The Inner Palace kitchen came alive before the sun climbed high over the east walls. Its stone floors were still damp from the night's cool air, now warmed by the soft crackle of fires lit in metal stoves. Steam rose slowly from big pots of bubbling soup, filling the air with a warm mist that softened the low wooden ceilings and reed mats. Knives hit cutting boards in a steady beat—chop, chop—slicing carrots and greens with careful aim. The smells mixed together, thick and familiar: the rich taste of dried mushrooms soaking in hot water, the fresh bite of new greens, touched by the smoky hint of burning wood that added a light char to everything. It was busy but normal, like a steady flow—maids moving through the heat like parts of a well-oiled machine, their soft laughs hidden, their looks quick and smart, all to prepare trays for ladies whose real wants hid behind pretty smiles.
Moon knelt by a low wooden basin, its sides worn smooth from years of use and steam. Her sleeves were tied back with a simple rope, bunched up to her elbows, the soft pink silk of her robe already sticking a bit in the warm damp. She worked at her own pace, hands dipping into the cool, dirty water—drawn from the palace well that morning, with a faint earthy taste from the deep ground. One by one, she cleaned the vegetables: radishes turning pink under her thumb, their skins washing off dirt like old worries; burdock roots, rough like twisted fingers, giving way to her soft scrub. She lined them up on a bamboo tray with quiet care—stems straight like lined-up books, leaves spread flat and neat—as if the task was a calm way to settle her thoughts.
These steps... they feel like they know me, she thought, the idea blooming soft in her mind, like a note from a quiet flute. Not new from today, but pulled from some old box—hands that washed these same things for ladies with hidden smiles, in rooms where steam covered the hint of bad tastes in food. The quiet fights for attention: a stomach ache here, a skin rash there, all part of the game for the emperor's notice. Am I fixing them now, or just doing what I did before? Her eyes drifted to the water's surface for a moment, rippling with her breath, showing a face that was hers but also not—eyes clear, lips in a small, hard-to-read smile. No rush. No mess. Just the quiet feeling of fitting in, without trying.
Across the room, Hui-lan watched over the stove like a careful guard, her own sleeves pulled high, the wooden spoon in her hand stirring rice porridge in slow, even turns. Small bird eggs floated up in the milky mix, while she kept one eye on the younger maids—thin girls with rough hands, cutting greens under her firm look. She's too quiet today, Hui-lan thought, the idea slipping through the steam like a light breeze. No shifting in her spot, no eyes wandering to the fire's glow. Not fidgety, like the lost girl we first brought in. Not lost in the shine of the trays or the maids' soft talks about who gets what. It's not bad—this calm. Just... strange, like a song you almost remember. She looked at Moon again, the spoon's scrape slowing for a second, a small worry twisting in her chest. Gaoshun's-sama warning played in her head: Keep an eye on her, Hui-lan. The palace eats the careless, and this one... she brings old shadows that might turn sharp. But out loud? Just the steady work, a gentle word to a clumsy maid: "Go easy on the greens—crush them, and the lady will taste your mistake."
Fast steps pounded down the hall then—a quick clack of wooden shoes on smooth wood floors, sounding like a sudden alarm. The door flew open with a rattle of thin bamboo panels, letting in a rush of cooler air that cut the steam like a sharp wind. A young servant girl tripped over the edge, breathing hard like she'd run a race, her hair falling loose from its ties in messy strands around a face white as fresh paper. She was young—maybe just starting her teen years—dressed in plain gray robes from the Diamond Pavilion, with one small pearl pin at her neck as a sign of her lady's gentle place. Eyes big with plain fear, she grabbed the door edge, fingers tight as if it could hold her steady.
"Please—!" she called out, the word breaking on a hard breath, pulling every look in the kitchen like a pulled string. Knives stopped in the air, a spoon dripped soup onto the floor. "Someone tell Gao-shun-sama right away! Quick!"
The room went still, the only noise the soft pop of coals in a forgotten stove. Hui-lan turned fast, spoon down with a sharp tap that felt like a warning, her face set hard even as her heart sped up. Not today—not with half the food ready and the baths filling. "What is it, girl? Say it clear."
"Lady Lishu—" The servant's voice broke, knees giving way as she leaned on the wall, one hand on her side like the hurt was hers too. "She has sudden stomach pain. Tight, twisting—like hot knots inside. She can't even sit, Obāsama. Curled on her bed, face white as cloth. It hit after morning tea—fast, bad. The other maids are running around scared, but she asks for the medicine man. Please..."
Hui-lan's hand squeezed the spoon handle, fingers turning white like bone in light. The youngest lady... now? Lishu, the small jewel of the inner rooms, her young age both a help and a risk in these places of sweet lies. Stomach twisted—reminds of that old party, where sickness turned to blame, food gone wrong from others' tricks. The hidden games go on: a lost pin here, a wrong leaf there, all shifting who catches the emperor's eye. If this gets worse... Her thoughts ran ahead, mapping ways—halls to the medicine room, messengers to call helpers with fixes and excuses. "Stay put, Mego," she said to Moon, voice low but strong, already walking to the girl. "Stick to the washing; the fire's too tricky for new hands today. I'll check the halls—help must be calling already."
She went out after the servant, the door closing soft behind them, leaving the kitchen in a quiet pause. Maids traded looks—quick, full of meaning—starting their cuts again with slow thuds, whispers mixing in the steam like soft pins: Lishu again? The gentle one's too kind for these tricks... or too smart? Moon stayed by her basin, water cool on her skin, but the call stuck in her ears like a sharp flute note—clear, pulling at something inside. Stomach pain... sudden, after tea. Not a rash or heat, but a tight hold low down, squeezing like a wrong step. Oil—mint leaves soaked in ginger, mixed with flower oil to slide easy without sting. Every three hours, soft circles to loosen it. Easy. True. The fix came up fast, not from books or talks but from hands that knew mixing such things in warmer corners, for ladies who smiled through pain, whose games turned on a small hurt. I belong in this, she thought, standing smooth like grass in wind, water running off her arms in clear lines. In the quiet parts of the fight—helping one string without breaking the rest. But whose hands did this before? Mine... or someone else's shadow?
She went to the herb corner—a dark shelf pushed against the kitchen's far wall, jars of dried plants shining soft in lamp light, bowls scratched from grinding. Hands quick and sure, she picked bottles: mint leaves crushed under finger, their cool smell rising strong; ginger root scraped fine, its heat like hidden warmth; flower oil poured slow, gathering yellow. The grinder turned in even loops—grind, mix, soak—poured through cloth into a small glass bottle, capped tight from the wet air. Just a few moments, and it was ready: a mix warm in her hand, smelling of help wrapped in ground.
Hui-lan came back then, her steps heavier, worry carved deep like lines in dry earth—halls full of calls, but no sight yet of the medicine man's thin shape. Before she could say the tight feeling in her throat, Moon stepped up, holding the small bottle in both hands like a gift at a temple door—respectful, firm.
"Please give this to the helper," Moon said calm, her voice cutting the quiet like soft cloth through a loop, eyes meeting Hui-lan's with no beg or show.
Hui-lan stopped quick, steam moving around her like a curtain pulled back. When did she...? The corner's smells stuck to Moon—mint's fresh cut chasing ginger's spice—a fix made in the time of a breath. "...What is this?" Hui-lan asked, words careful like testing ground, hand waiting as if the glass might warm too much.
"A simple oil," Moon answered, voice smooth as still water, no big show, no hard push. "Put it on the sore spot. Once every three hours—soft circles, to warm and let go the tight."
No guess in her stand, no wild idea from the warm fog. Hui-lan looked at her face—those clear green eyes, the small bend of lips that spoke of truths deeper than place. She's not guessing, the thought settled cold in Hui-lan's chest, sharper than the room's chill. But she's not bragging either—no shine of the new one taking praise. Her mind jumped to Gaoshun's last words, quiet and heavy like a locked promise: Watch her well, Hui-lan. If old pieces move—if she recalls a touch or a name half-gone—send word right away. The palace lets no old sounds slide. Moon had not talked of old times out loud, had not claimed the skill growing in her fingers. She had just done, slipping into the game's soft flow like a bird to known air—helping a lady's pain without noise, fitting the maids' quiet battles where one mix might earn a kind look, or undo a foe's plan.
Hui-lan waited a beat, the bottle's warmth spreading to her fingers as she took it—glass misty light from Moon's hand, the smells curling soft, full of hope. If this fails... a lady's hurt wrong could bring punishment or worse, sent away for the mistake. But the girl's calm shook her more than the chance: Moon stood like someone used to being overlooked—her fixes given to dark spots, her steps light on floors that broke the loud—yet sure still, as if the palace's beat had whispered yes in her ear alone.
"I'll give it over," Hui-lan said soft, the words a way over worry, hiding the bottle in her sleeve like a secret charm. As she turned to go, following the helper's lost steps, she looked back one more time—Moon was back at her basin already, hands deep in the cool flow again, radish cleaning smooth under easy touch.
What kind of girl does this, Hui-lan wondered, the question following her down the hall like wind through a small crack, without asking first... yet never going too far?As if the steam moved for her, the plants listened to her.
Steam climbed again in the kitchen, thicker now, covering the returned beat of knives—chop, chop—and the gentle bubble of pots fixing their quiet. Maids went back to trays, dark wood shining with shaped rice and spread fish, the air falling into its normal busy hum. But Hui-lan took the bottle away with the odd feeling that the palace had just let in something it didn't fully get yet—a girl who made fixes from feeling, fitting perfect into the ladies' hidden games, where young ones like Lishu were both gift and danger.
If the oil would help was still a question, like a seed in dark dirt.
But Hui-lan knew one thing for sure now—
This girl was not trying to show she fit.
She was acting like the palace had already said yes.
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.