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Maomao is conducting yet another dubious experiment in the Quack Doctor's office when Basen bursts in.
"Maomao! Come quickly!"
Maomao grumbles internally. What does Master Jinshi demand of me now? She puts down her work—an experiment using turmeric and yew tree bark. "What can I do for you, Master Basen?"
"Master Jinshi has fallen ill. He requests the presence of the apothecary."
Guen—the Quack Doctor—sits up. "Why, I can assist! I would be honored to—"
"Please, Master Jinshi insists on the apothecary," Basen says, bowing and keeping his tone even.
Maomao has to bite back a smirk. For once, Master Jinshi's right. The Quack Doctor would be about as good as inviting a jester over to help heal his ailments. "All right, Basen. If you'll let me clean up here, I'll be over promptly."
Inside Master Jinshi's personal quarters, Maomao stands, hands pressed in front of her, arms covered by her green overshirt. Suiren bustles about wildly, opening windows, lighting incense, gathering up soiled laundry, puffing up pillows. I'd hate to see her when something's actually wrong.
"Oh, Xiaomao! I'm so delighted you're here. I haven't seen the Young Master so under the weather since he was a child."
Maomao raises her eyebrows. "What can you tell me about his ailment?"
"Last night, the Young Master fell ill with a terrible fever. Extreme fatigue, shivering, chills, aches. A bit of cough and difficulty breathing."
Hmm. Sounds like some kind of viral infection. Respiratory, perhaps. "I'll need the distilled alcohol, several rags. And a few supplies. Willow bark, yarrow, peppermint—"
"Hold on, girl! I need to write all these things down!" Suiren exclaims, scrambling for a scrap of paper and ink.
Maomao puts her arms in front of her face, shielding her disdain with her long, green sleeves. Geez, I hate being the only competent one around here.
While Suiren fetches Maomao's supplies, Maomao enters Jinshi's bedchambers to assess his condition. Gaoshun stands at the door, a silent sentinel. When Maomao crosses the threshold, she smells the scent of illness despite the open windows—a slightly sour, metallic scent. Certainly not even close to the worst thing Maomao's ever smelled, and she's sure she's the only one who can detect it.
Maomao approaches Jinshi's bed, seeing him adorned by pristine silk sheets. His dark hair is spread out on the pillow like a glossy fan, and his pristine skin shows little sign of illness other than the loss of color on his cheeks. In the midafternoon light, he sleeps like a maiden from a storybook.
Of course he's still stunning even while sick. How annoying.
His eyes flutter open, and Maomao has to avert hers. She bows.
"Apothecary." His voice is husky and feather light. Ugh, even his voice is made sexier in illness. "You came."
Maomao rises to meet his eyes. "Of course, Master Jinshi. How could I refuse?" Her voice lilts with sarcasm, but Jinshi doesn't seem to catch it.
Maomao begins examining Jinshi with clinical efficiency, just like her father Luomen taught her. She checks his pulse, peers down his throat, presses the back of her hand on his forehead, uses her fingers to feel the lymph nodes under his chin and on his neck. It's not until Maomao demands that she examine his abdomen that Jinshi flushes.
"Master Jinshi, please. This is standard procedure when a patient comes down with fever. I'm checking your temperature and for distention, stiffness, and pain."
Jinshi flutters those long, dark lashes and Maomao sets her jaw. How many times does this trick have to not work on me before he realizes that it won't work on me?
Eventually, he relents and Maomao pulls back the sheets. Jinshi opens his robe, revealing his even-more-perfect torso. Velvety-smooth skin, perfectly toned in all the right places and soft in all the other ones.
Maomao begins by feeling the lymph nodes under his armpit. Swollen, definitely. Then she moves down, pressing the back of her hands on his stomach. High fever, but not nearly high enough to be dangerous just yet. She presses her hands into his body. "Any pain?"
Jinshi's got his lips pressed together, and there's still some of that embarrassing pink on his cheeks. He shakes his head no. "Mm-mm."
"Are you sure, Master Jinshi? You're looking—"
"Yes, Apothecary, I'm sure."
Maomao removes her hands. He's broken out in a sweat now, and his face is redder than ever. Strange, this doesn't seem to be a symptom of his illness.
Once Maomao's covered him back up again, Suiren returns with her supplies. Maomao sits at the mahogany desk near an open window and begins working on making several medicines: a willow bark and elderflower tea with honey and a paste made of eucalyptus leaves.
Maomao approaches Jinshi's bed again, placing the tea down on a small round bedside table. She helps him sit up, adjusting the pillows behind his back, and they drink tea together. Gaoshun sits at one of the other desks, doing paperwork.
"How are you enjoying your work with Concubine Gyokyou?" Jinshi asks.
"I like it very much, Master Jinshi."
"And Concubine Gyokyou and her ladies-in-waiting, they treat you kindly?"
"Of course, Master Jinshi."
"Would you tell me if they weren't?"
Maomao can't hide her confusion, but she quickly bows with her arms over her face. "I am but a lowly servant, Master Jinshi. My treatment is entirely dependent on my performance."
"But you would still tell me if I asked?"
As if I could say no to any of your requests. "Of course, if you asked, I would be obliged to tell you."
Jinshi gets this terribly conflicted look on his face that Maomao can't parse through. What is he thinking? She rarely can figure that out.
Maomao's medicines seem to work fairly well, and Jinshi perks up in the late afternoon. Maomao and Jinshi play a few rounds of shogi, and when Maomao tires of this, Jinshi pouts until Gaoshun plays with him. She is able to get some work done while in Jinshi's quarters, but she wishes she could escape to the clinic for only a few hours.
She's working up the courage to ask Gaoshun if she can be excused for an hour or two when Jinshi's health begins failing again. Maomao makes another round of willow bark tea, adding in yarrow this time, but nothing seems to help. Jinshi's burning up, trembling like a leaf beneath the covers. She demands that Gaoshun open his robes, and she smears some of the highly pungent eucalyptus leaf paste on his chest. Soon, he begins breathing easier, but no matter how much willow bark Maomao pushes, his fever won't break.
Jinshi floats in and out of delirium as Maomao presses a cold cloth to his face and chest. She sits by his bed, brushing the hair away from his damp forehead. Oh, Master Jinshi, she thinks. Always pushing me to my limits.
But the truth is, Maomao loves seeing her medicines work—almost as much as she loves to test poisons on herself. She knows that Jinshi's breathing easier because of her eucalyptus rub and the willow bark tea did work until now.
The afternoon turns orange and periwinkle, and Gaoshun alerts Maomao and Jinshi that dinner will be served soon.
"What's on the menu?" Maomao asks. "Master Jinshi requires a special diet."
"What do you suggest?" Gaoshun asks.
"Congee and some kind of meat broth on the side."
Gaoshun nods. "Anything for Master Jinshi. What can I get for you, Xiaomao?"
She waves him off. "I don't care, anything."
Gaoshun disappears, and Maomao glances out the window. It's autumn, meaning that illnesses are going around, and it'll be dark before Maomao can blink. But now she and Master Jinshi are alone. A shiver runs up and down her spine. Alone. She shouldn't be alone with him. No way. If anything happened, she could get in major trouble. She clenches her hands together, thinking of that frog.
Oh well, I didn't need my head attached to my neck anyway.
But Master Jinshi . . . He said he'd never let anything like that happen to her. Does he really have that kind of power? Can she trust he'll do what he says?
As she gets up from her chair to go grind more eucalyptus, Maomao jolts when Jinshi grabs her hand at the last minute.
"Maomao." She freezes solid at the sound of her name on his lips. His eyes are half-lidded, his face clammy and pale. "Stay with me." She pulls him with impressive strength toward his bed.
"Master Jinshi," she whispers. "We’re alone."
"I know," he says, his voice low and thick in his chest.
"Master Jinshi . . ." A chill runs over Maomao. No way. I can't do this. If Gaoshun comes back and I'm in his bed! Nothing Master Jinshi says will prevent what's inevitable.
"Master Jinshi, I can't." Plus, I'm not too keen on catching whatever it is Master Jinshi has.
He pouts, his grip on her wrist still ironclad. "Maomao, please."
She weighs the options in her head. Please Master Jinshi and risk everything, or say no and still risk everything? I have no good options.
Maomao stares down at Jinshi, at his jewel-toned eyes, at his pale face. He looks so worried, just as worried as he did when she dove in front of the pillar and injured herself.
"All right, Master Jinshi. I'll stay."
Tentatively, she sits on the edge of his bed. His hand is heavy and pleasantly warm. With her one free hand, she continues dabbing cold water on his forehead. Jinshi is lost again to the fever, eyes flitting back and forth rapidly under his eyelids. Somehow, now he’s even more beautiful.
Maomao startles when Gaoshun opens the door, dinner tray in hand. He stares at the two, and Maomao stands up immediately, her face heating.
"I apologize, Master Gaoshun. It was per Master Jinshi's request that I stay."
But Gaoshun shakes off his surprise effortlessly and speaks nothing of it. He sets the tray down on the bedside table. "This is Master Jinshi's meal. Yours will be coming promptly."
After dinner, Maomao makes more willow bark tea, stronger this time, and forces Jinshi to drink two cups. The autumn wind blows in cold through the cracked windows, and Jinshi shivers.
He's not getting any better. The Emperor will certainly have my head on a stake if he dies. She doesn't think he will—die, that is—but it's clear that Jinshi is sick and suffering, down with a terrible fever.
"Are you cold, Master Jinshi? Should I close the windows?"
He swallows hard, and opens his mouth to speak. But Maomao only catches whispers.
She leans in. "Please repeat yourself, Master Jinshi."
"I . . . I'm asking too much of you."
Maomao draws back in alarm. Well, that's certainly true. But I can't say that. Certainly not while Master Gaoshun is listening. She dips the cloth into the bowl of cold water—more lukewarm now—and wrings it out, dabbing it on his neck and collarbones. "Master Gaoshun. Can you replace the water?"
"Of course, Xiaomao."
They're alone again. Jinshi grasps her hand again, and Maomao's heart pounds in her chest, from fear or pleasure she can't tell. Slowly, tenderly, he lifts her hand to his lips and plants a kiss there. His lips are hot but so unbelievably soft that it makes Maomao unreasonably angry. Gooseflesh breaks out on her skin, and she resists the urge to pull away, but the moment's so tender and real that she merely goes along with it. She's seen Jinshi kiss many women's hands with his sparkly, nymph-like eunuch persona. But here he is vulnerable, young, unabashedly himself.
This is the Jinshi I enjoy being around.
Maomao startles again when Gaoshun enters. Can't the man learn how to knock? But it's too late. Gaoshun clearly saw something, because a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He silently places the bowl of cold water on the bedside table and removes their dinner dishes.
Maomao stands and follows Gaoshun to the door. She bows, covering her face. "Master Gaoshun, please . . ."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Xiaomao."
She rises, feeling nothing less than grateful. "Will I be expected to care for Master Jinshi overnight? If so, what are my sleeping accommodations?"
"Your talents are needed here, yes. You may sleep wherever you like."
The implication is clear in his tone—she of course can return to her old room while she was here, but Master Gaoshun will protect her if she awakens in Master Jinshi's bedroom.
Something inside Maomao freezes again. The moment her mind begins to think of what she wants, her thoughts bounce off it like rubber. I have a job to do. That's the long and short of it.
Back inside Jinshi's bedchambers, night has fallen, navy and starry. The windows are still cracked and the lavender incense has burned down. Maomao lights another stick before approaching Jinshi's bed alcove again. She sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wood paneling. She inhales sharply when Jinshi reaches up and runs his fingers through her hair. He's not in his right mind, she reminds herself.
She turns to him, sees the flush on his cheeks, his heavy lids, and thinks that under the influence of fever, he may be in the most right mind she's ever seen him. Gone is the sparkly eunuch, the man with all the power. Here, he's just a boy not unlike her. Unguarded, undone.
"How are you feeling, Master Jinshi?"
A shiver runs through him, and his eyebrows crease deeply. Maomao dabs the cloth on his cheeks, down his neck. Before she knows it, he has grabbed onto her wrist and pulled her down onto the bed. Maomao stifles a yelp as she crashes onto the silk sheets. Jinshi holds her close, pulling her into his embrace from behind.
"Master Jinshi, please let me—"
"You saved me."
Maomao freezes again, feeling his warm breath tickling her neck. "What?"
Jinshi reaches down and pulls up her pant leg, revealing the eight-inch long scar running down her calf. Her skin looks mottled in the firelight.
Ah, that's what he means. I was wondering when we were going to talk about that. But I'd rather not.
"You saved me," he repeats.
"Master Jinshi, I was merely doing the right thing."
But this does little to appease him. His strong arms shiver around her, radiating with fever, and Maomao holds herself unbelievably still so as to not melt into his embrace. She couldn't.
But Jinshi holds her tighter, despite the fever and delirium that warps his consciousness. She puts her hands up to grasp his forearms in an attempt to stop him, but it's no use. He buries his face into her neck, and she can smell his sandalwood perfume, plum blossom soap, and the eucalyptus paste on his broad chest.
"You saved me," Jinshi says again, his breathing labored and his forehead slick with sweat. He doesn't know what he's saying. He reaches up with a shaky hand to brush Maomao's hair away from her face. "Thank you."
It's this acknowledgement that finally makes Maomao melt, to accept where she is. Her spine softens, her eyelids drift closed and her grasp on Jinshi's arms goes tender. The candles burn low, and the incense flickers out. Despite the cracked windows, Maomao is warm.
"Stay with me, just a little while longer," Jinshi murmurs. Another round of fever shakes causes him to hold her tighter.
"I already told you, Master Jinshi. I'll stay."