Hui-lan came back from handing off the oil with her face set in a calm mask, like the still surface of a pond hiding fish below. Outwardly, she showed nothing—no quick frown, no tight lips. Inside, her mind spun like leaves in a sudden wind, refusing to quiet down. If the oil helps, it might just be luck. A happy chance in this place of sharp edges. If it fails... She pushed the thought away before it could grow roots, like a weed she didn't want in her garden. A wrong fix could mean questions. Blame. And for Mego, a new girl with hands too sure... trouble we can't afford. But the palace waited for no one's worries. Duties called, steady as the sun's rise.
Breakfast work sped up after that, a rush of hands and soft steps filling the kitchen like a well-rehearsed dance. Trays came together on low tables—lacquered wood boxes stacked neat, filled with warm rice shaped in small hills, fish slices laid thin and pale, pickled greens bright as jewels. Lids clicked shut twice over, to check for flaws: a bent edge here, a loose cloth there. Orders passed in low voices, like secrets shared over tea— "Two portions for the Jade Pavilion, light on salt," or "Hurry the egg drops; the sun climbs." The Inner Palace didn't stop for doubts or what-ifs. It flowed on, pulling everyone into its current.
Moon stayed quiet through it all, her words few but her actions smooth. When a maid called for help, she lifted trays without a pause, balancing them easy on her arms like they'd been made for her hands. She fixed slipping cloths with a quick tuck, stepped back just in time when a runner dashed through the door, her feet knowing the safe spots without a glance down. Her timing felt right, like a breath taken at the perfect pause in a song.
She's moving like someone who knows where to avoid the crush, Hui-lan noted, watching from the corner of her eye as she wiped a tray clean. Not just following orders, but reading the room's flow—the quick turn of a sleeve, the blind spot by the stove. That's not picked up in a few days of scrubbing pots. A small knot of wonder mixed with her worry, like salt in sweet soup. Who taught her that? Or... did the palace whisper it in her sleep?
When the last tray slipped out the door, carried off by a line of attendants with heads bowed low, Hui-lan let out a soft breath, the air leaving her like steam from a cooling pot. The kitchen eased then, flames banked low, the big rush fading to a hum of cleanup—wiping boards, stacking bowls, the faint clink of spoons in water.
"Bath work next," she said, voice even, rolling her sleeves back down as she straightened. "Come on."
Moon nodded, simple and sure. "Yes, Obāsama."
They stepped out together into the corridor, the kitchen's warm steam trailing behind them like a faint ghost, mixing with the cooler air of the halls. The path stretched long and straight at first, walls of smooth wood panels broken by paper screens that let in slivers of morning light—pale gold, soft as new silk. Attendants passed in both ways, a steady stream: some with arms full of clean linens folded crisp, others hauling wooden buckets sloshing with fresh water, a few more balancing stacks of robes in soft blues and whites, ready for the ladies' change. Their steps echoed light—clack of wooden shoes, rustle of hems—blending into the palace's endless song.
Hui-lan glanced sideways at Moon, her eyes quick under the cover of adjusting her own sleeve. The girl's hands hung loose at her sides now, fingers relaxed, no tremble in them like the old days of nerves and newness. "Your hands aren't shaking anymore."
Moon looked down at them, as if seeing them fresh for the first time—palms open, nails short and clean from the morning's wash. She flexed her fingers once, slow, then met Hui-lan's gaze with that steady calm. "Should they be?"
Hui-lan almost smiled then—a real one, tugging at the corner of her mouth like a thread pulled loose. Almost. It faded quick, tucked away like a secret fan in her pocket. "You used to fidget with them," she said, keeping her tone light, like sharing a small story over rice. "Twist your sleeves, tap your feet. And talk too much—questions about everything, like the walls might answer back."
Moon thought on that for a step or two, her eyes on the floor ahead, watching the play of light on the wood grains. "That must have been a bother."
"It was," Hui-lan admitted, her voice softening just a touch, like cloth smoothed under iron. Then, after a small pause—the space of three breaths, filled with the pass of another attendant—she added, "But it was lively. Made the days less Gray."
Moon didn't answer right away. Her steps stayed even, matching Hui-lan's without trying, the faint echo of their shoes a quiet duet. Finally, she spoke, words measured like drops in a cup. "I think this place doesn't reward liveliness."
Hui-lan felt her feet slow, just for a heartbeat, the corridor seeming to stretch longer under those words. How does she know that already? The thought flashed sharp, like a needle's prick. The palace's rule, plain as day to those who've bled for it: stand out, and the shadows close in. But she's new—too new for that wisdom. She bit back the question on her tongue, swallowing it like bitter tea. Instead, she said, "You'll learn it. Bit by bit, the hard way or the quiet one."
Moon dipped her head a fraction, a small bow in motion. "I will."
They kept walking, the turn coming up soft—the corridor bending like a river's elbow, leading toward the bath halls where steam waited thicker, scented with wood chips and flower waters. The air grew a touch heavier here, carrying hints of hinoki bark and the clean bite of hot springs drawn from deep below.
At that bend, someone else slowed her pace.
Maomao had been carrying a small woven basket of herbs—dried bundles of mugwort and ginger root, tied with thin cords—when her step hitched mid-stride. Her nose twitched once, quick as a cat's ear to a sound. She frowned, a small crease between her brows, like a line drawn in fresh ink.
The hall smelled as it always did—clean stone underfoot, damp wood from morning sweeps, the lazy drift of steam from the kitchens far back. Nothing out of place. And yet—
There it was.
That smell.
She breathed in slow, careful, like testing a new powder on the tongue. Not incense, thick and smoky from temple sticks. Not medicine, sharp with the tang of crushed leaves or boiled roots. Not anything from the earth's usual list she could pin down— no rosewater sweetness, no citrus snap from bath oils.
It wasn't loud. It didn't stick to the walls or floors. It didn't ride the air like smoke from a lantern or the heavy trail of a lady's perfume after she passed.
It just... stayed. Lingering light, like a thought you couldn't shake.
That's odd, Maomao thought, her mind clicking like a puzzle box half-open. Not a thing I can name. And names are half the fix. Her eyes narrowed a bit, curiosity waking sharp in her chest—not the cold edge of doubt, but the warm itch of a knot untied, pulling her forward. She shifted the basket higher on her arm, the herbs rustling soft, and took a few steps ahead.
The scent faded, thin as mist in sun.
She turned her head slow, nose leading like a hound on a faint trail.
It grew stronger—quick, for a breath—as two figures walked by her.
An older woman she knew by sight—Hui-lan, from the rear kitchens, face lined with the quiet strength of long service.
And a girl she didn't know.
The girl moved quiet, eyes straight ahead, shoulders easy in her simple robes—nothing to catch the eye at first, like a shadow among others. But the scent slid past Maomao with her, close as a sleeve's brush.
Not on her, Maomao corrected in her head, silent as a locked drawer. Near her. Like it follows without touching.
She slowed more, pretending to fix her basket's handle—fingers tugging a loose cord, eyes on their backs as they moved away. The two figures receded down the hall, steps in soft time, turning toward the bath rooms where steam rose thicker from hidden pools.
I caught this last night too, she remembered, the thought linking quick like beads on a string. In the garden paths, where no one should linger after dark. A whiff that didn't match the night blooms or damp earth. Tied to nothing I could see.
Her interest grew, a small flame fed by questions. Not fear— the palace held worse shadows than unnamed airs. Not blame, either; scents lied as often as they told. Just the pull of something out of place, begging a closer look. If it's not a powder or plant, then what carries it? A cloth? A hidden vial? Or... something else?
The smell thinned as the girl rounded the corner, swallowed by the hall's bend. Maomao let out her breath slow, like releasing a held note.
"...How annoying," she muttered, half to the empty air, half to the basket in her arms.
She started walking again, mind already turning the riddle like a smooth stone in her palm—smooth on one side, rough on the next. Herbs shifted in their ties, a soft reminder of her own tasks: powders to grind for the apothecary, teas to blend for aches that hid deeper hurts. But this? It nagged, light but stubborn, like a flea in the fold of a robe.
Ahead, down that same turn, Hui-lan felt a faint chill crawl her spine—unseen, unexplained, like a draft from a door left ajar in summer. She rubbed her arms once, quick, blaming the shift in air from kitchen warmth to bath cool. Just the walk, she told herself. Nothing more.
Moon walked beside her, steps soft as falling petals, her face smooth and hard to read—like a mask carved from quiet wood. No sign of the morning's small sadness, no flicker of the calm that hid deeper waters.
Neither of them looked back. Neither caught the girl who had paused, basket in hand, eyes sharp with that first spark of notice.
But the palace did.
Its walls, old as forgotten songs, held ears in every crack, eyes in every shadow. And something unseen—thread-thin, scent-woven—had just been seen.
For the first time.
The corridor emptied behind them, steam curling lazy from a distant door. But the air hummed now, alive with the weight of a question asked without words. Baths waited ahead: waters hot and waiting, screens to part for ladies' rituals, where secrets steamed out with the sweat. And in the weave of it all, a nameless note lingered—pulling threads tighter, one unnoticed step at a time.
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.