That’s all there is to it; he stays a bit longer, though, she doesn’t know how long, for she’s getting sleepy again, and soon she’s no longer registering anything anymore. Except for a moment, probably imagined, him standing next to her, whispering, “I just can’t understand, Maomao, how it can’t seem to stop growing, every day I just feel more.”

*

Since she’s feeling better and can walk without much pain (“You’re not feeling better at all!”), and the ointments that she previously prepared for Jinshi are getting lower in stock due to both Maomao and Chue needing them (even if Jinshi’s wound is much better now, Maomao also feels rather out of place of asking to use them, at all), Maomao decides it’s time for her to be put to work—assuming she can get some herbs to work with. 

Both Jinshi and Suiren are unconvinced, and Suiren especially forbids her to get near any stove or flame, which dramatically reduces her options. Still, she perseveres, especially with Jinshi.

It’s not like her coughing fits are a pretense, after all. 

She just makes sure—when she manages—they interrupt her at the best time.

The next day, Jinshi arrives with the dried roots from a certain flower plant (apparently, Gaoshun managed to score them from a merchant, who was holding onto them avidly), and, surprisingly enough, fresh cucumbers.

“Where are this from?”

“The main residence’s greenhouse.”

“THERE’S A GREENHOUSE?!”

“Xiaomao, you know you cannot go outside,” Suiren says.

Of course.

Maomao grumbles, and at that, she looks down at the table, where her sparse spread of ingredients lay—other than what Jinshi brought, the wild stuff she’s now used to work with at the medical office, and some small quantity of honey—plus, her pestle and mortar. 

Suiren takes pity on her, and offers to look after a preparation needing fire if that could help Maomao and Miss Chue (meaning, she will not take part in any other experiment Maomao’s mind may come up with). Maomao is content with that, and instructs Suiren on how to bring to boil the dried roots to make a deconction.

After Suiren leaves, Maomao rolls up her sleeves, and, in her mind, she’s already savoring the joy at being able to make medicine again, when she notices that Jinshi is still sitting in front of her, his arms crossed, and a rather annoyed expression. 

“Is there anything that I can do for you, sir?”

Jinshi sighs.

“Do you need anything else?”

To think about it, this situation led Maomao to treat Jinshi as her servant, almost, which is, of course, a deplorable act. Given how Jinshi is, however, she wonders if she forget to say thanks. Maybe he’d like a longer, more emphatic version of it.

“Master Jinshi, I am humbled and so very grateful for—”

He interrupts her immediately. “I don’t want that!”

The way he responds, she sees he’s leaning on his childish side, so very different from the persona he’s been forced to take on in the past few months—even when they’re alone. It makes her uneasy, to think him in a cage like that, and a bit relieved now to see that he hasn’t let go of himself completely.

Still, she doesn’t know what he’s expecting from her, with her being barely able to walk with ease.

“Sir, if there’s something—”

“Do you expect to be able to work with that?” he asks, pointing at the mortar.

Are you kidding me? She wants to respond, but she’d rather show it to him, and gets up to start her preparations—peeling the cucumbers, reducing them to small cubes—until she realizes that it’s her body that is making fun of her, at this moment, and she’s overcome by a coughing fit she didn’t plan at all, and the pestle even escapes her hand.

Damn, she thinks, looking at him. But he’s not pouting anymore, and rather approaches her to make her sit and removes her tools from her hands.

“Just direct me. I’ll do as you say,” Jinshi says, ridiculously holding the pestle as if it was a chopstick.

“Surely you jest,” Maomao replies.

“I do not.”

In fact, he’s serious, and there’s no way for her to explain that the activity is not apt for his noble blood.

Doesn’t he have anything else to do? 

Ah, right. Surely nothing fun. 

Well, I guess I owe him, given how he helped me the other night. 

And if one thing is sure, making medicine is plenty of fun!

And mashing cucumbers, however unripe, to make a poultice, should not be so hard even for a simple beginner.

Not that she would excuse bad form. Well, she’d better direct him properly, then.

Maomao sighs, and starts telling him what to do, and how to keep his posture. His expression is so serious and determined, he really looks like a child, his heavenly facial features soft with excitement as he completes a task and turns to her. 

She finds it endearing.

But she also has to admit he’s not cut for the job. 

“Maybe, with a lot of training…”

“I don’t get it, if you can do it when you’re so small—”

“It’s not about force,” she says, and she sighs (of all things, what did he have to retain from Basen?), “Your movements and speed, they’re all incorrect. Let me show you.”

He gets close so that she can guide the pestle herself while he holds it, but the thing is, their dominant hands clash with each other, only making more of a mess out of it.

Soon we’ll reduce all these poor cucumbers into juice… 

She wants to mix the poultice with honey, even it’s very little, but surely, she doesn’t want to give that lethal weapon to Jinshi before it’s time.

“You said it was simple,” he protests.

“I said it because it is,” she says. “Master Jinshi, let’s try again. This time—”

This time, he manages to get mashed cucumbers on his face. 

She finds it so hilarious and nonsensical, that a chuckle escapes her throat. Jinshi turns to her, and while she expects to see him annoyed, his confused, awkward expression is what she gets instead. 

Exhausted, she bursts into laughter, and is surprised when he joins her, hilarity she hasn’t seen in him in a long while. He lets the mortar down, and holds her guiding hands in his. 

She doesn’t know how they end up kissing, and has no way to course-correct anything because she easily loses her balance and as her hands are still in Jinshi’s, he’s the one that needs to stop the fall. He does, and more than that, despite the clear bewilderment in his eyes and in his arms’ tension as he supports her and gets her back sitting, he quickly comes back to his senses, which, with Jinshi being Jinshi, is not being sensible at all: he lets go of her hands just to use his to cup her face, draw her close and kiss her again, tentative at first, and rather sloppily, she assesses, but her senses too must be all twisted, for she finds the wetness of his mouth terribly alluring, and it feels like her head and arms and body are being enclosed in a sphere of warmth very unlikely for that time of the year, even in his luxurious, well-heated rooms. There, she gives in, and abandons all intentions of doing things in proper form, professionally, and instead is only left with the vague question of why has she harbored in her mind such intentions at all.  

All of this, until she loses her breath again, and begins coughing—horrifyingly, directly into his mouth. He stops immediately, but—Maomao finds this unsettling—completely ignores the grossness of her spits, and instead only worries about getting her coughing fit to calm down, even saying to her, “Sorry, I’m sorry,” as he massages her back, and tries to feed her water in little sips.

Idiot.

She wants to tell him, but the cough is bad, and it excavates a hole in her chest, and everything is burning inside her, and she even has to admit that she needs the assistance he’s offering, and his care. Her mind goes to the cause of such a coughing fit—it has been three days, and her case was mild at best, so what did happen? Could she diagnose an intoxication of some kind? Did she just exert herself too much? She thinks of the medicine she’s been given, which makes her dreams vivid and her senses run wild, which is probably why she ended up in that situation in the first place—meaning, the whole kissing stuff; Jinshi surely was hungry for it, but her, she kept her hunger at—no. She didn’t do anything! It was just the medicine, for sure.

Yet, she has to wonder, once the coughing has subsided, and she’s making sure to expel more mucus quietly, through the slow liquefying power of steam inhalation, even after the pain leaves her, why, and how, the burning in her chest is still going on, placidly, and yet, without a hint of giving out.

More worryingly, even, as she feels a bit better, the next morning, thinking back on the ferociously embarrassing mess of the day before, at his laughter, Jinshi now away at some meeting, another feeling emerges back from her memory, rather undefined then, in all that midst, but now clear, and undeniable as it materializes into reality, that fleeting quiver between her legs. 

She wishes she was that ignorant to just stupidly diagnose it as part of her sickness.

*

It bothers her so much that Maomao spends more than half an hour sitting in the bath, her knees up to her chest and her hand resting on them, turning it over and over for Maomao to observe, and Suiren comes in to remind her not to stay too long in the water. Suiren is brisk and cordial in her reprimand, but for a moment, entering the room, she even looks worried.

“Sorry, sorry,” Maomao says, accepting the towels from her and getting out. 

It only temporarily snaps her out of her annoyance. It’s not as if she doesn’t know what it’s like, and it’s not like it’s the first time ever she felt it, then why is it so bothersome to her right now? She wishes she could do work; she wishes to go back to make some medicine, or just be employed, washing bandages, updating the inventory, something—anything, but that.

“Xiaomao,” Suiren says, “keep your head up, please.”

Suiren is helping to dry her hair, pressing the towel over her head and the length of her hair, a methodical process—probably refined over years of caring for long hair—so repetitive at times that Maomao gets distracted. 

Maomao corrects her posture and apologizes. This is the care Jinshi gets, and Maomao has trouble accepting it, despite it feeling nice, and hearing the little appreciating comments meaning that Suiren is having fun with it (does she miss it, having a daughter to care for?). 

Until the movement stops abruptly, and Suiren’s head appears next to Maomao, an indulgent smile on her face. 

“Xiaomao,” she says, “Has something gone wrong in the bath? Are you okay?”

Maomao is startled and speechless, for she’s sure she would never know how to confront the feeling, much less communicate it.

Even so, given Suiren’s intense stare, she has to capitulate.

“Lady Suiren,” she says, “I think I’m no longer fit to fulfill this role, for I’m no longer immune to Master Jinshi’s looks.”

Suiren’s expression turns serious.

“Oh, is that so?” she asks, sitting in front of Maomao, covering the mirror. “You’re telling me you will pass out the next time you’re tasked to tend to his wound?”

“Why? No,” Maomao replies flatly. That’s ridiculous; that’s medicine, and if nothing else, she’s a proud, serious practitioner of it.

“What, then? Would you care to be present at his current meeting, to hear him converse with his interlocutors?”

Maomao thinks of Jinshi’s amiable talks, his face a mask of insincerity, and all the consequences his deals would bring. To her.

Her grimace must have shown through her attempt at hiding it (such a skill to develop and keep, since Gaoshun first told her to), for Suiren is heartily laughing behind her hand now.

Maomao looks back affronted. Is she having some fun at her expense?

“Oh, dear, dear Xiaomao, what a curious woman you are.” Suiren stands up, goes behind Maomao again, and reprises the hair drying.

“I was just stating… a fact,” Maomao replies, looking at herself in the mirror, still, confused.

“Of course, dear, but there’s no need to tell me,” Suiren says, “You’re a smart one, that is evident. I wouldn’t have expected you to keep around if you didn’t like the Young Master in the first place.”

Like? Like? That was too generic. Who could even say they didn’t like Jinshi?  

(Ah, yes: the freak strategist, of course.)

That aside, it’s not like it represented at all Maomao. Of course she could appreciate beauty. She had two very well-functioning eyes, thank you very much! But then, that would not account for her slipping, and losing control; of course, he wanted things from her, but that didn’t mean that she could—

“Xiaomao, if you’re worried you cannot keep your cool-headedness now that you’re recovering, if it makes you feel safer, I’ll come checking in more regularly, mh?”

Huh…

“But be sure I’ve already scolded the Young Master early this morning. This is not the proper behavior to have with the ailing!”

If at first Maomao could pretend it was the vapors in the bath that got her cheeks rosy, as the color rapidly turned into a decisive red, she could not anymore. 

*

Suiren helps her to get dressed—a simple shirt and skirt, and her freckles for comfort—, for Lihaku is waiting for her in the parlor.

“Ah, Little Miss, I see you’re doing better.” His smile shows he’s being genuine. Indeed, she feels better today, despite the cough having not gone away yet, and her little… annoyances. He must have seen her last when he brought her to the clinic to be medicated; not a good look for Maomao.

“Thank you, Mr. Lihaku. How’s the qu—Master Guen doing?” Maomao asks. She sees that Suiren is waiting for her sign to bring refreshments. Somewhat regrettably, she gives the sign, and proceeds to serve Lihaku tea while he recounts a series of marvelous misadventures experienced by the quack doctor. He really must feel lonely, without Maomao or Miss Chue to keep him company; Lihaku still functions as his guard, now that Maomao is otherwise well-guarded, but without the constant input of news from Miss Chue, and Maomao’s invitations to work… the quack must be idling and in a bit of depressive state, too.

“Oh, Little Miss, don’t you worry, Master Guen is very happy not to be put to work.”

“And onto whom all the work will fall once I’m back?”

Lihaku looks away, cheerfully complimenting the sweets he’s been served.

Surely he too wants to avoid being invested with all the work in their infirmary, even more so now that Maomao is absent, for he cannot give the quack any order. 

Maomao sighs.

“But it’s true, it gets lonely in there without you two.” 

Maomao raises her eyes and smiles. She has to admit that without his work—in his actual role—that loneliness could have had a permanent quality.

She knows that Lihaku’s courage has already been officially acknowledged, and that Jinshi made sure to give him a very nice bonus.

Still.

“I’m very thankful for your service,” Maomao says. “And for saving Miss Chue’s life, and mine.”

Lihaku beams. He’s simple like that; sometimes he reminds her a little of her friend Xiaolan. 

“That’s nothing, Little Miss,” he says, “Please think about getting better. And if you can, pay my well wishes to Miss Chue, too…”

Right. 

“Mr. Basen will call in a bit later, and we’ll be sure to pass the message,” Suiren says.

Your best wishes to me, Mr. Lihaku? You’re too kind, but would that be proper? Don’t you know I’m a married woman?

Maomao has to admit that, even with all the annoyances, she too feels a bit lonely without Miss Chue. 

*

Basen is, as usual, a man of few words, and reports Chue’s status as if he’d been talking about a soldier. 

That’s the Ma clan for you. 

Maomao inquires about the poultice and decoction she sent yesterday. Basen says Chue used them all, but given his sudden rigidity and his empty stare, Maomao assumes Taomei had something to say about it.

Even so, Chue sent her a letter. 

“Dear Miss Maomao, I thank you for your benevolence in sending me good medicine! I’d like to think you’re putting this time off to good use too, though.”

What better use of time than making good medicine there is, now?

“Everything here is well, but while everyone is happy to have me around, I’d rather not keep them too happy, you know? Especially when I think that Miss Maomao must be missing my services so much.”

After that, Maomao notices the last page of the letter, still tightly folded, as if glued in. Tugging the paper, first lightly, then with more force, she realizes it’s most likely actual glue, and before she can think of whatever passed to Chue’s mind to do that, the glue gives in and the paper explodes into Maomao’s face; literally, for it was Chue’s streamers compressed in the last part of the letter and set so that they would fantastically shoot as soon they were freed.

She has a lot of time on her hands, ah?

The letter simply finishes with “Yours, Miss Chue,” and she would keep staring at it, if it wasn’t for the light, soft laughter behind her. Jinshi must have entered the room without her noticing, and apparently found Chue’s trick very, very funny (good thing he… employed her, or something), while Basen, as usual, just stands horrified at the actions of his sister-in-law.

Maomao turns to discreetly glare at Jinshi, who seems unfazed by it, and oh-so-completely innocent, but then, looking again at the letter as she walks back to her room, she too breaks into a smile. 

*

This time, Chue is not around at all, and there would be no reason, to, anyway, for the fire has been extinguished long ago. 

In fact, as Maomao walks along the old corridors, all she can perceive is the fine debris of carbonization, and its acrid smell. It gets to her throat, and all she can taste is bitter. 

She has no eyes to see anything her, either. At night, in the ruins of a charred wooden building, there is no color, and nothing moves—except, everything does. Even if the fire died out, the crackling and rustling undercurrent never stops; she can feel that everything, even the pavement under her feet, is disintegrating. Soon the place will be empty.

Holding herself tight, she begins to shiver.

*

She wakes up and this time she doesn’t feel the cough overpowering her with force; she’s lucid enough to get a fresh handkerchief and sit up, and even as she coughs into it, she feels no ripping in her chest, which means she’s really better, now, even if something from her awakening makes her feel queasy. She has to admit that having been dispensed from her work, and being cared for in these lodgings, helped: with the scarcity of resources and the frantic work in the western capital, it would have taken a lot more time to recuperate, so she’d have to thank Jinshi, tomorrow (even though most of her recovery is due to Suiren’s methodical treatment, of course). 

Around her, everything is dark. She wonders if Jinshi is still awake in the study. She’s tempted to get up and check, but after a moment she realizes how ridiculous she’s being. What for? The lights are out, he should be sleeping, and she wouldn’t want to risk waking him up—he needs his rest. She also has no business wandering around at night, considering she may have recovered, but still bears the consequences of her adventure in the fire. 

And why would she do that anyway?

She lies down again, intently staring at the bed ceiling, trying to get rid of other outrageous thoughts. Like she’s supposed to think that it would be proper to ask for his presence at this moment. She may have had that excuse days ago, amidst the delirium, but now? 

But I’d just like—

She shuts her eyes, furious at herself for not being able to segregate thoughts away as she’s used to. 

It’s not as if there’s nothing else to care about. Now that she’s better, she’d have to go back to the medical office and put the quack to work, for she’s now sure that he’s been lazying off in the past few days. Considering Jinshi managed to get her those dried roots for the decoction, she starts to wonder whether the merchant has held onto some other interesting stock; for example, she’d like to inquire whether he would have on hand the bulbs from a certain plant of the lily family, as they’re commonly traded together; if she can lay her hands on it, there would be some nice preparations she could make to treat certain inflammatory infections… she feels her lips turning upwards in content anticipation, but as she opens her mouth to let it out giggling, the creaking that comes of out of it is just… wrong. 

What the—?

“Maomao? … Are you awake?”

She turns her head to the door, and sees Jinshi’s figure immersed in the dark but for the light he’s holding. 

It was just him, and the concerned look on his face.

Maomao sighs.

“Very clearly, I am awake, Master Jinshi,” she responds, careful for her voice not to break.

If she wasn’t, would he then just step forward as he is doing now, observing her as she slept?

Creepy. 

“And are you… feeling okay?”

She’s not all around “okay” per se, but that’s not something he should concern himself with, now.

“I’m perfectly fine, sir.”

His eyes narrow into two slits, and she understands she opted for the standard answer, which is all but standard in her situation. She considers if she should show him her handkerchief and her very much reduced, liquid mucus to reassure him.

No, that would wake Suiren, surely.

“I meant I’m feeling well all things considered; I’m mostly recovered, sir,” she ends up saying in the end.

“Is there anything you want, sir?” she asks after a moment, seeing him pause.

Didn’t Suiren reproached him about bothering the ailing, anyway? 

He shakes his head. 

“I just had the feeling…”

“What?”

“That you were awake, that’s it.”

Maomao tries to keep her composure, still. 

“You should have your rest, sir.”

Jinshi nods, unconvinced. 

“I… I’ll go,” he says. “Is there anything I can do for you… before that?”

Right. Maybe this is not the exact right time to mention the bulbs, but what if she doesn’t get a chance to ask tomorrow?

“Um, well… If I may, Master Jinshi…” she begins.

It’s a simple inquiry, after all. 

“Yes?”

It’s staggering, the way his face transforms with excitement at the idea of being of service to her.

Maomao doesn’t even know why it hits her so much, but she wants to look away. Still, she resists, not even blinking.

Ask for the bulbs, now!

“Would you mind sleeping here next to me, tonight?”

His expression then quickly turns to deep confusion, incredulity, and then, even more worry, before Maomao can register what she just said.

To that, her face must sport pure horror, for Jinshi finally snaps out of his silence.

“You’re certainly NOT OK!” he finally exclaims. He lays the lamp down on the bedside table, and continuing with the energy he recovered, he approaches her and places his hand on her forehead, looking for signs of a fever.

It would be a good guess, generally, but he isn’t taking into account that a fever, in this case—

She tries to say something, but she finds the only thing she can do is grasp his hand.

He looks at it in renewed horror. 

“Sorry, Maomao, I didn’t want to—”

Suiren has scolded him real well.

He now tries to remove his hand, but finds that she’s not letting go. She too stares at their hands, in fact, lost in a daze, before finding her senses again.

Like in the dream, she’s shivering, even if the environment is comfortably warm. 

This could be misinterpreted in so many ways, she thinks, panicking, I shall lose my head, finally, and then— 

But looking at Jinshi, it seems like he’s the calm one, now; there’s a strange reassuring quality to his expression; as if nothing could go wrong, even if she tried very hard. 

“Maomao, do you really…?”

He doesn’t finish the question; he looks down at the bed, and she, automatically, moves back to give him some space.

“Is it—”

“It’s okay.”

It’s because I’m still weak, surely.

However painlessly, after all, that thing in her chest is still burning. 

*

(She asks him about the bulbs a bit later; he takes it surprisingly well.)