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I suppress the urge to say something rude to the chief attendant; I’m not here to make enemies or friends, just to get my ring back—even as the prince’s black eyes flash through my mind.

I follow the chief attendant into the building. Four rooms are tucked within for sleeping, changing, dining, and bathing. Shan called it small, but I’ve never had such space for myself. How quiet it is without Mistress Henglan’s demands, the rattle of doors when the wind blows. Back home, I’d have to swim in the freezing river to get clean, yet here is a large copper tub already filled with water. The tables and chairs are crafted of a wood I don’t recognize, a lustrous brown inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Silk curtains are draped across the bed frame, pooling on the floor. I run my fingers along the soft covers, the precious jade pillow. A scroll painting of beautiful ladies hangs on the far side of the wall. This room, the elegant garden beyond—none of this feels like they belong to me. I pick up a piece of amber carved into a bird, a treasure that could feed a family for a year while here it languishes forgotten.

“Do you like working in the palace?” I ask Shan as the chief attendant strides through the rooms to inspect them.

“It’s a good place. Sometimes Cook Feng lets us bring the leftovers home. My sisters are always eager to hear about the latest fashions in court. Most importantly, it pays well.” His smile falters. “My youngest sister is sick, and medicine is expensive.”

“I’m sorry, Shan.” I think of my aunt and uncle, the despair of being unable to help them when they needed it. My fingers close around a piece of silver in my handkerchief, wanting to give it to him—but I release it again, hating myself a little. This silver is precious to me, the only money I have.

Chief Attendant Mai rejoins us, sitting by the table and gesturing for me to do the same. Shan hurriedly pours out two cups of tea from the pot on the brazier. I thank him, then take a gulp, the hot tea scalding me. As I blow to cool it, the chief attendant’s eyes narrow.

“Small sips,” he snaps at me. “Whatever manners taught to you are unfit for court. We will find a tutor to instruct you on how to conduct yourself here.”

Anger fists in my chest. My aunt and uncle taught me to respect my elders, to treat others with courtesy, to hold my tongue as I’m straining to do now—and most definitely not to spill this scorching tea all over the chief attendant’s immaculate robe.

“I will learn,” I say through gritted teeth.

As Chief Attendant Mai takes a drink from his cup, he slams it back down on the table. “Shan, throw out the tea. These inferior leaves are a disgrace to our hospitality.”

“I like it.” Defiantly, I take another long sip. It’s bitter, more so than whatever Mistress Henglan used to drink—but I smile like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

The chief attendant sniffs as he heads to the doorway, gesturing for Shan to follow him. “The tutor will also instruct you in good taste. She will come tomorrow.”

After they leave, a weight vanishes, my spirits no longer tempered by the chief attendant’s surliness and condescension. Almost giddily, I fling open a closet to find piles of garments neatly stacked within. Back home, our clothes were chosen for practicality: of sturdy cloth for both the hot summers and freezing winters, material that itched, yet was worn till threadbare. While here, each dress and robe is a creation of beauty, where cost is no consideration.

One dress has dozens of gauze butterflies sewn on the silk skirt, another is so thickly embroidered with silver it gleams like metal. The most beautiful is a green brocade with a design of camellias, snowdrops, and plum blossoms. The stitches are so fine, an echo of the flowers’ fragrance seems to cling to the cloth.

I open a wooden box on the dressing table to find hair ornaments and pins. Another is crammed with pearls, bangles, sandalwood combs. Picking up a pair of emerald earrings, I angle them so the stones catch the light, then I slide on a jade bangle, smooth and cool against my wrist. As my gaze roams over the glittering jewels, I pick up a gold chain studded with rubies, draping it over my neck. My reflection looks back at me from the bronze mirror—almost jarring. In these jewels and my dress, I don’t look like myself, but the lady Shan thought I was… and a voice whispers in my mind: What if I were?

I shake my head, turning away from the girl in the mirror. These clothes, the ornaments, the comforts of this room… I like them too much. It would be dangerous to grow accustomed to this. Yet I feel reckless, almost greedy, wanting everything this place offers—like gulping down plum juice when I’m thirsty, except it leaves me craving more.

CHAPTER TWELVE

S unlight spills through the windows, the scent of pear blossoms infusing the air. I rise, unsettled, feeling like I haven’t slept at all despite the softness of the bed. Maybe I’m not used to comfort. The reddish mark on the underside of my finger pulses faintly. I try not to think of it as I stumble to my feet, rubbing my eyes. After cleaning my face and teeth, I pull on a lilac robe embroidered with leaves. I hesitate, then fasten a strand of pearls around my throat, fumbling with the delicate clasp. A strange sensation, to not rush, whether to prepare breakfast or tidy the house. Everything feels new and so unfamiliar, it chafes like a shoe not yet broken in.

Someone knocks on the door, then pulls it open. Shan enters, carrying a tray of food: a bowl of congee garnished with slices of fried dough, a plate of dumplings and bean sprouts. It smells delicious, but when I stir the porridge, unearthing pieces of fish—my stomach churns. I’ll never forget the horror of seeing Little Dragon’s remains in my step-aunt’s soup. I push the bowl aside, eating everything else, even the side dish of pickles and salted eggs.

When I’m done, Shan whisks the tray away, glancing curiously at the untouched bowl. Alone, I pick up the first book I find—one on palace etiquette. The first chapter drones on about titles, followed by a section on how to bow at court. I wince at the illustrations, reminded of how clumsy I was last night.

A thump on the door startles me. As I open it, a broad-faced man in a stained apron enters. He bows politely, yet appears to be bristling. “I’m Cook Feng, the head of the kitchens in the Palace of Nine Hills,” he announces with the pride of a position well-earned. “I heard you were displeased with your breakfast, and I came to find out what was wrong.”

“Displeased?” I repeat uncertainly.

“The fish congee you sent back, the bowl still full.” He scowls. “It’s an insult to eat everything yet leave my dish untouched. The fish was jade perch, the best quality and still wriggling when I chopped its head off.”

As he mimes the gesture, the urge to retch rises. “It was an excellent dish,” I say faintly. “The congee appeared smooth and silken, the fish tender.”

He nods, slightly mollified. “You sound like you know how to cook.”

“Just a little, nothing to your skills. I don’t eat fish… not since I choked on a bone stuck in my throat.” It’s easier to lie than to explain about the carp.

Cook Feng’s face brightens. “It happened to my little brother too. He cried so much and didn’t eat fish for six months! You must still be hungry, especially if you ate all of Cook Nian’s dumplings. They aren’t very good, the wrapper is too coarse. I’ll send some of mine over, along with a bowl of noodles.”

As I beam at him, a regal lady glides into my room in a swathe of peach brocade, her graying hair held up by amber pins. She casts a stern look at Cook Feng, who swiftly lowers his head and leaves.

“You may call me Madam Lau,” she announces, wrinkling her nose as she studies me. “Chief Attendant Mai requested that I instruct you on how to conduct yourself as His Highness’s guest.”

I smile woodenly as I bow. “I’m grateful, Madam Lau.”