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Maomao expected Jinshi to be mad.
Actually, if she’s being honest with herself, she wanted him to be mad when he learned she gave his hairpin away—and to a traitor, no less. She would rather have faced his wrath than this twisted forgiveness she never asked for. There is no legal grounds for punishment, when ownership of the hairpin had been transferred to her, and having been released from the rear palace, there isn’t any work-related punishment Jinshi could have doled out either. If he were upset, she would have gotten passing insults at worst, had he even deemed her worthy to visit.
Instead, she’s being given something far more heinous.
Jinshi clings to her—wraps his arms around her, buries his face in the fabric of her robes, and refuses to let go. He’s never had any particular respect for her boundaries, but this is…worse, somehow. It’s not the guilt of the re-gifting the hairpin or her lingering attachment to Shisui; Maomao feels no remorse over either of those things. She knows she doesn’t deserve Jinshi comforting her in the aftermath, but the crux of the issue is that she doesn’t want it either.
He hugs her like he thinks it will press all her broken pieces back together, seal them in place, and leave gold dusted over the cracks.
But Maomao fears the pressure will only shatter what she already worked so hard to patch up.
Jinshi visits her regularly.
Like a spectre she can’t shake, haunting her just as much as the memories of Shisui, Jinshi shows up at the Verdigris House as if his sole duty as eunuch-slash-emperor’s brother is to bother Maomao at work. He brings her flowers and various herbs, and then asks her to tell him about any medicinal or poisonous properties they have, voice dripping with sympathy that burns Maomao’s flesh.
He sits too close, and gazes at her with suffocating affection, and he doubles down on his efforts whenever they’re in view of someone else as if he doesn’t notice her prickling with discomfort.
He tucks her hair behind her ear, leans in and murmurs a soft, “I hope my company can offer you some solace.”
Maomao grits her teeth, fingernails digging into her palms. “Not really.”
As always, Jinshi reads her words too kindly. His breath is warm against the shell of her ear, sending a shudder down her spine, as he replies, “I can’t begin to imagine the pain you must be in, but I swear I’ll be here to help you through it.”
And what could Maomao possibly do to push away a captor with royal blood? How can she escape a prison cell that everyone else believes to be the greatest gift of all?
Maomao would not say she has ever been in love—she’s not even sure she would be able to give a certain definition as to what romance entails. It’s always seemed like a cage to her; a woman settles for the man least likely to mistreat her and a man claims whichever woman best fulfills his sexual desires. Could that really be the same love that fairytales exalt?
Then again, Maomao doesn’t feel much for any of the people around her.
She cares for them, sure, but she cares for herself most. Ultimately, she is going to choose herself over any other person she knows. She could blame it on the way she was raised, but truthfully, she is likely just a selfish person only intent on chasing after her own desires and unable to find intrigue in the lives of others. And she could blame it on the blood that runs through her veins, but she detests the idea that something such as that could be genetic. Besides, her biological father has a few exceptions—Maomao herself and his adoptive son are both more than game pieces to him, and something inside of him must still love the woman who gave birth to Maomao.
Maomao might place her adoptive father’s well-being over her own, but at the same time, she’s aware he wouldn’t want her to. He would say something like, I am but an old man while you have your entire life ahead of you, Maomao. Do not trade your life for mine, and Maomao would listen. Why wouldn’t she?
And the only other person who came close to being an exception for her was—
“Would you like to talk about her?” Jinshi asks, as he always does. He doesn’t dare utter her name, but there is only one person he could possibly be referring to. There is only one person Maomao might desire to hold a heavy conversation about.
“No,” she replies, voice tight, the same answer she gives every time.
“Are you sure?” Jinshi presses. “It can’t be good for you to keep such things bottled up, and I’m more than happy to listen!” He speaks with a smile like lily-of-the-valley; beautiful and easily grown but deadly if you dare ingest it.
“Yes.”
Shisui is not a topic Maomao wishes to discuss with Jinshi—or anyone else, for that matter. She doubts there is anyone who could understand the toxic blend of emotions that swell up within Maomao whenever the girl crosses her mind. She is the worst poison Maomao has ever touched, and she would swallow her whole in a heartbeat if given the chance. She would press her hands against every inch of Shisui’s body and watch the blisters bubble up on her skin, she would breathe her in only to choke, she would devour her even if she tore her stomach inside out on the way back up.
She is Maomao’s exception, if there ever was one.
But how could she dare tell the brother of the emperor that the closest thing she has ever felt to fairytale love was for another woman, for the traitorous consort? And that even then, it wasn’t quite like the love she imagines everyone else must feel? It would be wiser for Maomao to poison herself.
“Oh, Maomao…” Jinshi mutters, hand brushing her cheek, burning in a way that makes Maomao understand why most people avoid toxins. If poison felt like this—this bone-chilling, skin-crawling, nauseating, thing—she would never want to engage with it either. “Why won’t you let me care for you?”
She wants to scream: YOU FORCE YOUR CARE ONTO ME REGARDLESS!!!!
But she swallows down her despair and feeds him a vaguely annoyed, “I didn’t ask for you to do that, you know,” instead.
“You didn’t have to,” Jinshi says, like it’s meant to be reassuring.
Maomao wants to hurl.
The others at the Verdigris House coo over her, teasing her about Jinshi and how he clearly likes her and how she’s so lucky because he’s sooo gorgeous, and it’s not exactly a new experience, but this time, their gushing actually has grounds. They’re right that Jinshi has deemed himself in love.
They’re just wrong to imagine Maomao could ever feel the same.
“It’s cute how he’s so enamored with you!” Meimei insists.
Maomao makes a face. Cute is the last word she would use to describe Jinshi—especially in regards to how he feels about her. His love is the anchor dragging her to the bottom of the ocean and the water filling her lungs. She’s gasping for breath, begging for release, but to everyone else, her screams sound the same as laughter.
“I don’t like him,” she spits out.
Pairin pats her head. “But he’s good to you! I doubt you’ll ever find another man as gracious as him. Why won’t you even give him a chance?”
And what can Maomao say to that?
Her sisters’ stance will remain the same, even if she explicitly says she will never feel love in the way that they do. Even if she admits that, should she have to choose someone to marry, she’d much rather it be a woman than a man. It won’t have anything to do with whether or not they believe her, either—this is just the way the world works.
A woman settles for the man who is kindest to her, because that is all she can do.
Maomao could never be with Shisui the same way she could be with Jinshi, regardless of the rebellion and her subsequent death. Whether Shisui met Maomao as a low-ranking maid, or Loulan met Maomao as one of the four highest-ranking consorts, they could not be together. If Jinshi wants Maomao, however, all he has to do is say the word and she will be his. And she should be grateful, because he’s beautiful and wealthy and important and treats her well enough, but—
The rear palace and the pleasure district are no different from one another in the fact that they are both gardens, and they are both cages. The palace as a whole is the same way.
And so is love itself.
Jinshi tries to kiss her like it will make her feel better.
But Maomao cannot find comfort in touch that has been steeped in love like his.
Maomao scrubs her skin raw after Jinshi leaves, trying in vain to wash away the spores of love he left on her body. No matter how hot the water, or how rough she rubs, she swears she can still feel him. She swears she can hear the huff of his laughter in her ear as he revels in the fact that nothing she does will ever erase the fact that he has decided she belongs to him.
In a dream, Shisui asks Maomao, “Why won’t you just accept him? Don’t tell me you’re silly enough to cling to me.”
It’s not that, Maomao thinks, and Shisui hears, because this is a dream and she is nothing more than a figment of Maomao’s imagination haunting her from beyond the grave. I don’t need you. I just don’t want him.
“But you don’t want anyone,” Shisui points out. “If everyone is the same to you, why wouldn’t you go for the best you can get? I mean, come on, the emperor’s brother?” She plops down beside Maomao, grinning with her eyes shut. Her hair is tied up, and she’s wearing her festival attire, except the bottom half is green instead of red. “I’m so jealous!”
“No, you’re not,” Maomao mutters, pulling her knees to her chest and looking away. She understands Shisui’s point. In terms of men, Jinshi isn’t that bad. He’s pretty enough. He’s given Maomao rare ingredients for her medicines. He sort of let her get away with whatever in the rear palace.
But he also refuses to accept rejection.
He wraps Maomao up in hugs that feel like strangulation, and he touches her because he believes she wants it, and Maomao has tried to express her disinterest in any way possible short of committing a very punishable crime of treason, but he interprets every No as Not yet; keep trying.
Shisui sighs. She leans her head on Maomao’s shoulder, and this weight is comfortable. “You’re right,” she admits. “I’m not. But I’m also you, so.”
Silence stretches between them for a long time. Maomao watches the stars twinkle far overhead.
Finally, she admits, “I am going to become the wife in your story.”
Shisui makes a vague noise of confusion.
“Like a praying mantis. If I marry a man, I’m going to rip his head off.” It’s not a threat against Jinshi so much as it is Maomao’s analysis of her own character. “He’ll try to find sacrifices to put off the inevitable, but there will come a time when no ox bezoar can distract me from the fact that I’m stuck in a prison that is rotting me from the inside out. Eventually, I’ll turn on him, and I’ll tear him apart. I’ll make myself sick gorging on his poison, and then I’ll run off to die alone.”
It would be so easy. Maomao knows all of the best ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident or unfortunate illness, and Jinshi has placed his full undeserving trust in her. He could be the first corpse she touches—he could be the human body she uses as medicine despite her father’s warning not to. If it’s either Jinshi or Maomao, she will choose herself. Every single time.
She’ll gut him and face the same fate as Shisui if that is the only escape from his love she can find.
Shisui giggles. She takes Maomao’s hand in hers. “Well, when that happens, how about you come find me instead of laying down to die?”
Maomao turns to face her. Her eyes are still closed. Her face is blurred. She’s forgetting what Shisui looked like. But the hairpin is tucked into her collar, and her smile is clear as day.
“Okay,” Maomao agrees. “As long as you don’t fall in love with me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”