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Everything had started after Jinshi found out she could read.They had been caught in that maddening back-and-forth—never quite sure whether what they felt for each other was real, or just proximity and chance. But eventually, they’d found out.
She knew she shouldn't want him. He had a purpose beyond what they shared. “I don’t want this life. I want a life where I can be free,” he had said.
And freedom, he had fought to have.
At the center of that freedom was Maomao, the apothecary. All that time she'd spent with herbs, fungi, and insects—he had fallen somewhere in between, helpless against it.
“We need to escape the Imperial Palace to have the lives we want,” he had said, drinking sake atop the palace wall. “Leaving the Palace is a death sentence for both of us,” she had reminded him.
That night had led to this night. The scent of dust and dried herbs hung heavy in the small, half-collapsed chamber—once the entrance to a tunnel meant to connect with the Rear Palace. Now it was nearly sealed and forgotten. Their escape plan, the unplanned changes in circumstances let to this.
Crickets shrilled outside, but their song was drowned by Maomao’s raw breathing. Her hands gripped the edge of a woven mat, knuckles white, legs braced and parted. She had prepared the room for this. He’d handled everything else.
She crouched low, sweat streaming down her back as another contraction overtook her—this one like a grinding stone dragged across her spine.
She bit back a scream—barely.
Jinshi crouched behind her, his entire body rigid with anxiety, pale and trembling like a court girl on her first night. His face, usually so composed it bordered on smug, was flushed and damp, mouth slightly agape. One hand clutched a cloth. The other hovered near her back—too afraid to touch, too terrified not to.
“Someone might hear,” he whispered hoarsely. “You screamed just now. If someone’s patrolling—”
Maomao ground out, “They won’t. You bribed them. Twice.”
“But what if the baby—when the baby cries—”
“Babies should cry, Jinshi. That’s kind of the goal.” Her voice was a hiss—half exhausted, half sardonic.
He looked at her, helpless. “I just… I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t faint. That’s all I need from you right now.”
She felt the next contraction building, like a wave rising far out at sea. She grit her teeth and braced again. Her uterus squeezed downward, forcing the baby through her pelvis. Pain bloomed through her hips and belly in hot, rhythmic pulses.
All the oregano tea she’d brewed came to mind. Potent, bitter, nearly black. She’d drunk it every night for weeks, trusting old midwives' wisdom—"Dark enough to stain your teeth, strong enough to ease a birth." Maybe it had dulled the edge of the agony.
It wasn’t doing much now.
She inhaled sharply as the pressure surged again—low, blunt, primal.
It had looked so much easier when she’d watched other women do this. So much easier.
She had helped Lihua during her delivery, coached her through hours of labor with calm instructions and warm towels. She had cradled Gyokuyou’s infant with steady hands, soothed her through inexplicable tears weeks later. She knew what was coming. She had studied it, witnessed it.
Knowing didn’t make it hurt less.
“Why isn’t your body the one trying to split in half?” she muttered between gasps.
Jinshi blinked. “What?”
“Nothing. Shut up.”
Another contraction tore through her. Her cervix was fully dilated now—she could feel it. The baby’s head was descending, pushing lower, stretching her tissues to the brink. The ring of fire came—hot, searing, brutal.
Her body was doing exactly what it was meant to do. This was natural. Normal. The logical conclusion of pregnancy. She had chosen this. She knew what it meant to carry it to term. And still, somewhere deep inside, she resented that it wasn’t him pushing a baby out of his body.
“I can see the baby’s head,” Jinshi said suddenly, voice trembling in awe. “They have… so much hair.”
“Of course they do,” Maomao snapped, then sucked in a breath as the pain surged again. “Have you seen your own head?”
“I—what?”
“Push,” she growled—at herself more than at him.
She bore down with everything she had. Her pelvic floor stretched as the baby’s skull slid past bone and tissue. The pain peaked—sharp, blinding, total. She felt herself split—not just her body, but something deeper. Her muscles trembled. Her vision blurred.
The baby came out, and Jinshi caught her with a strangled gasp.
One beat of silence. Then a high, furious cry rang out. Sharp. Strong. Alive.
Relief crashed through Maomao like a flood. The worst was over. She collapsed onto her side, shaking, every limb trembling from exhaustion. Blood and fluid slicked her legs. The placenta followed with a dull, squelching cramp.
Jinshi knelt beside her, cradling the red-faced newborn in his arms like a holy object. His hands were shaking as he wrapped her in a silk cloth.
“She has your eyes,” he whispered, voice thick.
Maomao cracked one eye open. “And all your hair. Lucky girl.”
He gently placed the baby on her chest. The newborn’s tiny hands curled against her damp skin. Her cries softened.
Still lying down, Maomao guided Jinshi in salting and curing the placenta, combining antiseptic herbs in a sealed ceramic container to preserve it. It was a tradition—one she’d chosen for herself. A gift from her daughter. She would keep it. Treasure it.
She wasn’t sure if her father would approve. But it wasn’t against any rules. She was alive, after all.
They all were.
“We have until the next guard shift,” Jinshi murmured, brushing damp hair from her brow with blood-slick fingers—pulling her gently back from thoughts of tinctures and jars and legacy. She nodded. Her arms curled around the baby. Pain still pulsed through her pelvis, her thighs, her bones. But her mind was clear.This escape—this night—was the price of her own choice. She would not regret it.
But next time—if there was a next time—Jinshi was going to drink the damn oregano tea too.