Chapter Text
Rising Ashes Beneath the Moon
The Rear Palace — Summer
Maomao is bored. Direly so. It has been a month and a half since she was kidnapped on her daily walk for herbs. A month and a half of working as a laundry maid, far, far away from the prospect of working as an apothecary and testing poisons. She has been reduced to a lowly servant of the upper classes, and she can feel it with every fan-hidden and sleeve-covered glance in her direction from the countless concubines, officials, and assistants.
She had been perfectly content with her previous life, even if it remained solely within the pleasure district of her hometown. Lustful men ran rampant, and brothels were incredibly popular, so she and her adoptive father made a fair amount of profit by treating those who had had too much to drink or who had exceeded their welcome and ultimately faced the consequences of an elegant woman's iron fist.
There was never much ambition for anything else. Maomao had enjoyed the simple life. She was free to do whatever she pleased without the stalking eye of higher officials, officials who itched to see a mistake, because it meant that they could have their way and get rid of any individuals who threatened the positions of those they admired.
The Rear Palace is essentially a hunting ground. It nurtures survival of the fittest, a systematic decluttering of the less-than-worthy of the Emperor's favour. That worth is measured by family, manners, and most importantly, unpretentiousness. How one presents themselves greatly determines the kind of life they will lead, and the connections they will make. Nobles who hold their heads high, remain poised, and smile and wave where necessary receive more praise than those who remain with the glow permanently plastered onto their faces and shoulders pulled back in confidence. Those who quietly give to charity and make it subtly known at gatherings are far more caring than those who advertise the good deed like a pot-bellied pig craving a tummy rub.
It's idiotic, and it's barbaric.
As Maomao makes her way through the palace gardens, basket of linen and silk garments in arms, she can't help but take in the scenery around her. She is surrounded by proud red pillars and grand pavilions, covered brick pathways and shockingly green, landscaped gardens (though, to Maomao's disdain, they lack any useful vegetation for her escapades), and tall protective walls, encasing regal apartments with curved roofs upon stone platforms and timber-framed sliding doors.
She checks the symbol on a small wooden block in the basket one more time before stopping in front of one of these doors, the same marking etched into the wooden pillar beside it, and knocking softly. A lady-in-waiting dressed in lavender opens it, staring down at Maomao with a poor attempt at disguising contempt.
Yes, judge the woman who has cleaned your mistress's clothing for her. It should really be your job if you're truly the devoted woman you claim you are.
Maomao considers doing a poor job the next time she receives a washbasket from this particular address. She decides against it. She cannot risk endangering herself in an already hostile environment, even if she is not the immediate target of disgrace.
On her way back, she decides to take a longer route, towards the gardens near the High Consorts' pavilions. They're much more opulent compared to the others in the rear palace, more fragrant and grandiose with the array of flowers and miniature plant sculptures pruned into twisting spirals and teardrops.
A laundry maid like herself looks entirely out of place in this area with her yellow-brown and white robes. It's risky, yes, but Maomao is there for completely logical reasons. There are, in contrast to the other plainer gardens, weeds. Weeds that the palace gardeners completely discard after plucking them out of the earth. Dandelions and purslane are very common, which Maomao is glad about. Purslane in particular would prove highly useful.
At the end of summer, daily life reached its absolute worst. Workers sweltered, the workload for the laundry maids doubled due to extra sweat, and bugs flew around at much higher frequencies.
Mosquitoes are the bane of humankind, Maomao determines as she slaps her hand down on one that sits on her forearm, killing it instantly. In the high heat, mosquitoes were regular little shits, biting anyone and everyone. Purslane provided an adequate solution: when crushed, the paste could be used to soothe their bites. Laundry maids who cleaned outside with hot water would thank Maomao profusely when she began delivering the remedy. They promised they would keep it a secret, for it was common knowledge that women, especially those without formal certification, couldn't practise medicine. She was essentially their secret dealer.
Dandelions could help with inflammation and stomach troubles, which was good for the workers. Many of them had come from low-income families, desperate for an extra salary and one less mouth to feed. The food was bland, usually some kind of soup or porridge, and typically couldn't fill the stomachs of most of the girls. Maomao, who had always been fairly small and thin, wasn't too bothered by this, but dandelions could help to create the illusion of fullness for a short period of time, putting some of the hungrier girls at ease.
As happy as Maomao was to have access to these simple medications, her skin itched for more. She had seen poison nut trees scattered around the grounds, and every single time, she had ached hard to take a few of its fruit. The seeds, in controlled amounts, were said to contain a toxin that helped with swelling and poor circulation. But, and this was what Maomao was fascinated by, in higher quantities, even just a sliver, they could act as a lethal poison like its name suggested. Her adopted father, Luomen, was a highly skilled apothecary, and he had claimed that the toxin could cause agonisingly violent muscle spasms and asphyxiation, ultimately leading to a painful death.
Maomao had always wanted to experiment with it.
She'd had a thrill for pain as a result of her fixation on poisons (which was the result of Luomen teaching her the trade of an apothecary from a young age), and enjoyed testing their plethora of effects. Her research had led her to particularly enjoy vitality-boosting drugs, as they allowed her to continue her work, as well as poisons that left a light tingling on her tongue. The only thing she actively avoided, although it was not technically poison, was buckwheat. She had attempted to gain a resistance to it, but it always seemed to claw at her throat before tightening its grip. Both she and her father had found it wise to call it an inability to digest for herself specifically—Luomen was perfectly fine with it.
The pleasure district equipped Maomao with the freedom to fulfil her scientific desires. Here in the rear palace, she was confined to cloth and soap suds, worn footpaths and being trampled on by pairs of shoes worth more than her house tenfold. Her days were spent scrubbing away at and hanging hanfu upon hanfu, undergarment upon undergarment, and delivering them across what felt like miles to the women who owned them. The vast walks were not worthy of the disdainful looks she received, purely for being of one of the lowest ranks.
It's not like she wanted to be there, after all. She had known that kidnappings were on the rise where she lived, and she had been naive enough to assume she would continue to remain safe and unaffected. Then she had stupidly bent down to pick up a patch of medicinal herbs in a field, leaving herself completely vulnerable, and she was enclosed by a group of men and shoved into a wooden box. At every bump in the road, she was slammed into one of its sides, gathering sawdust and splinters in the air that she would inevitably inhale and choke and splutter on. But that was that, and she is now in the employment of the Emperor's concubines.
She folds the front of her skirt upwards with a huff of breath and begins plucking at the weeds in front of her. She can't afford to think about home; she just has to get on with her life until her contract expires. Two years would pass by swiftly, surely.
As she treks her way back to her quarters, she ignores the appalled looks of the ladiess around her. Yes, she was technically unnecessarily dirtying her clothes, but it wasn't them having to do it, so who cares? She bites back a dry insult and continues onward.
"Oh, what do you have there, Maomao?" Xiaolan asks loudly when she arrives in their sleeping quarters, her sweet, high voice ringing through the air around them. The rest of their roommates are still working.
Maomao pulls the lid off of her possessions box (gratefully received when she first arrived in the rear palace) and retrieves a handmade pestle and mortar that she had painstakingly carved from large enough stones she had found on walks. She also takes out two handkerchiefs, also given to her when she arrived, and separates the dandelions and purslane between each one.
"Is Chunhua's stomach still sore?" Maomao asks instead of responding, and when Xiaolan nods, she sighs and grabs three dandelions, ripping off their heads and plucking the leaves from their stems. "Do you have a spare handkerchief? I'll give you one of mine once I'm done with the purslane."
"What's purslane?"
"I use it to treat your bug bites, remember?"
Xiaolan gives an exclamation of happy surprise and rushes to her own box to retrieve a handkerchief.
She is an intrepid, joyful girl, a few years younger than Maomao. She had been in the rear palace for longer, though. Born into a very poor farmer family, she was grateful to be able to support them as well as get guaranteed meals. She has about a year left on her contract, and Maomao finds herself somewhat (and surprisingly) upset to see her go. She ignores it and takes the handkerchief from her with a small thanks, wrapping the dandelion leaves in it. When Chunhua finished her work, Maomao would give her the makeshift parcel.
Xiaolan watches the meticulous work with a clear look of awe. She has no idea what Maomao is doing, of course, but she knows that it has to be helpful if she is doing it so urgently. "You're so kind, Maomao!"
Maomao gives a small smile.
The remainder of the day consists of her teaching Xiaolan how to read. She is the only literate laundry maid, something that gained her a great advantage, but she chooses to keep it hidden. Remaining invisible suited her far better—there was less trouble to arise, and she would be able to promptly move along with her tasks for the rest of her contract.
Eventually, the rest of their roommates come to rest before dinner, Chunhua being one of them. She's a small girl, smaller than Xiaolan but around the same age, with dark raven hair and round grey eyes. Maomao notices an unnatural paleness to her skin and sweat on her brow, so she urges her to sit quickly. She leans down in front of her. Rather than handing the parcel over, she unfolds the fabric and brings two of the dandelion leaves to Chunhua's mouth.
"These should help for a while," she says quietly.
Chunhua cringes slightly as she allows the leaves to slip past her lips. She chews nervously and swallows them as if they were iron. Maomao gives her a hard expression, attempting to analyse the amount of discomfort she is in. She avoids her gaze, likely out of fear of her face, which is understandable—Maomao was not good at being comforting—and continues pressing her thumbs into her stomach.
"Have you thrown up yet?" Maomao questions. Chunhua shakes her head. "Well, that may be the next course of action if you continue feeling this unwell."
The poor girl's face goes even paler, and her lips quiver.
An emetophobe, Maomao concludes before going to take a nap.
That night's dinner consists of a lightly coloured, salty broth, and it seems the Heavens are in their favour because a small plate of charred greens is served alongside it. Maomao savours the taste of pepper and soy sauce as it hits her taste buds, and she can't help but let out a contented sigh. Xiaolan seems to match her satisfaction and squeals lightly as the flavours land on her own tongue. It takes a while for either of them to actually speak because they're too busy enjoying the meal, but Maomao shifts her gaze over to Chunhua.
She's still strangely pale, but she appears to be more comfortable. She's eating well enough. Maomao is pleased as she spoons herself another mouthful of broth.
After a few minutes, Xiaolan practically jumps out of her seat with a gasp as she leans forward and takes Maomao's wrists in her hands. Maomao jerks awkwardly with the movement, and nearly chokes on a piece of cabbage. She gives Xiaolan, who laughs awkwardly with an apology, a glare, but offers an ear.
"Have you heard," Xiaolan begins, "about the Emperor's infants?"
Maomao ponders for a moment. "Their illness?"
"Yes!"
It was pretty common knowledge, especially within the confines of the rear palace. The Crown Prince, the Emperor's heir, and his older half-sister, the Princess Lingli, were terrifyingly sick from the same ailment, and it appeared to be worsening. The Princess was faring slightly better, and her mother, the Precious Consort, Gyokuyou, was in good health. The Crown Prince was reportedly getting sicker by the day, and his mother, the Wise Consort, Lihua, was deteriorating similarly. Nobody, not even the palace physicians, could figure out why.
Admittedly, Maomao has wanted to go and see them for herself, but her excruciatingly inferior rank meant that she would be turned away even before she could reach the steps of the Jade and Crystal pavilions, respectively.
"Well, it's hapless, but there's not much that can be done."
"They're getting worse, Maomao. They might die!"
"It is none of our concern. The Emperor still has a brother." She sips at her water, expression blank.
Yes, it is a sharp, fairly cruel response, but it is accurate. If, Heavens forbid, the Crown Prince should die, the Moon Prince would return to his role as heir of Li. It was a clear thing to understand. Surely he would be content with that, despite the misfortune that allowed it. Maomao could dream of having that much power, but she knew within every fibre of her being that it was foolish to do so. With great power comes great responsibility.
It also comes with selfishness. Greed. Malice. Lust. Insanity disguised as passion, abuse in the form of justice. In some cases, proof of aggression takes shape in the form of a child. Maomao knows that the current Emperor is not like that. He truly does attempt to rule with fairness. Countless towns and lives have been changed for the better, with sturdier infrastructure and higher salaries, and a higher level of food distributions during shortages in poorer communities. Nobles talk about his humour and his cleverness, and Maomao hears concubiness gushing over his good looks.
Yes, he may also be rumoured to be a womaniser, but he appears to be everything anyone can hope for in a rightful ruler. It's just unfortunate that good people are cursed with tragedy.
Maomao rests her chin in her hand and looks around the dining hall. There's nothing in particular that she's seeking out until she notices something peculiar. A few of the girls are consistently scratching their arms and necks quite vigorously, and she can just about see reds and pinks blooming upon lightly tanned skin. The skin is clearly irritated. As she looks to the right of the room, she can pick out a few others with similar ailments. The rashes are concentrated on their hands.
Gossip and complaints spread naturally through laundry. It's a surprise to not have noticed these things before.
She recognises the laundry girls as the ones who commonly serve around the western part of the rear palace. She doubts that it is a coincidence. Xiaolan is still talking about what could be wrong with the royal children, possibly a curse (which is a foolish notion), but now, Maomao's mind is entirely elsewhere. She wonders what could have caused the rashes. It cannot be their uniform; otherwise, everyone else would be suffering, too. She suspects hay fever, but then again, these girls aren't usually affected by it.
Perhaps she can investigate tomorrow, so long as she gets her work done fast. Maybe she would go to the matron to ask to be moved to the western pavilions before the task table was released.
Yes, that sounded fair.
The matron is a short, round woman with a kind face. She believes Maomao when she claims that the girls have requested her assistance due to her speedy work, and is thankful for Maomao's generosity.
The next day, the heat has lowered slightly, something that everyone finds themselves appreciative of. Maomao joins the five girls, who she learns are called Yingyue, Ai, Baoyu, Fenlan, and Ning. Baoyu is the eldest, a tall, thin girl of nineteen years. Ning is only fourteen.
They are all still scratching themselves, and it becomes even more frequent once they come into contact with the soap.
Maomao watches red bloom darker on their skin as they scrub away at the clothes, and she asks Baoyu to stop for a moment.
"Can I see the soap you're using?"
Baoyu is confused as she hands over the wet, white bar. Maomao knows that she might end up with a few rashes herself if her thought process is correct, but she shrugs the feeling off and brings the bar of soap closer to her nose. It smells nutty. She frowns.
"Is there rosehip oil in this?"
Baoyu blinks. "Well, yes, apparently… The ladies that we do laundry for requested that we use this because they like the smell."
It takes everything within Maomao not to let out a frustrated groan. It catches itself in her throat, and she closes her eyes with a deep sigh.
"There are likely loose hairs within the soap as well, then…" she turns to the other girls, getting their attention as well. "Did you start getting rashes after you started using this soap?"
They all nod nervously.
"You should know that rosehip can act as an irritant, which is probably why. I suggest informing the matron as well as the ladies you do laundry for. We don't want any of the hairs remaining in the clothing."
Yingyue lets out a squeak of surprise and immediately drops the soap into her basin. Ai scolds her and quickly lifts a soaking hanfu out of it before transferring it into a new one with fresh water. Fenlan and Ning follow her lead.
Baoyu appears embarrassed and apologises profusely to Maomao for being so silly.
"I should have known—"
"Many people don't." Maomao cuts her off.
Plum blossoms fall from trees nearby, landing close to her feet. She picks up a handful.
"It's unfortunate, but the ladies should understand why this soap can't be used anymore. It's a shame to give up the things you like." For a brief moment, she thinks of home. She thinks of Luomen and the Verdegris House, a brothel in which she was raised for the first few years of her life, which sounds disgraceful to an ignorant ear. She thinks of the freedom she once had, when she could experiment with ease and explore the fields. She remembers the smell of scorched ash that fluttered through the air as she fell asleep.
She shakes it off.
Baoyu is the one who informs the matron about the rosehip, though she hides Maomao's involvement as requested. Again, remaining invisible ensured no trouble. The matron writes to the ladies of the western pavilions, and the letters are sent off swiftly. Maomao is content. But she still has to help with the rashes.
It takes her until an hour before dinner to find any, but soon enough she has an ample supply of dittany root bark from bushes around the rear palace ready to dry out. She's hanging them by her window with worn string when Xiaolan comes bounding in with a grin.
"The lady I delivered laundry to today gave me some meat buns! She said they were leftovers and nobody else wanted them!"
So, the pair of them sit by the window and eat their meat buns. Xiaolan elaborates on the Emperor's curse. Some theorised that his enemies had hired witches to curse his offspring, which is why the imperial children had all fallen ill or died. Others just claim that royal blood as a whole is cursed, purely because the universe is punishing them for their false sense of superiority. Maomao couldn't care less.
Although… it is an intriguing situation from a medical perspective.
Medically, there are a large number of reasons for an infant to die before or after birth: poor sperm quality, uterine problems, jaundice, honey and water instead of milk. Maomao can go on and on. But it's intriguingly peculiar for such an intense change in health after two months, and this applied to both of the Emperor's current children. The fact that Lady Lihua, too, is getting sicker and sicker implies to Maomao that something more serious than a simple cold is going on. It can only be some kind of continuous exposure to a negative source.
The sudden thought makes Maomao pause, her teeth stopping deep into the bun. Xiaolan is now preoccupied with a pair of birds chirping by the window, so she can continue her ruminating freely.
Was there a common source? It would make sense, especially because they were both royal children living within the same quarter of the palace.
She thinks back to the rosehip in the soap—one common cause had negatively affected five girls. And the fact that Lady Lihua is also incredibly sick but Lady Gyokuyou isn't does pose the idea that this could actually be an act against the imperial heir.
Well, there's nothing I can do from where I stand, Maomao thinks gruffly, sinking her teeth through meat and dough and chewing irritatedly.
The next morning finds Maomao exactly where she had been two days prior: picking dandelions. Chunhua had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, vomiting and still complaining about stomach troubles, as well as a fever. Maomao knows that there's not much else she can do other than give her dandelion leaves to settle her digestive system, and Chunhua says that the palace physician can't seem to do much either.
She's plucking the weeds from a garden near the Crystal Pavilion, Lady Lihua's residence. She would be lying if she said it wasn't due to the hope of seeing her in person to discern whatever illness she, and therefore the royal children, may have.
Still, it seems that there is no sign of her, so the only thing that Maomao has gained from her endeavours is a slightly useless plant.
As she makes her way back with dandelions atop a dirty laundry basket, there's a large crowd around a corner, and people are gasping. She tries to feign disinterest, but soon enough she's at the back of the crowd, peeking over the heads of murmuring eunuchs and concubines.
Lady Gyokuyou is in the arms of her head lady-in-waiting, cupping a red cheek with a slender hand. Her jade eyes glisten with tears that refuse to fall as she lets herself be helped up and attempts to reason with her attacker.
"Lady Lihua—"
"Be quiet!"
The voice is sharp and shrieking. Maomao follows it, only to come face to face with the exact woman she has been looking for: the Wise Consort.
Lady Lihua is clearly an incredibly beautiful woman, but it seems the illness has worn her down to the bone. Quite literally. She's horrifically skinny and shakes as she stands tall and arrogantly before Lady Gyokuyou. Her brow is drenched in sweat, and her face is entirely white. She looks eerie as a ghost, though it seems the term 'banshee' would be more accurate.
Lady Lihua is screaming and crying, blaming Lady Gyokuyou for the curse upon her son.
"You're just jealous that I had a boy and you did not!"
"No, I—"
"You are! You are!"
"My Lingli is just as sick—"
Lady Gyokuyou can hardly get a word in, and in this moment, Maomao pities both of them. It's heartbreaking to watch your child's health deteriorate, especially if your own is deteriorating at the same time.
The Precious Consort attempts to speak again.
"Both of our children are lethargic, yes? Neither of them can sleep or eat; they only cry and cough and throw up sick! I want them both to get better, truly, Lady Lihua! We must try other methods—"
"Do not lie to me! You applied the same curse to your daughter just to gain pity and deter suspicion! She will improve, I'm sure! But my son… my son…" Lady Lihua covers her mouth with a trembling hand, choking back a gutwrenching sob.
"At this rate, I doubt it!"
Maomao lets out a deep sigh and removes herself from the crowd. She's never been much of a stickler for drama, but now she has seen Lady Lihua's current state, and she can make an inference. As she walks, she rubs her chin thoughtfully.
At this rate, both the prince and the princess are going to die… What could it be?
She stops, legs rigid.
Lethargy, digestive troubles… and in Lady Lihua's case, ghostly pale skin… Her mind shifts towards a specific individual, someone who may turn out to be the catalyst for cracking the case. She murmurs to herself as she turns the corner, completely unaware of the man she passes. He turns to watch her walk onwards, eyes widened in shock and confusion, before, slowly, a proud grin etches his features.
Maomao continues down the many pathways and reaches the laundry maids' quarters, where Chunhua is crouched and clutching her stomach behind a bush. The smell of sick is prominent, and the girl is still strangely pale. Maomao crouches down beside her, reaching out to rub her back. She is drenched in sweat and shaking.
For a brief moment, her skin appears artificial, so Maomao gently runs a finger down Chunhua's cheek. A white powder comes cleanly off. She sniffs it and rubs it between her thumb and index finger before speaking.
"When did you get this face-whitening powder?" She attempts to sound soothing.
Chunhua lets out a shaky breath before answering. "A lady I served was kind enough… to give me a spare tin. I think it was about a month ago."
Maomao hums. "And when did you start feeling ill?"
"About…" she swallows thickly. "three weeks ago."
The times add up, Maomao thinks flatly, eyes scanning over Chunhua once more. Her symptoms are undoubtedly similar to the imperial children and Lady Lihua. The face-whitening powder seems to be a vital clue. Lady Lihua's complexion was pale, but it was by no means natural, even for a sick woman. That meant that she also had to have been wearing some kind of powder. It would also explain why Lady Gyokuyou appeared completely unaffected.
Many high-ranking women wore face-whitening powder, as paleness was seen as beauty. Lady Gyokuyou is from the west, where the people are naturally light-skinned. She does not need cosmetics like that.
"It's best you stop using it. Throw it away. Give it a few weeks, and you'll get better in no time."
Maomao does not elaborate—she has a job to do.
After dropping off the laundry basket (she left it by her bed), Maomao is climbing a tree. What she's doing could prove highly dangerous. It's improper for a woman, let alone a laundry maid, to partake in such activities, but now that Maomao has put her mind to something, she will stop at nothing to see it through. She doesn't want credit, but if she can cure the royal children, her mind will be put at ease and her boredom partially cured. She will have done what she does best: use her knowledge to expose poisons, and act as a secret, basically illegal, apothecary. She just has to get these branches to catch the consorts' attention and make sure they read her notes.
Ah, Maomao thinks as she drops to the ground. I do not have parchment.
Her gaze moves about her sleeping quarters when she enters until she looks down at her robes. It'll do, she supposes. She makes sure that no one is nearby before she rips a reasonably large strip of fabric from her uniform and tears it again to make two separate sheets.
Now she just needs something to write with. She suddenly remembers a small case of rouge powder given to her by a kind lady, and digs for it in her possessions box. By mixing it with her saliva, she creates a makeshift ink and uses her finger to clumsily scrawl a message on each sheet of fabric.
'The face powder is a poison. It will kill the child.'
Again, it's a sharp message, but Maomao doesn't know how else to make the importance of the situation stand out. She ties the ends of the sheets to the tree branches and hides them in her box. She'll deliver them before nightfall.
After she finishes washing the laundry, hanging it to dry, and eating dinner, she sneaks the branches under her newly adjusted skirt and makes her way to the Crystal and Jade Pavilions. She sneaks around the back of each grand building, leaving the branches upon the sills of open windows before she leaves, blending herself in with the darkness.
She can only hope that the High Consorts will heed her warning.