His eyes stopped briefly on the freckles that dotted Mao Mao's face, and something in his gaze changed, softening for an instant before hardening again.
"After you... freckles," he added in a voice so low that only she could hear it.
The nickname hit her like a physical punch. No one had called her that in years, not since... A memory tried to form in her mind, but it faded before she could grasp it.
Gaoshun began to walk, and they followed him. The garden lamps projected their elongated shadows on the ground, three silhouettes moving in sync but that couldn't have been more different.
As they walked away, Mao Mao couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this situation than Jinshi had told her. And there was definitely something more in Lian's reaction toward her, in the way he had avoided using her name, in that whispered "freckles" that had awakened echoes in her memory.
Night had fallen completely over the palace, and with it, a sensation that something important was beginning to unfold. Like the leaves of an ancient scroll that slowly unrolls, revealing long-forgotten secrets.
The question that resonated in Mao Mao's mind as they walked in silence through the lantern-lit corridors was simple but disturbing:
Who was Lian really, and why did she feel like she already knew him?
The medicinal herb warehouse of the east wing was a building of stone and wood, more functional than aesthetic. Unlike most of the palace structures, which prioritized beauty over practicality, this place had been designed with a specific purpose in mind: preserving the potency and purity of medicinal herbs.
As Gaoshun opened the heavy wooden door, the concentrated aroma of hundreds of different herbs hit Mao Mao like a wave. For most, it would have been overwhelming, but for her it was like coming home. She could distinguish each note: the sweetness of licorice root, the bitterness of ginseng, the earthy aroma of angelica, the spiciness of cinnamon...
But there was something else, a discordant note in the symphony of aromas. Something that shouldn't be there.
"Something's wrong," she murmured, more to herself than to the others.
Lian looked at her with curiosity, and for a moment, his mask of calculated indifference seemed to slip, revealing genuine interest.
"Can you smell it?" he asked, and his voice had lost part of its theatrical affectation.
Mao Mao nodded, advancing toward the interior of the warehouse. The walls were covered with shelves that reached to the ceiling, each one filled with jars, boxes, and bags carefully labeled. In the center was a large work table, with mortars, scales, and other instruments necessary for preparing medicines.
"It's subtle," she said, closing her eyes to better concentrate on the aromas. "Like... humidity. But it's not natural. It's more... chemical."
Gaoshun lit several additional lamps, illuminating the space with a warm glow. The shadows retreated, revealing the meticulous order of the warehouse. Each shelf was labeled according to the type of herb, its origin, and its medicinal properties.
"I'll leave you to begin your investigation," said Gaoshun, bowing slightly. "I'll be outside if you need me."
With that, he left, closing the door behind him. The sound resonated in the space, underscoring the fact that they were now alone, Mao Mao and the enigmatic Lian.
An uncomfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the occasional creaking of wood and the soft tinkling of glass jars when Mao Mao began to examine the shelves.
"So, apothecary," Lian finally said, leaning casually against the central table. "Where do you suggest we start?"
There was something in the way he pronounced "apothecary" that sounded almost like a challenge, or perhaps a private joke that only he understood.
Mao Mao looked at him, evaluating him. In the lamplight, his features seemed softer, less theatrical. There was something about him that seemed disturbingly familiar, like a word on the tip of the tongue that can't be pronounced.
"First, we need to understand exactly what's happening with the medicines," she responded, deciding to ignore Lian's tone for the moment. "What symptoms do they present? When did the problem begin? Is there any pattern in the affected batches?"
She approached a shelf and took a small ceramic jar. She opened it carefully and smelled its contents, frowning.
"This ginseng root is... altered," she murmured. "It's not rotten, but it has lost much of its medicinal properties. As if it had been... washed somehow."
Lian approached, and for a moment they were shoulder to shoulder. Mao Mao could feel the warmth emanating from him, and an aroma she hadn't noticed before: something fresh and herbal, but with an underlying metallic note.
"May I?" he asked, extending his hand toward the jar.
Mao Mao hesitated for an instant before handing it to him. She observed how Lian examined the contents, first visually, then smelling it carefully. His movements were precise and methodical, very different from the theatricality he had shown before.
"Interesting," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "It's not natural deterioration. It's almost as if it had been exposed to some type of... vapor."
He looked up, and his eyes met Mao Mao's. For an instant, the tension between them seemed to dissolve, replaced by a shared professional interest.
"Vapor?" asked Mao Mao, intrigued despite her wariness. "What type of vapor could cause this specific effect?"
Lian carefully placed the jar on the table and began to examine the shelf from which Mao Mao had taken it.
"In my native village," he said, his voice losing part of its theatrical affectation, "healers sometimes used vapors from certain minerals to enhance or alter the properties of herbs. But if the process was done incorrectly, or if the herbs were exposed for too long..."
"They could lose their medicinal properties instead of improving them," Mao Mao completed, following his reasoning. "Or worse, become toxic."
Lian nodded, and for a moment, he seemed to forget his animosity toward her. His eyes shone with genuine scientific interest.
"Exactly, freckles," he said, and instantly seemed to realize his slip. His expression closed again, like a door slamming shut. "I mean, apothecary."
Mao Mao tensed upon hearing that nickname again. There was something in the way he said it, in the familiarity with which it came from his lips, that awakened echoes of memories she couldn't place clearly.
"Why do you call me that?" she asked directly, deciding to confront the mystery head-on. "Do we know each other from before?"
Lian looked at her for a long moment, and something seemed to struggle within him. His eyes, normally calculating, showed a flash of vulnerability that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
"No," he finally responded, and his voice had recovered its theatrical tone. "It's just an obvious nickname, isn't it? You have freckles, apothecary. Quite distinctive, I must add."
He passed by her to examine another shelf, but Mao Mao noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. He was lying, she was sure of it. But she decided not to press for now. They had a more immediate mystery to solve.
"Let's return to the problem at hand," she said, approaching another shelf. "If your theory about vapor is correct, we need to find the source. And determine if it's accidental or... deliberate."
The word "deliberate" hung between them, charged with implications. Sabotage was a serious accusation in the palace, especially when it involved medicines that could affect the health of important people.
Lian nodded, his expression becoming serious.
"We should systematically review each section of the warehouse," he suggested. "Identify which herbs are affected and which aren't. It could give us a pattern."
They worked in silence for the next hour, methodically examining each shelf, each jar, each box. Despite their apparent animosity, Mao Mao had to admit that Lian was efficient and knowledgeable. His observations were precise, and his knowledge of medicinal herbs was impressive for someone who was supposedly new to the palace.
While they worked, Mao Mao couldn't help but observe him sideways. There was something in his movements, in the way his fingers examined the herbs, that seemed strangely familiar to her.
"The herbs on these three shelves are all affected," Lian finally said, pointing to a section on the east wall of the warehouse. "But those on the adjacent shelves are perfectly fine."
Mao Mao approached, frowning.
"It's as if the effect were specifically localized to this area," she murmured. "But why only these shelves?"
She examined the wall behind the affected shelves, looking for some clue. There was nothing visible that could explain the pattern.
"What's behind this wall?" she asked, gently tapping the surface with her knuckles.
Lian approached, his body almost brushing hers. For an instant, Mao Mao felt a strange familiarity in that proximity, as if their bodies remembered a closeness that their minds had forgotten.
"I think it's the alchemy laboratory," he responded, his voice strangely soft. "I saw it on my tour of the palace."
Mao Mao looked at him surprised.
"Tour? You just arrived today. And it was supposed to be tomorrow."
An enigmatic smile curved Lian's lips.
"I'm observant, apothecary. And quick to orient myself."
There was something in his tone that suggested he wasn't telling the whole truth, but Mao Mao decided to let it pass for now. The clue about the alchemy laboratory was too important to get distracted.
"If there are alchemical experiments on the other side of this wall," she said, thoughtfully, "they could be releasing vapors that filter through the stone. Especially if the wall has cracks or imperfections."
She began to examine the wall more carefully, running her fingers over the surface looking for irregularities. Lian did the same, and his hands moved in a pattern that seemed to perfectly complement hers.
"Here," Lian suddenly said, pointing to a small, almost invisible crack at the junction between two stone blocks. "Can you smell it?"
Mao Mao approached, and indeed, she could detect a subtle but distinctive aroma emanating from the crack. It was metallic and slightly sweet, like hot copper mixed with fermented honey.
"Mercury," she murmured, instinctively stepping back. "They're using mercury in their experiments."
Lian nodded, his expression grave.
"Mercury vapor could perfectly explain the effects on the herbs," he said. "It alters their chemical properties without leaving visible traces of deterioration."
They looked at each other, and for a moment, the tension between them transformed into something different: mutual professional respect.
"We need to seal this crack," said Mao Mao. "And all the others we find. Then, talk to the alchemists about the need to improve their laboratory ventilation."
"And replace all the affected herbs," Lian added. "They can't be used for medicines. It would be dangerous."
Mao Mao looked at him with renewed curiosity. His knowledge was too specific, too precise for someone who was supposedly new to medicinal herbs.
"Where did you learn so much about herbs and alchemy?" she asked directly. "It's not common knowledge, not even among educated palace eunuchs."
Lian visibly tensed, and for an instant, it seemed he was going to avoid the question. But then he sighed, and something in his posture changed, becoming less theatrical, more authentic.
"My mother was an herbalist," he finally said, and his voice had lost all affectation. "I learned from her since I was a child. Before... before coming to the palace."
There was an untold story in those words, a pain that Mao Mao could feel as if it were tangible. For a moment, she saw Lian not as the theatrical and calculating eunuch, but as someone with a complex past, with losses and sacrifices that had shaped him.
"My father was a doctor," she found herself saying, surprised by her own willingness to share. "He taught me to recognize herbs and poisons since I was little."
Lian looked at her, and for an instant, his mask fell completely. His eyes showed a mixture of emotions so complex that Mao Mao couldn't decipher them all: recognition, nostalgia, pain, and something else, something that seemed almost like... longing.
"I know," he said softly, and the words fell between them like stones in a tranquil pond, creating waves of confusion and recognition.
Before Mao Mao could ask what he meant, the warehouse door opened, and Gaoshun entered, breaking the moment.
"Have you made any progress?" he asked, his voice calm but authoritative.
Lian recomposed himself instantly, his theatrical mask returning to its place as if it had never slipped.
"We have identified the cause of the problem, sir," he said, with an elegant bow. "Mercury vapors filtering from the alchemy laboratory through cracks in the shared wall."
Mao Mao nodded, although her mind kept turning over Lian's words. "I know." What exactly did he know? And how did he know it?
"We need to seal the cracks and replace all the affected herbs," she added, forcing herself to concentrate on the immediate problem. "And talk to the alchemists about improving their ventilation."
Gaoshun looked at both of them, and Mao Mao had the impression that he was evaluating not only their words, but also the dynamic between them.
"Impressive," he finally said. "I'll inform Master Jinshi of your findings. For now, you can retire to rest. Tomorrow you'll supervise the implementation of the solutions you've proposed."
With that, he bowed slightly and left, leaving them alone again.
An uncomfortable silence settled between them, charged with unformulated questions and half-answers.
"We should go," Mao Mao finally said, moving toward the door. "It's been a long day."
Lian nodded, but when Mao Mao passed by him, his hand moved, as if he wanted to stop her. He stopped mid-gesture, letting his arm fall to his side.
"Apothecary," he said, and his voice had lost all theatricality. "There's more to this story than it seems. Not just about the herbs."
Mao Mao stopped, looking directly into his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
Lian held her gaze, and for a moment, he seemed to be on the verge of an important revelation. But then, as if he had reconsidered, he shook his head slightly.
"Nothing," he said, and his voice had recovered part of its theatrical tone. "Just that things are rarely what they seem in the palace. As you well know, freckles."
The nickname again, said with a familiarity that defied their supposed status as strangers. Mao Mao felt she was on the verge of an important memory, but couldn't reach it.
Outside, night had completely enveloped the palace. The full moon shone in the sky, bathing the gardens with its silver light. Cherry blossoms fell softly, like pink snow in a world of shadows and secrets.
And somewhere in her mind, a memory tried to form, but the mist of time imposed itself in its path, stopping any possibility of trying.