The preparation hall had slipped back into its careful rhythm, the kind of steady hum that came after a small storm passed without breaking anything. Trays glided from hand to hand, filled with sorted petals or empty bowls ready for the next round. Cloth rustled against cloth as maids wrapped fragile bundles, the soft shush blending with the occasional murmur of counts—"One, two, three jars of vetiver..."—breathed out under a breath. The earlier heaviness had faded clean away, leaving air that felt lighter, easier to draw in, though no one paused to name why. The breeze from the widened windows carried a hint of garden earth, mingling with the herbs in a way that made the space feel almost... generous.
Maomao stood near a low table in the corner, her small fingers deftly prying open a lacquered container of dried roots. The faint dust of earth puffed up as the lid lifted, carrying that familiar, grounding scent of soil-bound life. She was cataloging for the evening's test blends—making sure nothing had gone soft in the humidity—when she paused.
Her nose twitched. Once. Twice.
That smell again.
Not sharp enough to cut through the room's layers. Not unpleasant, like rot or a bad mix gone sour. Just... unfamiliar. A whisper of something ethereal, like dew on night-blooming petals, but held back, as if it didn't want to be caught.
Maomao closed the lid with a soft click, her freckled face tilting as she let her gaze sweep the hall. Maids bent to their tasks, heads down, the flow unbroken. But her eyes snagged, held.
On Yelan
The girl was over by the flower racks, her slender frame half-turned to the light, fingers adjusting a loose cloth wrap around a basket of gardenias. Her movements were slow, precise—like threading a needle in dim light, no waste, no flourish. She didn't chat with the junior nearby sorting ties. Didn't call out for help with a heavy vase. Just worked, calm as a pond at dusk, her dark hair slipping forward to curtain her face.
Maomao studied her a moment longer than she meant to. Quiet one. New. But... Something about the way she stood there, not filling the space but fitting it, tugged at the apothecary's curiosity. Like a herb she'd glimpsed in a market stall—unlabeled, but promising.
She set the container down and walked over, her geta padding soft against the tatami. No rush in her step, but purpose, the kind that made nearby maids glance up and then away quick.
"You," Maomao said, stopping a pace away, her voice blunt as a fresh-cut root.
Yelan turned immediately, her hands pausing mid-wrap, posture straight but not stiff. Her eyes met Maomao's—clear, unblinking, but without that eager spark most new girls had. "Yes?"
Maomao's gaze flicked over her: the even line of her shoulders, the clean lines of her palms where calluses hid from village days, the faint calm in her expression that didn't waver under scrutiny. No fidget, no averted eyes. Just... present.
"...Did you move the flower racks?" Maomao asked, nodding toward the spaced vases, their petals now catching breeze without crowding.
"Yes,"Yelan replied, simple and soft, no elaboration chasing the word.
Maomao clicked her tongue softly, the sound more thoughtful than scolding. "They were set up like last year's layout. Standard for the rite—close enough to layer scents, but not touch."
Yelan fingers resumed their work, tying the cloth knot neat and tight. "The weather's different," she said gently, her voice like a leaf settling on water. "Air holds more water today."
Maomao paused, her sharp eyes narrowing just a fraction—not in doubt, but interest. She caught the humidity shift? Before the dizziness hit? "…You noticed that?"
"Yes."
The word hung simple, no pride in it, no defense. Just fact.
Maomao leaned a touch closer, head tilting like she was inspecting a questionable tincture. "How? You sniff it out like me, or what?"
Yelan hesitated, her gaze dropping to the basket for a breath—gathering words like scattered petals. She wasn't one for spilling thoughts; they came measured, when needed. "It felt heavy," she said at last, honest but quiet. "Like cloth twisted too tight."
Maomao snorted quietly, the sound half-amused, half-impressed—a rare crack in her dry shell. "That's not a measurement. 'Heavy' doesn't go in the ledger."
"But it was enough,"Yelan replied, her tone unchanged, eyes lifting steady to meet Maomao's again. No push, no plea—just the truth, laid bare like a root pulled clean from soil.
Maomao considered that, her mind turning it over like a puzzle stone. Not precise, but... right. Felt it before the symptoms showed. Village nose, maybe. Or something else. She stepped half a pace closer, close enough now to catch the air around the girl fully.
And there it was again—that unfamiliar scent, brushing her senses light as a feather's touch. Persistent, but not overpowering. Not the sharp tang of medicine or the sweet veil of flowers. Not even the woody smoke of incense. Something cooler, deeper—like night air laced with unseen blooms, or dew on stone under moon.
Maomao's brow creased faintly. "...You smell strange."
Yelan blinked, her hands stilling on the cloth, a flicker of surprise crossing her calm face—the first real ripple all day. "Strange?"
"Yeah." Maomao sniffed lightly, deliberate, sifting it like she would a suspect herb. "Not bad. Not sick. Just... not anything I know. Like it's from outside the usual palette."
Yelan fingers tightened a fraction on the wrap, but her voice stayed even, soft. "I'm sorry."
Maomao waved a hand, quick and dismissive, like brushing off a fly. "Didn't say it was a problem. Palace is full of oddities—perfumes gone feral, laundresses with weird soaps. Just... noting it."
She studied Yelan another breath, the silence stretching comfortable between them—no awkward fill, no rush to break it. The girl's calm held steady, like a deep well that didn't ripple easy. Useful, Maomao thought. Not flashy, but sees what others miss. And that smell... later. Not now.
Yelan lowered her gaze then, respectful but not submissive, her hands resuming their tie with the same quiet precision.
Maomao nodded faintly, almost to herself. "You didn't start the issue. But you spotted it turning before it bit anyone hard."
"Yes."
"That's useful," Maomao said, the words grudging but genuine, like admitting a bitter tea had hidden merits. She turned away slightly, ledger forgotten for the moment, her mind already filing the girl under "watch, but not worry."
Yelan said nothing, just watched the apothecary's back for a beat—Maomao's stride quick, purposeful, hair slipping loose like it always did when she was thinking hard.
Maomao paused at her table, picking up the root container again, but her thoughts didn't follow her hands. Felt the heavy air. Adjusted without a fuss. And that scent... not from the flowers, not the room. She glanced back once, casual as checking a vial's seal.
Yelan was still by the racks, fingers resting light against the cloth wrap, head tilted just enough to catch the breeze. No triumphant stand, no waiting for praise. Just there, folded into the hall's rhythm like she'd always been part of it.
Maomao's lips pressed thin, a half-smile tugging despite herself. Girl like that... sticks in the mind. She turned fully away, opening the lid again. "I'll remember that," she added, almost too low to carry, but loud enough for the air between them.
Yelan heard it. Her fingers stilled on the cloth, a quiet warmth blooming in her chest—not pride, but acknowledgment, like a seed sensing rain. She didn't look up. Didn't call after. Just nodded to the empty space where Maomao had been, her expression serene as before.
The hall hummed on—trays clinking soft, cloths rustling, a junior counting jars in a whisper. The air stayed light, the flowers resting in their spaces, the rite's preparations weaving forward one careful thread at a time.
Maomao returned to her roots, but her mind wandered back once more. Not to the flowers, not to the heavy air that had almost been a problem.
To the girl who had noticed it all before the room even knew it was there.
Yelan , she thought, the name settling like a new label on an unlabeled jar. One to watch.
And in the quiet of her work, Yelan felt the palace shift around her—not louder, not brighter, but deeper. Like roots finding purchase in fresh soil.
She wrapped the cloth tight, tied the knot true.
And moved on.