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Thud.
Thud.
The night was quiet and windless.
The soft glow of a small oil lamp scattered over the walls, blurring the embroidered images of a phoenix.
Mother.
Why was it, on these particular days, that Maomao’s thoughts were so desperately invaded by fragments of the past? Her eyes darted nervously to her crooked little finger — a tiny reminder of a woman she had barely known, and of the curse that woman once sent into the world along with a torn piece of her daughter’s flesh.
Thud.
Thud.
Maomao squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could banish the past by sheer will.
“Not now,” she told herself. “This isn’t about me. This is about new life.”
She sat on the mat with her legs tucked beneath her. Before her lay a spread of medical scrolls containing pulse records, left by Father Luomen for “special occasions.” “One day, you’ll need these,” he had said — she remembered rolling her eyes at his good-natured remark. Yet here she was, with those very scrolls. Alongside them — strips of cloth and small vessels of oil.
But now she needed none of it, except her own wrist.
Thud.
Thud.
Maomao closed her eyes and focused.
The pulse was… strange. Truly different, just as described in the scrolls — too light, slippery almost, like a tiny pearl rolling beneath the skin.
“This…”
She pulled her hand away. Her heart pounded louder than the beat at her wrist. Her fingers trembled.
She had felt it weeks ago, but Father had taught her never to draw conclusions from mere sensations and guesses.
Thud.
Thud.
Maomao took a deep breath and felt her other wrist. The same.
“Impossible.”
She dropped her hands, staring into the empty space before her.
Instinctively, she reached for a small box of oils, then froze halfway. What was the point of checking again? What would change if her suspicion proved true not for the hundredth, but the hundred-and-first time?
Maomao had trained herself not to yield to emotion. But…
The past pressed in from all sides, whispering fears, its threads of spider silk brushing her throat. For a heartbeat, she wanted to bury herself in the scrolls — in formulas and logic, her old armor.
“I have to tell him,” Maomao whispered, her lips barely moving — yet the echo of those words seemed to fill the entire room.
***
Breakfasts together had become a cherished tradition. For Jinshi, a high-ranking official, spending mornings with his beloved wife meant drawing energy and purpose for the day ahead. But after a sleepless night, Maomao felt drained, though she tried not to show it. She held a cup of green tea in her hands but didn’t drink. Her gaze was fixed on Jinshi, who was happily devouring rice porridge. He had always preferred simple meals.
“You have to tell him. Today,” she reminded herself. But how? She couldn’t just blurt out such news out of nowhere.
He had worked late into the night with official papers. Today, another important meeting awaited him. Being “the Emperor’s brother” demanded endless devotion, and he often returned to their quarters utterly spent.
How would he react? Was he ready to hear it? Would this distract him from his duties?
“Just catch his gaze — the words will come on their own.”
“Maomao?”
She caught his gaze. And instantly looked away. Why was her heart pounding so treacherously? The courage she’d mustered popped like a soap bubble.
“Is everything alright?”
“I don’t know,” nearly slipped from her lips.
“Just a little tired,” she exhaled, hiding her eyes toward the teapot.
Jinshi frowned — barely, but she knew him too well to miss even fleeting emotions. He had noticed.
The warmth of his hand settled on her shoulder.
“Maybe you should rest today?” His voice held no reproach, no pressure — only gentleness and care.
A lump rose in Maomao’s throat. She felt his nearness with every cell. How easy it would be to turn to him, touch his hand, and tell him. Just say it.
Instead, she stood, slipping awkwardly out from under his hand.
“Later,” Maomao muttered softly, straightening her robe and gathering her scrolls and oils — hiding, again, behind her work.
Jinshi watched her for a long moment. She could feel his gaze on her back — warm, piercing, and slightly sad. Only when the door closed quietly behind him, leaving his unseen presence in the air, did Maomao slowly crouch down, hiding her face in her palms.
“Fool,” she scolded herself, fingers clenching. “Why is it so hard?”
***
“Moon Prince, you’ve been staring at one spot for half an hour. Are you feeling alright?”
The sound of Basen’s voice snapped Jinshi back to reality. The brush he’d been twirling left several dark ink stains on the documents — a small mistake that would cost him a few extra hours of work.
He tossed the brush aside and leaned his head on his hand, as though his thoughts had grown too heavy to carry.
“Yes, I’m just…”
Just that Maomao hasn’t been herself lately.
“…nothing. Don’t worry, Basen.”
Basen was an excellent aide — loyal, disciplined — but not the kind of man one could share personal turmoil with. Jinshi couldn’t shake thoughts of Maomao.
She rarely complains about her health, but lately she’s been so tired… He was observant by nature, yet he felt something slipping past him. He’d give her the world, all the rarest medicines — anything to make her happy. But now she seemed to turn away from all of it.
Jinshi sighed, lowering his head onto folded arms. There was something almost childlike about him — like a boy lost in a strange city, too proud to ask for directions.
He rubbed his forehead against his sleeve, as if that might clear his thoughts.
“It just hurts… when someone you love starts drifting away, and you can’t even understand why.”
Basen sighed heavily. Not the first time he’d seen the Moon Prince tormented like this. He looked down, keeping a respectful silence before finally speaking.
“Understood, my lord. The reinforcements will arrive tomorrow.”
***
“Sister Maomao! Sister Maomao!”
The familiar voice pierced the stillness of the apothecary room, shattering Maomao’s last chance to spend her break in peace.
Chue burst into the room like a whirlwind, holding three skewers of fragrant grilled chicken in each hand—two already stripped bare. Maomao’s stomach betrayed her with a growl; she suddenly remembered she hadn’t eaten since morning.
“Sister Chue, Sister Chue,” she said dryly.
Chue handed her the skewers, still chewing on the last of her own. Sauce smeared across her lips in a carefree, delicious mess. This noisy, fidgety girl seemed to make the very walls vibrate with her presence. And perhaps, Maomao thought, that was exactly the kind of energy she’d been missing lately.
Chue flopped into the chair beside Maomao’s desk, eyeing her like a hawk as she ate, clearly waiting for something. When Maomao kept her gaze fixed on the scrolls, Chue slid closer, circling her face like a curious snake.
Nothing escaped Chue. Maomao’s favorite defense—pretending to be a clueless fool—worked on almost everyone, except her.
“Has a little star lit up beside the Moon, perhaps?”
Maomao almost choked on her food.
How—how could she have given herself away?!
She felt her cheeks flare with heat and turned away quickly, feigning sudden interest in her scrolls. But Chue’s knowing eyes sparkled; she didn’t need words to understand.
Maomao chewed mechanically, though the food no longer went down easily.
“Sister Maomao has her own circumstances,” Chue had once told her, “but that can’t always be an excuse.” The words echoed in Maomao’s mind now, cutting through her thoughts.
When Chue’s teasing hit too close to the truth, Maomao always felt like a child trying to hide a secret from an adult. Her silence alone was enough of a confession.
“He doesn’t know yet,” Maomao said at last, forcing calm into her voice. She set her skewer down. Chue, swift as ever, snatched the plate and drew it closer to herself, savoring the aroma while keeping her sharp eyes on Maomao.
“He’ll figure it out,” Chue said, nudging her with a grin. “It’s written all over your face. You just need to be a bit braver—and not be afraid of making the Moon Prince too happy.”
Seeing the worry flicker in Maomao’s eyes, Chue shrugged, her smile softening.
“Chue, I…” Maomao faltered. This conversation had knocked her completely off balance. Chue, as always, was right—but Maomao wasn’t ready to reveal the truth.
“I understand,” Chue said gently. Then she leaned forward, adding with a sly warmth, “But I think he senses something too. Sister Maomao knows how deeply he feels for her. I’d wager this news will make him very happy—even if she’s too scared to admit it herself.”
A quiet sigh escaped Maomao’s lips. It was so hard—so strange—to be in this new role. Her life had always been a web of logic and hardship, full of equations she could solve. But now her heart wandered like clouds—untethered, shifting, and impossible to grasp.
Still, Chue’s words left her feeling a little lighter.
***
That evening, after a long day’s work, Maomao returned to their room, closing the door behind her softly. The brief ease she’d found was already fading. The chamber was cozy, shadows swaying in the soft glow of candlelight. Jinshi was still working elsewhere.
She approached the window and drew the curtain down with care, her thoughts swirling. Her eyes traced the familiar shapes of the room as if they could offer answers—but the more she sought calm, the more elusive it became.
Mother…
Fengxian. It had been a long time since she’d thought of her so often. Too long.
Mother. But how can someone have a “mother” if they never knew what a mother’s love was? How can one become something for which no example exists?
Maomao had never known warmth—never felt a mother’s arms, never heard the tender words of comfort that should have belonged to her. Instead, she was raised by the courtesans of the Verdigris House—the “sisters” with whom she still kept ties despite the scars of her childhood. They gave her care, but their world had no place for love. There was only survival—walls and armor to shield the soft parts of the soul.
Now, with life stirring inside her, she felt fear like never before. “I don’t know how to be a mother. How to love as I should. What if I do everything wrong? What if, like Fengxian, I’m unworthy?”
In her mind, an image of the child appeared—a tiny life dependent entirely on her care, her love. But how could she give what she had never received? How could someone born in pain pass on tenderness she had never known?
“I can’t be like her,” Maomao thought, tracing the scarred curve of her little finger. “I can’t. But I don’t know how to be anything else.”
Jinshi hadn’t come back yet. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes, sighing. She wasn’t ready. But no one had asked whether she was. Darkness folded over her like a blanket, filling her mind with quiet despair and unspoken hope. She drifted into sleep—a sleep without answers.
***
The next morning, Jinshi’s workday began as always—with sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains and heavy silence filling the office. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to start reading the endless reports. He stood by the window, lost in thought, when the door opened softly behind him.
“So that’s what Basen meant by reinforcements,” he thought, turning to see Gaoshun entering with his usual composed dignity. Only now did Jinshi feel his thoughts beginning to take shape. Gaoshun always seemed to know how to help, even when others dared not speak.
“Basen said there’s a matter he can’t handle alone,” Gaoshun began evenly, his perceptive gaze steady. “Has something happened to Moon Prince?”
Jinshi sighed and stepped away from the desk. He was tired—tired of paperwork, but more than that, of his own helplessness. He hesitated, then decided not to hide what weighed on him.
“Maomao… she feels distant lately. I don’t know what to do.” His voice softened, tinged with worry. “She’s been acting as though she’s keeping something from me. We barely talk. Maybe I did something without realizing it… maybe she’s just tired of palace life.”
Gaoshun studied him quietly, weighing every word.
“Have you noticed any other signs? Her health, perhaps?” he asked, ever attentive to hidden details.
Jinshi sat down, resting his head in his hands. He tried to recall the past few weeks, piecing together the small fragments that troubled him.
“Yes… she’s mentioned nausea once or twice. Gets tired more easily. But she never complains. Even when something’s wrong, she hides it.” He paused, his face thoughtful, almost pained. “Something’s different, but I can’t tell what.”
Gaoshun’s expression remained calm, though a faint smile ghosted over his lips. He already knew the truth—but kept it to himself. The future child of the Moon Prince… that was news to be spoken by Maomao alone.
“There’s nothing to worry about, my lord,” he said softly. “Soon enough, you’ll understand everything.”
Jinshi lifted his head, meeting Gaoshun’s serene gaze. That quiet confidence was comforting. Without realizing why, Jinshi felt the tension in his chest ease. Somewhere in that calm promise, hope began to take root.
***
Jinshi carefully opened the door to the apothecary room, stealing a brief moment of silence.
His break was short, but he couldn’t resist — he wanted to see Maomao, if only for a moment.
The room smelled of herbs and bitter infusions. A faint, tart haze hung in the air. At the worktable sat Maomao — small, focused, bent over a wooden mortar. The light from the window fell softly on her shoulders, catching strands of her hair. She murmured something under her breath as she ground the herbs with patient care, entirely absorbed in her work.
Jinshi held his breath, watching his beloved from the doorway. Just to look at her — the precision of her movements, the way she wrinkled her nose when a scent was too strong — was a quiet sweetness he could never tire of.
And then he noticed.
Maomao, finishing her motion absentmindedly, took her hands off the mortar... and, without thinking, slowly and gently laid her palm on her belly. As if checking. As if protecting.
Jinshi froze.
He drew a tiny breath, and his heart tightened painfully, as though there was suddenly too little room in his chest. Everything around him — the distant chatter of the inner courtyard, the rustle of pages behind the wall, even the sound of his own heartbeat — vanished.
Like thunder in a clear sky — sudden, without warning — realization struck.
“Could it be…?”
After six years in the harem, he couldn’t mistake that gesture. He knew it. He’d seen it before.
But this time, it wasn’t some other woman. It was Maomao. His Maomao.
No, he couldn’t let himself rush ahead.
If it was true — if he allowed himself even a spark of hope — and was wrong? What if it was just fatigue? Or simple distraction?
Jinshi drew another shallow breath, as if the air had grown heavy. He kept his eyes on her — Maomao, his precious Maomao — unable to look away. She looked so fragile, so small, and yet — strong, unconsciously guarding a new life within her.
He suddenly understood her recent tiredness, her distance, the subtle shifts in her mood, her quiet attempts to hide unease… and why Gaoshun had smiled that day with such knowing warmth.
“Or… am I only imagining it?”
Jinshi clenched his hands behind his back, just to keep himself from stepping closer.
He saw Maomao frown slightly as she leafed through her scrolls, then lower her shoulders in quiet fatigue.
And for the first time, he felt how deeply he wanted to touch her — gently, reverently.
To shield her from all the world’s unrest.
To protect.
Jinshi stood in the doorway, unable to enter or to leave, feeling his heart fill with a quiet, trembling, unquenchable light.
He felt it — but he still didn’t allow himself to believe.
***
Maomao sorted herbs, her fingers automatically separating dried petals, though her thoughts kept drifting — again and again returning to what now lay hidden inside her.
Without realizing, she placed a hand on her stomach, stroking it lightly, as if to make sure it was real. A tired smile flickered on her lips and vanished.
Then — a barely audible sound near the door.
A faint rustle, like the wind stirring the curtains.
“Just fatigue,” she thought. “I’m imagining things.”
With a sigh, she looked back down at the table.
Work awaited.
***
Maomao finished earlier than usual. It wasn’t dark yet, but she decided to return to her quarters and rest properly.
When she opened the door, she found Suiren fussing over the incense burner. The elderly maid was carefully changing the mixture, ensuring the smoke rose in thin, delicate streams.
“The young master asked to replace the fragrance,” Suiren explained with a kind smile. “He said something gentler would be better.”
Maomao nodded silently, watching the transparent wisps curl lazily toward the ceiling. She allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment, breathing in the faint scent — one steeped in quiet care. For the first time in days, she felt the desire to simply… stay in that peace, just a little longer.
***
Night had long since fallen, wrapping the palace in velvety silence.
Maomao lay awake, staring into the dark, breathing in the faint aroma of the new incense — soft, unobtrusive, chosen as if with her in mind. Sleep wouldn’t come.
“I’ll tell him. I will. Just… a little later.”
A rustle at the door.
She knew those footsteps instantly — light, careful.
But she didn’t move, pretending to be asleep.
Jinshi slipped beneath the canopy like a shadow, afraid to disturb her. His hand rested gently on her shoulder. He drew her into his arms, pressing her close, and kissed the crown of her head softly, as if she might break.
“Sleep, my little one,” he whispered, and his breath against her ear sent a wave of warmth through her.
Maomao squeezed her eyes shut. She had to tell him. She’d meant to — so many times.
“Now. I’ll say it now…”
But in that tender embrace — that careful, wordless love — her voice faltered. She only squeezed his hand lightly in return, as if in her sleep. A silent promise.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure.”
To the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, she finally let herself relax — and drifted into long-awaited sleep.
***
Breakfast began as usual.
Rice porridge, as usual. Green tea, as usual. The soft haze of morning light gliding across the table — as usual.
Maomao sat quietly in her chair, drowsiness wrapping her like a gentle veil.
When she lowered her gaze to the bowl before her, the air behind her shifted slightly.
With the same delicate care only he possessed, Jinshi discreetly placed a small cushion behind her back.
As if it had always been there. As if nothing had changed.
Maomao froze.
The gesture was unexpectedly touching. She stared at her porridge, feeling her ears grow warm.
“…The incense,” she murmured at last. “It was different yesterday.”
Jinshi set down his cup, trying far too hard to appear casual.
“Suiren decided to change it,” he said. “The previous one was too strong.”
Maomao shot him a sharp look.
He averted his eyes, carefully straightening the edge of the tablecloth — as if the fate of the empire depended on it.
“And the cushion?” she asked softly.
Jinshi didn’t answer right away. He set his chopsticks down.
Still avoiding her gaze, he said lightly, “It’s just… more comfortable that way. That’s all.”
They both pretended to believe it.
And continued breakfast as if nothing had happened. As usual.
***
That evening, the bedroom was wrapped in cozy quiet.
Maomao was changing into her nightclothes when the door creaked softly — and Jinshi slipped in without a sound. He immediately noticed the missing cushion behind her back, and wordlessly placed it there. Then he poured her tea. Then checked the window for drafts. Then, inexplicably, inspected the lamp. Then adjusted the curtains.
Maomao watched him, her eyes widening with every small motion.
Jinshi moved as if on autopilot, never meeting her gaze — as though pausing even for a heartbeat might cause his emotions to spill over.
Maomao sighed, struggling not to smile. At last, she couldn’t hold back.
“Jinshi,” she said, “Even if i’m pregnant, I’m not made of porcelain.”
The tray slipped from his hands with a crash. Silence filled the room.
Jinshi blinked. Slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“…What did you just say?” he croaked.
Maomao shrugged, as if speaking of something ordinary.
“Pregnant. About two months, I think.”
Jinshi opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. If someone had asked him to add two and two just then, he wouldn’t have managed it.
“You…” He took a step toward her, stopped, then another. “Maomao… is it… true?”
She gave a brief nod.
He blinked again.
Then he sank to his knees before her — carefully, as though even the air might harm her — and with trembling fingers, he reached out and lightly touched her belly.
“Maomao…” he breathed.
Tears welled in his eyes, and he didn’t even try to hide them. Surprised by his reaction, Maomao gently brushed his hair with her fingers. In the quiet, where only their breathing could be heard, he pressed his forehead to her belly — as if blessing the tiny miracle within.
“Thank you…” he whispered. “Thank you.”
Only then, when he lifted his face to her — full of love and awe — did she allow herself a small, tender smile.
Her heart was beating faster than usual, and with every breath her chest felt lighter. Jinshi’s presence was a shelter — a warm, quiet refuge in the storm. She looked at him, at his eyes brimming with love and wonder, and all the things that had haunted her — fear, doubt, the shadows of old memories — began to fade.
The tension in her chest melted like morning mist, and Maomao realized that despite all the difficulties, despite her anxieties and dark recollections — she wasn’t alone. There was him. The man who loved her. The man who believed in them both.
“My little baby,” she thought, looking at him, “you may not have a perfect mother. But you’ll have the most loving, most caring, most wonderful father in the world.”
And that was enough.