Chapter Text
When Maomao stirred, dawn was already bleeding into the room—thin and colorless, like the light had forgotten how to warm.
Her neck ached first. Then her back.
Something solid pressed against her temple
She blinked.
Lahan.
His shoulder was stiff beneath her cheek, his breathing slow and even. He’d dozed off sitting upright, one hand braced on his knee, the other curled loosely in his lap. The fire had gone out. The candle had long since died. The altar beside them glowed faintly in the gray morning, its cold offerings untouched.
Maomao’s first instinct was to pull away.
She didn’t.
Not right away.
Instead, she stared at the worn stitching on his sleeve, the faint ink smudge at the hem of his robe, and tried to remember when she’d stopped crying long enough to fall asleep.
The silence between them was still and undemanding.
Eventually, she shifted. Carefully.
Lahan blinked awake with a grunt. His spine straightened, his hand coming up halfway as if expecting to have to steady her—but Maomao was already sitting upright, smoothing down the rumpled front of her robe.
“You drool,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.
Maomao didn’t dignify that with a response. She glanced toward the altar.
“Nothing caught fire,” she said dryly.
“I’d like some credit for that,” he yawned.
They sat like that for a moment—neither moving to stand, neither commenting on the fact that they had shared a vigil meant to be solitary.
The incense ashes had cooled into a delicate fan pattern in the bronze burner.
Maomao rose first.
Her knees protested with a faint pop. She adjusted her robes, gathering herself with sharp but quiet efficiency.
Lahan stood a beat after, almost awkwardly as if he wasn't quite sure what he was doing in his own body, stretching his arms above his head with a loud exhale.
“I’ll go make tea,” he offered.
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “you look like you’re going to bite someone if you don’t have any.”
Maomao rolled her eyes—but followed him out of the room anyway.
Behind them, the altar remained. The congee had gone cold. The incense had died. But the vigil had been kept.
And for the first time in a long while, Maomao stepped into the new year without Loumen beside her—but not entirely alone.
The estate was still hushed, the early morning air edged in frost.
In the smaller side room off the kitchen—where the brazier never fully went out—Maomao sat cross-legged at the low table, fingers wrapped around a pale ceramic cup. The tea was simple—mellow oolong with a trace of dried orange peel, just strong enough to anchor her to the moment. A maid she saw frequently slinked her way around the outskirts of the room comfortably.
Across from her, Lahan was curled like a sleepy cat, robe rumpled, one arm slung over his knee. He sipped in silence, half-lidded eyes fixed somewhere just beyond her shoulder.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence between them was not heavy like before. It was lighter now. Tired. Tentative.
Healing.
Maomao’s hair was still mussed from sleep—if sleeping upright against someone’s shoulder counted as such—and Lahan’s sash was lopsided. There was something strangely sacred about it, this early hour where neither had the energy for performance.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she broke the silence quietly, her voice still raw from sleep.
“I didn’t mean to stay,” he replied, matching her tone.
Maomao let out a breath that was almost—not quite—a laugh.
They both sipped their tea.
Aren't we quite the pair?
The paper windows brightened by a fraction. Somewhere deeper in the estate, bells rang faintly—marking the first morning hour. A few servants began to stir, soft footsteps padding toward the kitchens, voices hushed out of respect for the new year’s dawn.
Maomao adjusted her sleeve, watching steam curl from her cup. “I don’t know what to do with it,” she said, more to the tea than to Lahan. "It's like it's all there is. For miles and miles all I can see are places he'll never get to."
Hushed voices began to exchange from the room over.
Lahan looked at her, then down into his own cup. “It’s not supposed to leave. It never leaves."
She didn’t answer. But she didn’t argue, either.
"It stays the same, and it hurts just as much with each passing thought." Maomao could feel his eyes on her as he spoke, but she wasn't going to meet his gaze.
"But it doesn't get any harder either. You've been through the worst of it, eventually it will feel so familiar the pain will be an old friend. It'll be a testament to all the love you felt, and you might even find comfort in knowing it never changed. But you'll grow, and you'll find other things to love that won't take his place but will keep you busy. You'll grow, and the pain will stay the same, but with all you've changed it'll feel like the grief did to."
The door to the room slid open.
Lakan stepped inside—dressed with impeccable care despite the early hour, his robes crisp red trimmed with pale gold. He paused, taking them both in: his son still rumpled and bleary-eyed, Maomao sharp in her silence but somehow calmer, anchored. The incense of the altar clung faintly to her hair.
“Good morning,” he said simply.
Maomao inclined her head. “Happy new year.”
Lahan just grunted.
Lakan didn’t press. He joined them at the table and began pouring tea without fanfare, the scent of orange peel curling anew through the room. The tray he brought bore a small array of traditional dishes—lotus root slices, jujube pastries, sweet pickled garlic, and sticky rice cakes flecked with osmanthus.
“I had the kitchen prepare lighter fare,” Lakan said, not looking at either of them too closely. “I thought we might start with something gentle.”
No one objected.
For a long while, the three of them ate in silence, passing dishes quietly between them.
No declarations. No ceremonial toasts. Just warmth shared over worn wood. A home, unspoken but beginning to take shape.
And outside, beyond the estate’s walls, the capital stirred to life under a sky scrubbed clean by winter wind.
The hallway felt different in the morning light.
Somewhere deeper in the estate, she could hear the gentle rattle of servants beginning their rounds, the clink of dishes being cleared, faint footsteps soft as wind.
Maomao stepped into her room and slid the door shut behind her.
Stillness.
She exhaled slowly.
The air smelled faintly of extinguished candles and old cedar. Her robe rustled as she shrugged it off, the embroidered cranes folding in on themselves as the fabric slipped from her shoulders and onto the bed. She stretched her arms once, her joints cracking quietly in protest. The weight of formalities, of silk and silence and other people’s eyes, slid off her like steam.
This room—unadorned, dim, undecorated—was her own. The red of the house hadn’t touched it.
She sat by the window, legs tucked beneath her, and looked out at the courtyard.
Someone had swept it already. The stones were still damp with melt from last night’s frost, and the lanterns that had once glowed now hung dim, swaying slightly in the morning wind. A scrap of red paper danced across the tiles before getting caught beneath a bush.
She watched it. Let the motion lull her.
Her muscles ached in a quiet way that felt earned. Not exhaustion, not pain—just the kind of wear that came from being for too long. Holding herself together in front of others. Guarding her tone. Managing her breath.
Now, in the hush of her room, she didn’t have to smile or speak or nod. She could just... sit.
Her gaze drifted toward the corner where a thin trail of incense from her vigil still lingered near the altar. The congee had congealed slightly in its bowl. She’d clean it later.
She rested her chin on her knees, arms wrapped loosely around her legs.
Three months had passed, and now a new year would take hold.
The fall had gone with him, and the cold bitter winter was like the world was feeling it with her.
Spring would come next, and Maomao didn't know how to feel about the world taking on new life without her.
The thought came unbidden, but not cruelly.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t smile. She simply existed, suspended in a rare moment of stillness. A soft space between mourning and movement, where she didn’t have to decide what came next.
Outside, a rooster crowed.
Maomao stayed where she was.
And let the new year come to her gently, one breath at a time until she couldn't stay still any longer.
The sun had risen pale and high over the estate, brushing every tiled rooftop and withered pine with frost-edged light. The memory of the noise of the city festivals had faded to a murmur in her mind, muffled by the walls of the compound. In their place was a domestic hush: the soft scuff of brooms in the courtyard, the snap of clean linens airing in the breeze, the occasional laughter of a servant passing a message.
Maomao wandered.
Not with purpose—just with a restlessness she couldn’t name.
Her steps took her through unfamiliar corridors, past guest rooms she’d never entered, past painted screens and garden views she never thought to seek. The estate was vast but not unkind, and in this midmorning lull, it felt almost like a living thing—breathing, settling, waiting.
The soles of her shoes barely made a sound on the stone.
She stopped when she reached the eastern courtyard, the one with the pond ringed in frozen lilies. A pair of cranes stood carved in the center, unmoving in their eternal mid-dance. The water had crusted over with ice so thin it caught the light like glass. Maomao crouched near the edge, her breath blooming over the surface.
She didn’t hear him approach.
“You walk like a ghost,” Lakan spoke softly.
She straightened, slowed to a still.
He stood a few paces away, hands folded behind his back, dressed in a thick robe the same shade of grey he seemed to live in. He looked, as always, like a man half-constructed of madness and half restrained.
“Just walking,” she answered.
He nodded.
A quiet pause stretched between them, long enough for a breeze to rattle the dead reeds beside the pond. Then, he stepped forward and held something out to her.
A small red envelope.
She blinked.
“…You know I’m not a child.”
“Yes,” he said, tone light but steady. “But you are still my daughter. And you are not married, so take it.”
Maomao stared at the envelope without as much as a twitch.
“It’s symbolic,” Lakan pushed. “Luck. Prosperity. Long life.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You really believe in luck? Or think long life comes from folded paper?”
“No,” he said, and there was a quiet softness in it, almost fond. “But I would really enjoy taking care of you in this way.”
The words struck somewhere just beneath her ribs.
She took the envelope.
It was heavier than she expected. Not in weight. The paper was smooth, pressed with faint gold ink in a pattern of plum blossoms. She didn’t open it. She wouldn’t—not yet.
“Thank you,” she said after a long moment, though her voice was like a muffled echo to her ears.
Lakan inclined his head. “May the new year bring you peace.”
She didn’t answer. She just tucked the envelope into her sleeve and turned her gaze back to the ice-crusted pond.
He didn’t try to fill the silence.
Just stood beside her for a while, like he understood that sometimes the greatest offering wasn’t wealth or wisdom, but presence.
The wind shifted, stirring the bare branches of the plum tree near the courtyard gate. A few brittle petals fell—dried remnants from last year’s bloom—and landed on the pond’s ice like punctuation.
Maomao traced one with her eyes, watching it spin lazily across the surface. She felt the red envelope tucked securely against her wrist, warm from the heat of her skin.
“You always hated crowds,” Lakan said after a moment, not looking at her.
Maomao narrowed her eyes. “That’s a very kind way of saying I’m unpleasant in public.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re unpleasant in private, too. It’s not the setting.”
She snorted. The sound escaped before she could smother it.
Lakan stepped a little closer, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve been meaning to ask… there’s a performance troupe from Shu in the capital this week. They’re performing for the new year at the western pavilion theater.”
Maomao turned toward him slowly.
“I thought,” he continued, “if you were tired of the market noise, the smoke, the well wishes and the firecrackers… we might go. Just us.”
He said it so simply. No preamble. No grand sentiment.
Just a quiet offer.
Maomao studied his face—never easy to read. But something in the tilt of his head, the way he didn’t press or fidget, told her this wasn’t just about avoiding the festival.
“You hate theater,” she said.
“I hate bad theater,” he corrected. “This one’s meant to be excellent.”
She folded her arms. “You’re trying to bribe me out of a public breakdown.”
“No,” he said, more softly now. “I’m trying to offer you something.”
That silenced her.
The festive colors of the estate seemed far away now—the market noise, the sharp scent of incense and oil, the firework explosions still rattling in memory. The night before had drained her, carved her hollow. She wasn’t sure she had the energy to wear a smile and pretend it was celebration for a second day.
But this… this was something else.
Still, she hesitated.
“Will there be food?” she asked, after a long beat.
Lakan’s eyes glinted. “Yes. And I promise not to comment on your posture during the performance.”
She considered that. “I want hawthorn candy.”
“I’ll get you your weights worth.”
“…Fine,” she muttered, tucking her hands into her sleeves.
“Good,” he said, stepping back with a slight nod. “We’ll leave in the evening, I'll let you know when to get ready.”
She shot him a glare.
"I'll send someone to let you know to get ready."
As he turned to go, Maomao glanced at the red envelope in her sleeve again.
This year it had come from someone who she didn't love, and it was larger than any she'd ever received.
She looked back out at the frozen pond, where plum blossoms had come to rest.
She didn't love him, she wasn't even sure she liked him.
It was just the thought of theater that left her warm in the chill, despite having never had any enjoyment in it before.
The echo of Lakan’s footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving Maomao alone once more.
The courtyard held its breath.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then it rose—unexpected, unwelcome—the pressure behind her eyes, the thick knot in her throat, the sudden trembling in her ribs.
Maomao pressed her sleeve to her face.
She didn’t cry. Not exactly. She just stood there with the cold biting her ankles and her heart locked somewhere behind her ribs, and she remembered all at once the other winters—curled against Loumen’s chest by a dying stove, eating sweets too early in the morning, watching the stars while fireworks bloomed miles away.
She blinked hard.
And then—movement.
A splash.
She turned her head sharply.
Near the far end of the shallow pond, just past the frozen lilies, the ice had cracked. Something dark and shivering scrambled just beneath the surface, clawing weakly at the jagged rim.
A stray cat.
Small, thin, mottled with frost and panic. Its paws thrashed at the ice, slipping over and over. Its cries were hoarse, frantic, swallowed by the winter air.
Maomao was moving before she realized it.
She crossed the courtyard at a run, shoes skidding against the slick stone, heart pounding with something that wasn’t fear but urgency. She dropped to her knees at the pond’s edge, arms plunging forward, fingers stinging from cold as she reached into the dark water.
“Come here, you stupid thing—” she hissed.
The cat clawed blindly. She caught it by the scruff, dragging it up through the cracked ice, water sloshing over her sleeves. It yowled and twisted, but too weakly to fight her. Still its claws tore through some of the fabric of her sleeves.
Maomao fell back onto the stone, holding it against her chest, water soaking through her robe and searing into her skin. The cat coughed—a pitiful, wheezing sound—and went still.
Her teeth chattered, but she didn’t let go.
They sat there—two drenched creatures in a courtyard of ice, both trembling, both too scared to move.
And somehow, the grief quieted.
Not gone. Not soothed.
But hushed.
Maomao exhaled shakily and pressed her palm to the cat’s flank, feeling its thin chest rise and fall.
It's nails were latched on to the fabric of her robes, despite its paws thwacking up and down to try and release.
“I’m not good at letting go either,” she whispered.
The wind shifted.
Somewhere beyond the wall, bells began to ring for the new year’s prayers.
But here, beside a cracked pond and a patch of melting ice, Maomao sat with a shivering animal pressed against her soaked robes, her hands raw and her chest hollow and her breath finally slowing.
The warmth of the estate struck her like a blow.
As soon as she stepped into the main corridor, the contrast hit—frostbitten air melting into the humid breath of fire-warmed rooms. Her robes clung to her skin, soaked through from the pond. Water dripped from her sleeves, her hem, her lashes. She shivered violently, jaw clenched, arms curled protectively around the soaked, shuddering cat pressed to her chest.
The cat gave a feeble wheeze but did not struggle.
She didn’t care who saw her.
Not until she rounded the corner—and ran directly into Lahan.
He stopped short.
“Maomao—?!”
His voice was sharp. She couldn’t read his expression past the shock.
“What—what happened—are you insane?” His eyes flicked from her soaked robes to her trembling arms to the half-conscious animal cradled there. “You’re freezing—gods—someone—!”
Two nearby maids jumped to attention.
“Boil water. Now,” Lahan barked. “Draw a bath and bring every warming cloth in the estate. If she collapses, it’s your fault.”
They scattered like pigeons under a hawk.
Lahan turned back to Maomao. “You need to get out of those clothes. Now. Give me the—”
She flinched as he reached toward her. Her hands clutched the cat tighter against her chest. “Don’t.”
“Maomao—”
“I said don’t touch it!”
Her voice cracked like a whip.
The cat stirred weakly, letting out a rasping hiss of confusion.
Lahan froze, stunned more by the vehemence than the volume.
Maomao’s eyes were wild—glassy with cold and exhaustion, her lips pale, knuckles white where they clutched fur and cloth alike. She backed half a step away, water puddling at her feet.
“No one touches him,” she muttered. “No one takes him. He’s—he’s mine right now—he’s mine—”
“What is the meaning of this.”
The words came calmly, but their weight quieted the hallway.
Lakan had arrived, robes immaculate, sleeves draped like falling paper, his expression unreadable.
His gaze fell on Maomao.
On her sodden state. Her clenched fists. Her raw, shaking arms wrapped around a half-dead stray.
Slowly, he stepped forward.
The maids, bowing low, backed away. Lahan remained frozen in place, jaw set.
Lakan said nothing at first. He looked down at Maomao, the way one might approach a sleeping tiger caught in a trap.
Then: “May I?”
Maomao’s chest heaved and rattled. “No.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should,” he said, voice quiet. "I do.”
That silenced her.
Not with warmth. Not with sweetness.
But with steadiness. That immovable calm he wore like armor. It was infuriating.
“I’m not asking you to abandon him,” Lakan said. “I’m offering to hold him while you stop your bones from splintering.”
She didn’t speak.
“Only until you’re warm,” he said gently. “Then you can have him back. If he’s alive, we’ll care for him together. If not—” he paused, “he won’t be alone.”
Maomao stared at him.
Really stared.
As if seeing him for the first time, truly weighing his worth.
And Lakan—he didn’t flinch. He only met her eyes, still as snowfall.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things.
Then Maomao’s arms loosened—just slightly.
Her fingers, red and trembling, shifted beneath the cat’s sodden fur.
Lakan stepped forward and knelt, arms outstretched.
Slowly, painfully, she transferred the small body into his hands.
Her arms hovered for a second, like she might pull him back at any moment—but she didn’t.
Lakan wrapped the cat in his outer sleeve, cradling it like fragile porcelain.
Maomao stood there, empty now, swaying on her feet.
“Get her out of those clothes,” Lakan said without taking his eyes off his daughter. “Now.”
Lahan was at her side before the order finished. His hand at her elbow was firm, but not forceful.
“I’ve got her.”
And as the maids descended, fussing and wrapping her in dry cloth, Maomao turned her head back.
Lakan was already walking away, murmuring softly to the half-drowned stray in his arms.
He didn’t look back.
But he didn’t need to.
Because this time, Maomao was watching him.
The steam rose in gentle curls, clouding the walls of Maomao's own bathing chamber.
She sat motionless in the wooden tub, knees drawn to her chest. The water was hot—almost too hot—but she couldn’t feel it properly. Her limbs were numb, her skin blotched red with the return of circulation. Her teeth still chattered, though the worst of the cold had passed.
Three maids moved around her like shadows, practiced and precise.
Ru’er, the youngest, knelt at her side with a cloth and soft herbs wrapped in silk. She worked gently over Maomao’s arms, her motions feather-light, careful not to agitate the raw skin. She hummed under her breath—a lilting, wordless tune Maomao couldn’t place.
Shulan, the tall one with sharp eyes, knelt behind her, fingers combing through Maomao’s damp hair. She said nothing, but her motions were methodical—untangling knots without pulling, separating strands for drying. A basin of warm water steeped in camellia blossoms sat nearby.
And Huiyin, the oldest, quietly folded dry garments by the fire: warm inner robes, woolen socks, a heavier outer coat of soft plum fabric Maomao didn’t recognize. It must have been chosen for the day—rich but not gaudy, ceremonial without flash. Something that whispered daughter of a noble house without declaring it aloud.
Maomao hated every second of it.
She kept her eyes fixed on the rippling surface of the water, jaw tight, throat burning.
She could feel them being gentle.
She hated that, too.
Like she was some half-drowned thing being stitched back together with scented oils and silence.
They never asked questions. Never made comments. Just moved around her as if she might shatter if they spoke too loud.
As if she wasn’t thinking of the cat, soaked and limp and wrapped in Lakan’s sleeve. As if she wasn’t imagining the soft wheeze of its lungs, the bony press of its ribcage against her arms, the moment it had stopped thrashing—
She exhaled, sharply.
Shulan paused her hands.
“Sorry,” Maomao muttered.
The woman resumed without a word.
Steam clung to her lashes. Her body thawed inch by inch. But the ache beneath her ribs only grew.
Ru’er wrung out the cloth and reached for Maomao’s hands. “Your fingers—these are cracked,” she murmured. “Hold still.”
Maomao did, reluctantly. She watched as the girl dabbed an herbal balm into her palms, her brows furrowed with concentration. A bit too much kindness in the eyes. A bit too much pity.
Don’t look at me like that, Maomao thought bitterly. I’m not a porcelain doll. I’m not going to break because I touched cold water.
But she didn’t say it. Not even when the balm burned when it met the shallow cuts from the creatures nails.
And when they helped her from the tub and patted her dry with soft cloths, she didn’t push them away. She let them dress her, layer by careful layer, in clean under-robes and woolen socks and the heavy outer coat. She let them tuck a warmer sachet between her sleeves. She let Shulan towel her hair dry with silent patience, never once pulling.
Only when she was seated near the brazier, a small cup of ginger broth set beside her, did they take a step back.
Maomao’s hands tightened around the cup.
Then, slowly, she nodded once.
The maids bowed—low, respectful, distant—and left her alone in the warmth.
The fire crackled quietly.
Maomao didn’t drink the broth.
She only stared at the flame, small and flickering, and waited.
She didn’t know how much time had passed.
Only that the ache in her chest hadn’t eased, and the hollow left in her arms still pulsed like a phantom limb.
The door creaked open.
She didn’t turn.
Lakan’s footsteps were soft on the mat, measured and deliberate. He paused a few paces behind her, the way he always did—like he was offering presence, not imposition.
Then he spoke.
“He’s in the kitchen,” he said, voice low, words deliberate. “We’ve wrapped him in clean cloth and set him in front of the oven. The stone is warm there.”
Maomao’s breath caught.
“He’s dry now,” Lakan continued. “But unwell. He’s very old and thin, and very cold. I doubt he’ll last through the night.”
The words were plain. No sugar. No promises.
Just the truth.
Maomao stood before she realized she had moved. The chair scraped quietly against the floor. She didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Her feet were bare but she didn’t stop to ask for shoes. The coat Lakan had picked for her trailed just slightly behind her as she crossed the room.
She passed him without a glance.
But just as her shoulder brushed his sleeve, he said, not trying to stop her:
“He’s not alone.”
Something in her stopped. Wavered.
But she kept walking.
Through the quiet corridor, her steps soundless. Past the red lanterns swaying gently with the evening draft. Down into the lower wing, where the kitchen fires never truly died, even in deep winter.
The kitchen was dim and golden, filled with the smell of toasted rice, ginger, and damp stone.
And there, nestled in a folded blanket on the wide, warm stone lip in front of the stove, lay the cat.
He was curled in a crooked, tight ball. His eyes were closed. His sides rose and fell with shallow effort. A dish of water sat untouched nearby beside some much too expensive filleted fish.
Maomao knelt.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically.
Just folded down beside him like the grief in her chest was weight enough to anchor her there.
She placed one hand on the cloth. The stone beneath was hot, humming faintly with heat. Her palm hovered just above the kitten’s thin body.
Still breathing.
Still here.
She lowered herself further, resting her arms beside him, chin on the stone, close enough to feel the twitch of his ear with each exhale.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
The kitchen was still.
No one interrupted.
And Maomao stayed there, curled beside a dying thing, as the new year crept steadily forward.
Not with fireworks. Not with offerings.
But with one heartbeat, and then another.
And then another.
And then another.
The kitchen had dimmed into a lull.
The fires in the oven crackled faintly behind Maomao, casting long shadows across the stone. She hadn't moved in hours. Her legs had fallen asleep beneath her, and her cheek rested against the warm edge of the hearthstone.
Beside her, the small bundle of fur no longer stirred.
The cat had gone still some time ago, but she couldn't bring herself to move or stop stroking his fur.
Maomao had known the moment it happened. Not from anything obvious, but in the way the warmth had stopped traveling outward. As if his little body had exhaled, then chosen not to breathe again.
She hadn’t cried.
Now she just sat, palm resting on the makeshift blanket cocooning the tiny frame, as if pressing down the soul so it wouldn’t float away too quickly.
The quiet was broken by footsteps.
Delicate, hesitant.
A maid stood in the doorway, framed by the faint morning light. It was Ru’er—the youngest. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her apron, and she looked like she’d been standing there for a while, unsure whether to interrupt.
“The Lord sent me,” she said gently, voice low, “to let you know… if you’re still going to the performance, preparations will need to begin soon.”
Maomao didn’t respond right away.
Then she nodded. Once.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Ru’er bowed and stepped back, the door closing with a quiet thunk behind her.
Maomao looked down at the blanket.
Carefully, with hands that didn’t shake, she lifted the edges and wrapped the little body tighter—neat, respectful, deliberate. A funeral in miniature. She tucked the corners in until it looked more like a sleeping bundle than a corpse. No one else needed to see the scrawny ribs or the frostbitten paws.
She stood stiffly, her joints creaking.
The bundle stayed in her arms.
She made her way into the hallway, where the chill met her like an old habit. Somewhere down the corridor, she caught sight of one of Lakan’s aides—a younger man she was sure she'd heard the name of but couldn't remember, who often was seen coming in and out of their compound and, specifically, Lakans office.
Maomao stopped beside him.
“Sir.”
He turned, his shoulder length brown hair swishing with the movement. “Young miss?”
Her grip tightened slightly on the blanket. “Would you help me bury something?”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t ask.
Instead, he set down the tools in his hands and straightened. “Yes. Of course. Do you have a place in mind?”
She nodded. “The little hill behind the greenhouse.”
He gave her a short bow. “I’ll fetch a spade.”
As he turned away, Maomao glanced once down at the bundle in her arms.
“I’ll get ready,” she murmured to it. “But first… we’ll lay you to rest.”
The sky was a pale grey bruise above them.
Behind the greenhouse, the earth sloped gently into a quiet patch of overgrown grass and stubborn winter weeds. It was a forgotten corner of the estate—too narrow for a pavilion, too crooked for planting.
Perfect for the unceremonious things no one else would notice.
Maomao stood with the blanket-wrapped bundle cradled in her arms. The cat’s body was still warm from where she’d held it near the oven. Her robes hung heavy with lingering dampness, but she didn’t flinch from the cold. Not now.
Lakan’s trusted aide and steward, all discipline and stillness—was already there when she arrived.
He offered no condolences. No comments.
Only a bow.
Then he began to dig.
The ground was stiff and reluctant, frozen from the late frost and crusted over with a thin sheen of ice. Each movement of the spade rang dully in the air. It wasn’t graceful work—he had to press down with the full weight of his body, using his heel to crack the soil, then slice it out piece by piece.
Maomao watched, silent.
Each breath clouded the air between them. Her fingers had numbed again, but she kept them tucked around the small bundle, cradled just under her chin. She didn’t rock. Didn’t fidget. Just stood—an impassive, weary sentinel.
The young man paused only once to wipe his brow, the spade’s tip embedded in the earth. “It won’t be deep,” he said evenly. “The frost—”
“That’s fine,” Maomao murmured. Her voice was quiet, but not fragile. “He didn’t need much, and I doubt anything around here will be strong or hungry enough to dig for him.”
The hole, when finished, was modest and square, nestled against the bend of an old stone wall, half-eaten with moss.
He stepped aside.
Maomao knelt slowly, legs folding stiffly under her. She lowered the bundle into the earth with both hands. Her fingers lingered on the cloth.
She didn’t say anything.
No prayers. No platitudes.
The wind stirred, pulling loose strands of hair across her cheek.
Then Maomao stood.
She watched the man replace the earth, gently but efficiently, layering the soil back over the bundle until it was level again. He patted it flat with the spade, then stepped away.
Maomao reached into her sleeve and pulled out a single dried jujube from her sash—a leftover from a forgotten New Year’s sweet.
She placed it carefully on the mound.
“Thank you,” she said, barely louder than a breath.
He bowed again. “Would you like me to mark it?”
Maomao hesitated.
Then shook her head.
“No. Just… let it be.”
He nodded.
As he turned to leave, Maomao lingered a moment longer, eyes on the fresh dirt, arms folding around herself in the absence of warmth.
When she finally walked away, the wind had picked up—but the numbness had faded slightly.
Something had settled.
Not peace. Not yet.
But closure, in a shape small enough to hold in two hands.
A maid spotted her before she reached the wing—Ru’er again, always the most earnest—and without a word, turned and flitted ahead to ready the dressing room.
Maomao sighed. She did not protest.
By the time she entered her quarters, the other two were already waiting.
A basin of steaming water sat ready, scented with white tea and bergamot. Fine garments had been laid out in careful layers—an outer robe of deep plum silk with a lining of cinnabar red, a matching sash embroidered with restrained gold-thread orchids. Under it all, dove-grey inner robes of quilted cotton. Practical warmth beneath soft excess.
They didn't speak at first.
They just helped her wash. Gently cleaned the dirt from under her nails. Wiped the dried mud from her wrists and ankles. They didn't complain at all about how quickly she dirtied herself. Shulan toweled out her hair again with a second round of quiet efficiency, this time smoothing a fine oil into the ends.
“Will you wear your hair up?” Huiyin asked softly, holding out a comb.
Maomao hesitated. Her reflection in the polished bronze mirror blinked back at her. Pale, unreadable. Older than she should have looked.
“…Just braided,” she said after a beat. “No pins.”
The maids exchanged a glance—but obeyed.
They braided her hair loosely, and wrapped the end in a simple ribbon to match her sash.
Then, finally, they helped her into the plum robe. It draped over her like quiet armor, soft and heavy. A color far too rich for mourning—but it made her look like she belonged somewhere other than the margins.
Once they finished, they stepped back.
Maomao looked at her reflection.
Then looked away.
Outside, soft footsteps approached—unhurried, familiar.
A knock at the door.
“You’re decent, I hope?” Lakan’s voice, laced with its usual dry amusement.
“You’re early,” Maomao said.
“You’re late,” he replied through the wood.
The maids moved to open the door, but Maomao beat them to it. She slid it open herself.
Lakan stood in his usual understated elegance—dark robes layered with charcoal-gray silk, silver embroidery tracing the edges like frost. He didn’t appraise her. He didn’t say she looked well.
But he paused.
And his eyes softened.
“You’re ready?” he asked.
Maomao nodded. “Yes.”
He offered his arm.
She looked at it.
Then, slowly, rested her hand on his sleeve. Not laced through. Not held. Just resting, like one might place a cup on a table.
But it was contact, all the same.
He didn’t push it further.
“Come,” he said. “They say this troupe hasn’t performed in the capital in seven years.”
“That’s not long.”
“Not for you, maybe.”
They stepped out together into the corridor, a quiet pair framed in midwinter light.
As the door closed behind them, one of the maids whispered to another, barely audible:
“She still looks like someone who’s in grieving.”
“Yes,” the other replied. “But she’s letting someone walk with her.”
The carriage was already waiting at the front gate, its polished sides catching the winter light. A driver perched neatly at the front, reins slack but ready, bundled against the cold. Two estate guards lingered nearby in quiet formation, more for formality than true threat.
Lakan handed Maomao up first with no ceremony, only a curt incline of the head.
The inside of the carriage was warm. Cushions lined the bench seats, and a small brazier beneath the floorboards ensured the chill stayed locked outside. As soon as they settled across from each other, Lakan knocked once on the wall.
The wheels began to turn.
For the first minute or two, the silence was mutual. The rhythmic sway of the carriage and the muffled sounds of the city waking gave Maomao room to breathe. She looked out through the latticework panel as the estate walls slipped past.
Then, inevitably, Lakan began to talk.
“Have I mentioned the theater was restored last spring? The old beams were nearly rotted through—it’s a miracle it didn’t collapse mid-performance the last time I visited.” He shifted, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “The new director is quite the innovator. Purists hate him. That usually means the production will be good.”
Maomao hummed noncommittally.
He went on.
“Today's piece is a rarely performed tragedy from the South—plague, betrayal, ungrateful daughters. The usual celebratory fare,” he said with a faint smirk.
Maomao snorted once through her nose. A sign of life.
Then, without lifting her gaze from the curtained window, she said:
“What’s the name of the steward who helped me this morning?”
Lakan paused.
The shift in his energy was subtle, but instant. He crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and studied her with that sideways tilt of his head—the same one he used when diagnosing complicated puzzles.
“You were helped by an aid of mine?” he asked smoothly. “The only one I know of who would be here on such a day would be Rikuson. He’s served our household since his early teens. Quiet. Extremely competent. Dislikes ginger, if you're planning to poison him.”
Maomao gave him a flat look. “I’m not poisoning him.”
“Good,” Lakan said, too quickly. “Because that would be ungrateful after he helped you.”
Maomao shifted slightly in her seat. “I want to thank him. Properly. Not just in passing.”
“Oh?” His tone sharpened—just slightly. “That young man must have been quite.. helpful. And what would your proper thanks entail?”
She gave him a squint.
“A polite word and possibly a wrapped lychee or jujube now that I know he's too young for alcohol, Father. I’m not trying to elope with your steward.”
Lakan blinked. He straightened a fraction. “…Of course not.”
The carriage swayed gently as they rounded a corner. A soft clack of the wheels filled the pause.
Maomao looked down at her hands. Her nails were clean now. Her knuckles still scraped.
“He didn’t say much. But he knew what to do and he didn't try and..” she trailed after a beat. “I’ve had... very few people like that in my life.”
Lakan was quiet now.
Not watchful. Not suspicious.
Just still.
Maomao’s voice dropped slightly. “I’d like him to know it mattered.”
“…He will,” Lakan said finally. His voice had gentled. “But I’ll tell him myself, if you’d rather not.”
“No. I’ll do it.”
He nodded, pleased. But something flickered behind his eyes—an odd mixture of pride and wariness, a father seeing too many layers in too small a gesture.
“…You’ve never asked after anyone in the household before.”
“I’ve never buried a cat before.”
He winced. “Fair.”
She turned back to the window.
And though they sat in companionable quiet for the rest of the ride, Lakan’s next few glances at her were speculative.
The kind a father gives when the world begins to press itself into the orbit of his daughter, and for the first time, she lets it in.
Perhaps this new year would bring in more than he could have ever dared hoped.
The carriage rolled to a gentle stop before the gates of the Qifeng Opera House.
Even from the outside, the building was breathtaking—five tiers of tiled eaves swept upward like wings, their corners gilded and strung with delicate bells that chimed with each gust of winter wind. Paper lanterns in vermilion and bronze lined the stone walkway, casting a warm glow over the gathered crowd and reflecting off the ice-glazed street.
The entrance shimmered with movement. Attendants in black and red robes ushered nobles through the grand lacquered doors, past a cascade of silk curtains embroidered with scenes from famous tragedies. A bronze relief above the entrance depicted a sorrowful maiden burning incense at an altar, her sleeves trailing into a pool of ink.
The carriage door opened.
Lakan stepped out first, adjusting his sleeves with precise, absent-minded care. The moment his boot touched the stone, the atmosphere shifted.
The buzz of chatter didn’t fade entirely, but it lowered—hushed tones and sidelong glances rippling like wind through reeds. A nobleman in mid-conversation took a half-step back. Two women near the entrance whispered, then turned their faces toward their fans. One young heir with too much rouge and too little sense gave Lakan a nod far too stiff, and then nearly tripped retreating into the shadows.
Maomao stepped down after him.
The hush deepened.
No one expected a girl at his side—not one in plum robes with her hair plainly braided, her gaze level and unpainted save for a touch of color on her mouth. She wore no heavy jewels, no clan insignia. Just the calm detachment of someone who had seen worse halls than these.
And yet, with Lakan offering his arm to her—publicly, clearly—she might as well have worn a crown.
He murmured toward her, not bothering to lower his voice: “Ah. I see the lesser lords are fleeing in case I conscript their sons into public service.”
“They should,” Maomao said dryly. “You seem the type to make it look like a promotion.”
Lakan smiled. “You are warming up.”
An attendant hurried to meet them, bowing low enough that the ends of his sleeves brushed the ground.
“Master Lakan. Your private box is prepared.”
“Of course it is.” Lakan waved a hand. “Come along, Maomao. It’s a fine view from above. And it’s always entertaining to watch who refuses to look up at us.”
They ascended a side staircase that curved like a dragon’s spine around the outer wall, each landing lit by lanterns painted with scenes of old plays—lovers doomed, kings betrayed, gods tricked into mortality. The theater pulsed with warmth and incense.
When they reached the second tier, the attendant drew aside a silk curtain to reveal the private viewing box.
It was spacious, elegant, and tucked slightly into shadow.
Cushions lined the carved railing, and a low table held a teapot of green plum blossom infusion already steaming. A painted screen shielded them from the main corridor, and from this height, they could see the full sweep of the lacquered stage below—where robed stagehands were adjusting the final props in delicate silence.
Lakan motioned for Maomao to sit.
She did, letting her eyes scan the audience below. It was a crush of brocade, painted faces, and soft fans fluttering like butterflies.
“Do you enjoy being feared?” she asked him softly.
Lakan poured tea. “Not particularly. But it’s an effective social lubricant.”
She made a face.
He handed her the cup.
“You get used to it,” he said. “Until one day you miss it when it’s gone.”
“I think I’d rather be ignored.”
Lakan took a seat beside her, his profile caught in the lantern-light.
“Ignored daughters never end up in private boxes,” he murmured, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
Maomao didn’t reply.
But she sipped the tea.
And when the curtain below began to rise, she didn’t look away.
The music began not with drums or cymbals, but a single flute—clear and high and tremulous, like wind slipping through winter-thinned branches. It made Maomao’s fingers twitch around the tea cup before she realized it.
The stage came alive slowly, unfurling in precise tableaux: a modest home, paper walls lit from within by amber lanterns, a garden painted across the backdrop in brushstroke cherry blossoms despite the season outside. A young actor stepped forward in the role of the eldest daughter, sweeping the stage with exaggerated serenity.
This wasn’t the tragedy Lakan had joked about earlier. Not yet.
It was an interlude scene: domestic, peaceful. A lull before chaos. The kind of moment meant to soften the audience—fill them with sweetness before everything was stripped away.
But something happened.
The daughter onstage knelt before a table. She poured tea into two cups with ritualistic grace. She set one aside.
“For Father,” she said.
That was all.
A throwaway line. Simple. Ordinary.
But Maomao flinched.
Her throat tightened before her brain could make sense of it. The cup in her hands trembled. She set it down clumsily, ceramic clanking against wood.
The girl onstage smiled. She turned toward the paper screen of her stage-home, where the silhouette of a father figure passed in profile, bent-backed and fussing over an unseen garden.
The flute continued—sweet, simple.
Maomao bowed her head.
The tears came like they had been waiting all along.
Not dramatic. Not sobs. Just a silent, steady spill that dampened the front of her plum-colored robe, dropped from the tip of her nose to her lap with rhythmic weight. Her shoulders didn’t shake. Her breathing didn’t change.
Only the tears.
She couldn’t stop them.
The line had been so stupidly plain. For Father.
But she had thought of Loumen.
How he never drank the tea hot, always left it to cool beside his notes until the leaves stained the paper rings. How he would scowl at bad steeping like it was a personal offense. How she had once tried to save the last bit of a rare blend for him and he had, impossibly, known before tasting it.
She had remembered lighting incense alone, burying a cat alone, carrying so much alone—
And then the words had come from a stranger’s mouth, on a stage with fake flowers and warm light, and it had split something wide open.
Beside her, Lakan had gone still.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t try to touch her.
Just sat there—watching the stage, but his eyes flickering toward her, waiting. Not intruding. Not fixing.
Letting her feel.
Letting her fall apart.
When she finally managed to inhale through her nose, the breath stuttered like it hadn’t remembered how.
She wiped her cheek with the edge of her sleeve. Pointlessly—more followed.
The actor had moved on.
The line was gone.
But Maomao remained, unraveling in silence, the lights of the stage glinting off her tears.
And Lakan, still beside her, wordlessly poured a second cup of tea.
And left it there.
Not for her.
But for Father.