The moon rose quietly over the Inner Palace, silver light slipping through the lattice window and settling in soft pools across Moon's futon, painting the tatami in pale stripes that shifted with the breeze. The room lay hushed, the day's warmth fading to night's cool touch, the faint scent of cedar and leftover tea lingering like a memory not ready to leave. Hui-lan had stepped out only moments ago—her warm voice fading down the corridor with a soft "Sleep well, mago"—leaving Moon alone in the quiet quarters, the blanket half-kicked off her legs, her hair scattering across the pillow like dark ink strokes spilled free.
She lay on her side, one arm under her head, blinking slow at the ceiling beams that curved gentle overhead, the paper screens glowing faint with moonlight. The palace's hum had stilled—distant footsteps gone, the courtyard's willow rustling soft like a lullaby half-sung. Moon mumbled to herself, voice thick with the day's weight and the futon's pull—"…Crystal Pavilion… Diamond Pavilion… Northern Quarter… Shrine of Choosing… Undercover… official… Gaoshun-sama… not actually a eunuch… Six courts… Rear Palace…"
The words tumbled out soft, her own voice feeling too small for the room, like reciting a list that didn't fit her tongue. She turned onto her back, one arm flopping over her forehead, the blanket tangling at her waist. "Why does everything sound like a riddle book… or like I'm studying for a quiz I didn't sign up for…"
She laughed breathless—tiny, confused puff of air, the sound lost in the hush. Then she went still, the moonlight catching her eyes, turning them to dark pools reflecting the beams above. Her mind replayed the day in slow motion: the warmth of Obāsama's hands combing her hair, patient fingers untangling knots like years of care; the jasmine-scented halls curving endless, red pillars gleaming like secrets; the carved beams overhead painted in gold that caught the sun and held it; Gaoshun-sama's strict calm, gray eyes seeing too much; the way the maids whispered behind sleeves, their pastel robes fluttering like birds; the heavy-ranked hierarchy pressing in from all sides; the silent, perfect movements of feet on lacquer; the jewel-named pavilions glittering in her memory like forbidden treasures; the clinic in the north, the institute, the shrine.
And then—the fragrance.
That strange, soft orchid-like fragrance she had smelled... on the mountain, cold wind carrying it faint; in her dream, wrapping the silver light; in the corridors, blooming velvet when Gaoshun-sama stood close; near the bathhouse steam, hidden in jasmine; and somewhere she couldn't name, pulling at her like a thread from another life.
Moon sat up slightly—blanket slipping to her lap, fingers brushing the collar of her robe where the scent clung faint, blooming warm from her skin. "…That scent… why was it everywhere…?" The whisper came soft, her voice trembling on the edge of something big, the moonlight catching the curve of her cheek, the loose strands of hair framing her face.
Her brain, slow and gentle at first, began stitching pieces together—like a quilt pulled from a box long closed, threads finding their matches one by one.
"…six courts… women's quarters… official pretending to be a eunuch… Gaoshun… diamond pavilions… crystal… jade… chemical knowledge… herbs… the clinic… the Shrine of Choosing…"
The palace felt suddenly too familiar. Dangerously familiar.
She sat up straighter—futon creaking faint, heart thudding once—loud in the hush. "…No way. No… no, no, impossible—"
She shook her head quick—hair whipping her cheeks, hands clutching the blanket edge like it could anchor her. But her brain continued its quiet assembly, like a machine she couldn't stop, pieces slotting neat and inevitable.
One piece. The mountain's wind. Another piece. The flute's silver note. Another. The petal's warm touch. Another. The book's pages flipping wild. Another. The palace halls curving just so. Another. Gaoshun-sama's name on Obāsama's lips. Another. The scent—orchid night bloom, rare and pulling.
Her heartbeat picked up, matching the rhythm of her breath, the moonlight pooling brighter on the floor like it knew.
Then—the last memory clicked.
A name she didn't want to think—but couldn't avoid.
Her favorite story. The world she reread most. The characters she cried for. The palace structure she knew—too well, from late nights under a lamp, pages worn soft from turning, illustrations of jewel pavilions and northern clinics and a girl with freckles who saw poisons in pretty flowers.
Her eyes widened slowly—like dawn creeping across darkness, the realization blooming gentle but unstoppable, filling the room with its weight.
"…The .....The words came out bare whisper, trembling on her lips, the moonlight catching the glisten in her eyes.
The moment she said it—everything shifted.
A breeze slipped through the open window—cold and sure, rustling the paper screen, carrying the night's chill but something warmer beneath. And suddenly—the fragrance bloomed in the room. Not faint this time. Not delicate.
Strong. Warm. Everywhere.
That same scent from the ridge—velvet orchid, night bloom divine, wrapping her like the wind's arms from the mountain, filling her lungs with promise and ache.
Moon's breath caught—sharp inhale, chest tightening beautiful, her hands clutching the futon edge.
"…It can't be— I mean— I'm dreaming— right—?"
As if answering her—a soft flute note floated through the night air. Distant. Lonely. Haunting.
The same melody from the mountain—silver thread weaving through the dark, pulling at her heart like a call home.
Disclaimer
This work is a fan-made story inspired by The Apothecary Diaries. The world, its canon characters, and original setting belong to their creators.
Moon, her journey, and all new scenes written here are entirely my own creations. This story is shared purely for love of the universe and for personal enjoyment. No copyright infringement is intended.