Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T he birthday decorations had barely been taken down before the king's servant appeared outside my chambers.

"His Majesty has asked for you to accompany him tonight," he called.

My heart pounded. Finally. It seemed my gift had made an impression after all; he really had remembered me. But I did not move to bathe in rose water and change into a set of fresh robes, as was expected of me. I could not relinquish an opportunity so easily. If I went to him tonight, like a beautiful, obedient bride, there would be no anticipation left, no intrigue.

So instead I turned my back to the lattice sliding doors and replied with forced calm, "Tell him I am too tired. Perhaps another time."

A beat of drawn silence.

I could feel my heartbeat quickening, my blood rushing fiercely through my veins. There was a risk, I was aware. A chance his goodwill from the gift would shatter. A chance his impatience would triumph over his curiosity, and he would order my banishment from the palace, or perhaps my immediate execution. I squeezed my eyes shut against the image of a falling blade, my blood seeping through cold stone.

"One should be most honored by such an invitation," came the servant's eventual reply. I could hear the incredulity in his voice, and beneath it, the unspoken accusation: Who do you think you are to deny the king what he wants? "Many would kill for it."

"That does not change the fact that I'm tired," I said firmly, and walked deeper into my chambers, my long robes sweeping the floors. I spent the rest of the night wide awake, restless, listening for the sound of footsteps, half convinced the servant would return with my sentence. But only the osmanthus branches tapped my window, and the flames of lanterns burned low.

Another invitation came the next evening.

"His Majesty hopes you are well rested now," the servant said. Even with the door between us, his sneer was obvious. "He would like to see you tonight."

I chewed my lip. I ought to already be grateful I had been kept alive. But how long could I stretch this out for? How far until the king's tolerance snapped? "I'm afraid I cannot. My heart has been acting up again," I said, and it was not a lie. Ever since I had parted with Fanli on the canal, the pain had burrowed deep into my chest like a scrabbling creature. In everything I did, I felt its terrible ache, my body's betrayal.

"No wonder they say the girls of Yue are raised without manners," the servant muttered, his footsteps turning away.

But he was back by the next evening, and again, the one after that. Each time I turned him away with bated breath, aware that my excuses were wearing thinner and thinner, that at this rate the king would either grow obsessed with me, or grow to hate me. I wish I could say it was all strategy, but there was also fear. I did not know how he would act once we really were alone together.

"Are you sure this will work?" Zhengdan asked one afternoon, when the servant left.

"Of course," I said, with far more certainty than I felt. It had been ten days already. Perhaps the king would give up. Perhaps he would find someone more willing, more eager to please. There were so many women in the palace, each as lovely as a water lily. "It must work."

When I heard the footsteps outside my chambers, I was already prepared.

"Tell His Majesty I am about to sleep," I said, running a comb through my glossy hair. "Perhaps another day."

But I was not met with the servant's bitter complaints, as I was accustomed to. Instead, the doors creaked open, and King Fuchai himself stood in the entrance, a black brocade cloak draped around his shoulders, the sky darkening to violet behind him. His eyes glinted, the corner of his mouth twisting upward. Too sharp to be a smile, too sincere to be a sneer.

The air froze in my lungs. "Your Majesty." I set the comb down and dropped into a low curtsy, keeping my eyes on his face.

"What game are you playing?" he asked softly, closing the door behind him. At once the space inside seemed to shrink, the distance between us narrowing. I wished to retreat, but that would be a sign of weakness.

Instead I tipped my chin up. "I am not playing any games," I said.

"Then why do you not wish to see me?" he pressed, stepping forward. His voice gave me pause. There was something surprising in it; he sounded almost hurt.

"I am seeing you now, aren't I?" I said, all innocence and poise. He could not know how fast my heart was beating.

He took another step. Lifted a hand to a stray strand of my hair, then brushed his knuckles gently over the side of my cheek. His hands did not feel like a killer's hands. They were smooth, unscarred. Warm. "I have been thinking about you," he told me, agitated, in the tones of a drunken confession. Or perhaps he really had been drinking. I could smell the faint notes of yellow wine clinging to his robes. "I cannot stop thinking about you."

I smiled. "Then don't."

His features blazed with wanting. It made him look younger, less cruel. He leaned in, and I shifted back, just slightly, just out of reach. His hands curled as he tried again. This time I let his lips brush mine before I moved, angling my face away from his.

What is desire?

Absence.

He stared at me in the stillness, his eyes burning.

Fear knotted my throat. If he really wanted to, he could overpower me now, kiss me without asking. Kings never needed permission. But though his breathing was uneven, his hands still clenched, he withdrew. "We don't have to," he said at last. "There is no point, if you aren't willing."

I did my best to conceal my surprise. This was not what the rumors had warned me of.

"May I stay here tonight?" he asked, then, following the direction of my gaze, clarified, "Only to sleep beside you."

My attention drifted to the shadows waiting outside the windows. Guards. If Fuchai left now, word would flow through the corridors that the king was uninterested, that I had failed to gain his favor. But if he stayed, it did not matter what we did or didn't do. The assumption alone would be enough.

"If you wish," I said, careful not to sound too eager, nor too dismissive. It was like walking along a cliff's edge.

As Fuchai unfastened his cloak, I picked up the comb again, praying he couldn't see the tremor in my fingers.

I fell asleep long after he did. And when I dreamed, I dreamed of blood.

Susu's blood, trickling from her mouth, pooling over the floor. The terrible gurgling sound in her throat. Her small, tiny fingers clutching feebly at the air. Her skin, so soft and tender only in the way of children who had not lived long enough to be marked by the world. Until now. How easily the sword tore through it. I remembered my mother fussing over her when she had scraped her thumb on the corner of a wooden toy; the thinnest red line, barely more than a scratch, but even that had been too much. We gathered around her, my mother squeezing her wrist, my father gathering fresh water to clean it, wiping her tears away, humming to make her laugh. She was the sun in our family, the source of all our light.

I shouted for her, even though it was useless. Susu. My sister, my life. The blood was spreading, smearing over the wood. I could undo it, I kept telling myself. It was only a few seconds' difference. One single movement. How could that be enough to take her away from me?

But I couldn't move. I could only watch.

The same nightmare, the same ghosts, the same terrible, unforgivable ending.

The soldier tightened his grip on the sword hilt. His face was blank, shrouded in darkness. Then I blinked, and his features morphed into Fuchai's.

No.

My eyes flew open. I was drenched with cold sweat, my chest heaving as though I had run the distance here. Here : tangled in silk sheets in a luxurious canopy bed, in the enemy's palace, next to their king.

He was still sleeping.

I gazed across the dark stretch of pillow between us, at the moonlight gliding over his skin. His lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones. His brows were smooth, his lips slightly parted, his breathing slow. He looked so peaceful I almost could not fathom it. I found myself staring at the hollow of his throat. One single movement. All that had been needed to rip Susu away from me. All that I needed now, to jam my hairpin into his vein, to end him for good.

The temptation was so strong it formed a jagged stone in my belly. I knew, with a cool certainty, that if he were gone, everything would be made right again. But I couldn't, just yet. That was not part of the plan.

Be patient , I reminded myself, holding my breath. Outside, an owl hooted into the night, and the clouds moved silver across the sky, and the palace grounds lay in utter stillness, while inside, the king went on sleeping soundly beside me.

He visited my chambers every day after that. Some nights I would rise and smile to greet him, teasing him lightly about the extravagant robes he'd chosen, or the countless servants who followed him everywhere. Other nights I would pretend to be absorbed in a scroll, or an ink painting, and make him wait. To him this must have been the greatest novelty, for nobody ever denied him anything. And it was this that compelled him to come back, time and time again. At the end of the evening, he would blow out the candles and lie down to rest next to me, and whisper, "Goodnight, Xishi."

There was always a trace of anticipation in those words. I would lean in, close enough to watch his eyes widen, but no farther. "Goodnight."

While I filled the king's mind with thoughts of me, Zhengdan filled her schedule with the other palace ladies. She accompanied them to watch the soldiers train every morning, pretending to admire their strength and power while really noting their sword techniques. Often, she would gather critical information just from the ladies' gossip, about which general was due for a promotion, or which skilled soldier had suffered a bad injury. They sometimes spoke about Fuchai too—his likes and preferences—and whatever she learned, she would report back to me.

"They say he's particularly fond of the scent of jasmine," Zhengdan said one morning. We sat together in the dining room, cushioned by furs and silks.

"Is that so?" I mused. "Perhaps I'll dab some jasmine perfume on my wrists tonight… Or my neck."

"You're going to make that poor king lose his mind over you," Zhengdan said without sympathy, clicking her tongue.

"Good. The sooner he loses his mind, the sooner his kingdom—"

Suddenly, the doors swung open. A maid entered, holding my meal.

My heart thudded in my chest as I tried to look natural. Had she overheard our conversation? Could she guess at what we were planning? The maid did not say anything, but she was staring at us oddly when she came forward and presented the tray. Up close, I saw that she had a flat, round face, with thin brows and eyes set wide apart. She was not the one who usually delivered my meals.

"We have a new drink from the kitchen today," she murmured, her eyes cast down. There was an unpolished, regional accent to her words. Her hands were coarse too, peasant's hands, and they trembled as she lifted the lid from a pretty cloisonné cup. A rich fragrance wafted toward us, sweet like honeyed osmanthus and dates. Inside was a dark green liquid that resembled tea. "It's good for digestion. Do try it."

I searched her face for any lingering signs of suspicion as I lifted the cup to my lips—

" Don't drink that ," Zhengdan said sharply, swiping at my arm.

The cup slipped from my hand and shattered with a loud tinkling sound, the murky liquid pooling over the ground. The silence that followed was deafening. I could hear my own furious breathing, my pounding heartbeat.

Zhengdan's eyes were bright with fear. "Don't," she said again. "It's poison."