Section 01 — Morning After
The night had clung to Moon like a shroud too heavy for dreams, unravelling her sleep into threads of half-seen shadows and flute notes that twisted like smoke. She lay on the futon, not twisted in battle with the sheets, but still—arms loose at her sides, breath shallow as if afraid to stir the air. Her hair spilled wide, a cascade of midnight ink fanning across the pale weave of the mat, strands catching the first hesitant glow seeping through the shoji. It framed her face like a forgotten halo, wild yet serene, as if the palace itself had woven it there to anchor her to this world.
Eyes open, but not seeing. The ceiling beams stared back, etched with the faint scars of seasons past—cracks like whispered regrets. Why can't I close them? she wondered, the thought a faint ripple in the quiet pool of her mind. The garden's glow lingers, petals brushing my skin in the dark. Names on the wind... mine? Hers? If I sleep, will it pull me under for good? Her fingers twitched once, brushing the edge of the futon, but she stayed motionless, a leaf caught in the current's pause.
Morning came alive then, reluctant at first—a blush of rose-gold bleeding through the screens, turning the room from ink-wash Gray to something warmer, almost forgiving. Distant sounds stirred: the soft clack of geta on veranda wood, like rain testing the eaves; the hush of water poured into basins, steam rising with the scent of fresh rice and faint, blooming camellia. The Inner Palace exhaled, shedding night's secrets for the day's careful mask.
A sound came from behind the door—a gentle tap, muffled as a fox's paw on silk. Moon's eyes shifted, slow as a lantern's sway, toward the shoji's rice-paper glow.
"Obāsama," she called, voice steady, threading through the quiet like a needle's pull. "Please come in. I am awake."
The door slid open with a whisper of wood on track, admitting Hui-lan like a breeze carrying morning's edge. The older woman's shadow filled the frame for a breath—kimono layered in muted greens, sleeves wide as protective wings, her face a map of lines etched by years of watchful service. In her arms, a bundle of folded robes, tray balanced precarious. She'd braced for the usual: Moon buried under quilts, hair a tangle of rebellion, groans muffled against the pillow. The girl had slept like the dead these past days—deep, drugged by exhaustion or whatever shadows Gao-shun-sama had chased from her when he dragged her in from the outer garden.
But here she was. Awake. Poised. Hair a deliberate spill, eyes clear as dew-kissed jade. Hui-lan's step faltered, the tray dipping like a sail caught in sudden calm. What is this? The surprise bloomed in her chest, sharp as a hidden thorn. No bleary blinks, no lazy stretch like a cat claiming the sun. She's... composed. As if the night polished her instead of breaking her down.
Hui-lan cleared her throat, the sound a dry leaf underfoot, masking the whirl in her mind. "So, Mago," she said, the nickname slipping out soft, a habit from easier days. "Did you sleep well last night?"
Moon nodded once, simple as a brushstroke on silk. "Yes, I did."
No elaboration. No tales of restless ghosts or gardens that breathed in the dark. Just the words, hanging clean in the air. Hui-lan's thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the girl Gaoshun-sama had hauled into this quarter just days ago—wild-eyed, questions spilling like overturned tea, her scent a storm of unfamiliar blooms that made the other maids wrinkle their noses. So different then: a puzzle half-solved, edges jagged and begging touch. And now? The same face, the same slight frame, but something had shifted—like a lantern relit, casting shadows in new directions. Changed, Hui-lan mused, the word tasting of old warnings. But how? One night, and she's... fitted. As if the palace swallowed her whole and spat back a key. She kept it locked behind her teeth, though. No need to stir the silt just yet.
Hui-lan stepped closer, setting the tray down with deliberate care, the robes unfolding like secrets offered up: a kosode of soft peach silk, edged in silver threads that whispered of cranes in flight; an obi of deeper rose, knotted potential waiting. "Mago, this is your new attire. Gaoshun-sama sent it for you—said it suits the work ahead. Here, let me help you into—"
She hadn't finished. Moon's hand reached out, swift and sure, while her head dipped low—a bow of deep respect, the kind reserved for elders whose roots ran deeper than the palace foundations. Strands of her hair slid forward like ink trails, brushing the tatami. "Arigatō, Obāsama," she murmured, the words fluid, laced with a reverence that hummed like temple bells.
Hui-lan recoiled, not in fear, but in the jolt of lightning under skin. Her hands hovered, empty now, as Moon lifted the kosode herself—sliding it over her shoulders with a sigh of fabric, no fumble, no wince at the cool kiss of silk. Arigatō? That bow? Hui-lan's voice cracked on the edge of confusion, surprise threading through like smoke. "Mago... are you all right?"
Moon nodded again, fingers already working the obi—folds falling neat, sash cinching with a final tug that spoke of hands long familiar with such rites. The peach bloomed against her skin, turning her from stray shadow to something ethereal, lit from within.
Hui-lan pressed, words tumbling faster now, laced with the confusion of a scroll read backward. "Where did you learn this?You used to complain about the layers—'too tight, like chains for a bird,' you'd say. Ask a hundred questions about the weave, the dye, as if this palace were some foreign shores washed up at your feet. It is new to you, child—one night, and suddenly you move like you've lived these halls a lifetime. Like the walls taught you their pulse in your sleep."
Moon paused then, the obi half-tied, her reflection caught fleeting in a polished bronze mirror—eyes distant, as if gazing through veils of rain. A small smile curved her lips, not bright as dawn, but soft, tinged with a melancholy that hung in the air like fading incense. She turned fully toward Hui-lan, the movement graceful, unhurried. "Yes," she said, voice calm, but laced with a sadness that seeped deep, like ink bleeding through paper. "It feels like I've remembered who I was."
The words landed soft, but they struck Hui-lan like a hidden blade—clean, unexpected. Sadness radiated from Moon, not in tears or tremor, but in the quiet drop of her lashes, the way her breath caught on the edge of a sigh. Remembered. The echo of Gao-shun's warning crashed through her then, clear as a gong: Watch her close, Hui-lan. If fragments return—if she recalls a name, a face, a thread from before—send word to me at once. No delay. His eyes had been storm-dark that night, voice low with the weight of secrets the apothecary kept like poisons in vials.
I must tell him, Hui-lan thought, the resolve coiling tight in her gut, a vine wrapping stone. This isn't mending. It's remaking. A new girl emerging from the old shell—what if she's not ours to keep? What if the palace claims her back? The missive in her sleeve burned suddenly, half-written in her mind: She speaks of memory. Moves like a consort's shade. But not yet. Not with that fairy-light poise Moon wore now, calm as a shrine pool under moonlight, angelic in its otherworldly hush.
Moon finished the knot, smoothing the sash with palms that knew no hesitation. She looked up, eyes steady, the sadness tucked away like a folded fan. "Obāsama," she said, voice even, a bridge rebuilt. "I am ready."
In a heartbeat, Hui-lan's face softened—confusion melting into warmth, like frost yielding to sun. Her eyes traced Moon's form: the silk draping like petals on a favoured bloom, hair tamed now into a loose coil that begged for jade pins, the whole of her glowing with an innate grace that whispered of bloodlines silkier than these robes. "Mago," she breathed, voice blooming tender, petals unfolding. "You look so beautiful. Like the daughter of some high lord—like a princess stepped from the emperor's own scrolls."
Moon's smile returned, calm as a lotus on still water, but humble in its curve. "I am honoured to hear this, Obāsama. But this child is just a servant—one you took in, sight unseen, to this palace without knowing why."
The sentence fell plain, echoing the grim truth of so many inner maids: bartered like fine porcelain, sold into silk-wrapped cages by families chasing a sliver of Favor. Yet Moon's delivery lifted it—words polished, cadence flowing like a courtly verse, carrying echoes of chambers far grander than this. More than rote; it was memory, wrapped in deference, hinting at depths the palace might drown a girl for knowing.
Moon tilted her head then, practical light flickering in her eyes. "So, Obāsama—what's today's task?First, the rear palace kitchen: food for the noble ladies, and preparations for the baths.Let's head there now, or we'll be late."
Hui-lan blinked, the world tilting like a sake cup overfull. What sorcery? The thought chased her down the corridor as they stepped out, Moon's zori tapping soft beside her own—rhythmic, assured, no novice's stumble. This girl, speaking like a whirlwind tamed—crazy one moment, ancient the next. Doesn't belong in our dust and duties, our whispers and watchful eyes. And in one night? Changed like a pupa split open, wings unfurled. What are you, child? And what will you cost us? Confusion swirled in Hui-lan's mind, thick as miso steam rising from the kitchens ahead, mingling with the faint, unnamed fragrance that trailed Moon now—orchid-soft, edged with something sharper, like crushed petals underfoot.
The corridor stretched before them, screens flickering with painted mists, attendants bowing shallow as they passed. Moon moved through it all with quiet ease, head high but eyes downcast in proper yield, as if the palace's invisible currents parted for her alone. Hui-lan stole glances, her warmth from moments ago curdling back to wariness. Gaoshun-sama will know. He always does.
They turned toward the rear inner palace kitchen, where the air already hummed with preparation: the sizzle of pans on charcoal braziers, the chop of knives like hushed confessions, scents of dashi and ginger weaving through steam-shrouded doors. Noble ladies' trays waited, lacquered and expectant—rice molded into flawless orbs, fish sliced translucent as moon-glow. Baths beyond that: waters scented with hinoki and yuzu, screens veiling the rituals of flesh and Favor.
Moon walked on, calm unbroken, hair swaying like a banner half-raised. The morning deepened around them, alive with the palace's endless dance. But in Hui-lan's pocket, resolve hardened like cooling wax. Watch closer. Report sooner. Before the threads she remembers tangle us all.
And somewhere, in the east wing's shadowed hush, a flute lay waiting—its silence a promise, heavy as the scent without a name.
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.