They were the deepest red—the red of spilled blood, of spoiled wine, of kissed lips—and embroidered with gold thread. All along the sides and down the wide sleeves and sash, there were imagesof soaring birds and phoenix tails and floating clouds, chrysanthemums and lilies in full bloom, stars crowded around a blazing sun. It was the most beautiful and terrible thing I had ever seen. It made my heart halt its next beat. Sitting atop the robes was a note, written in Fanli’s neat, slanted calligraphy:See if it fits.
The fabric was as soft as it looked, made of the kind of silk I had only ever washed but never worn. The long skirt flowed down past my ankles like water and puddled crimson at my feet. It fit perfectly, the measurements exact, as if it had been made just for me.
I fastened all the ribbons myself with shaking hands, smoothed out the waist, and tied my hair back, pinning it into coils atop my head with a slender jade hairpin. Beads of amber dangled from its end, rattling as I walked.
I had no idea what I meant to do until I reached Fanli’s room. I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, my hand hovering over the door in a half-formed fist, hesitating.Knock. Go inside. It is your last chance to do so.Before my courage could abandon me, I pushed the door open. It creaked loudly, and there Fanli sat with his back to me, outlined against the candlelight.
His robes were undone, left to fall around his narrow waist. He had stiffened at the sound of the door, but he did not turn around.
“Xishi?” It was a question, in more ways than one.
My eyes went to the ointment in his hand, and I stepped forward with a boldness that did not feel like my own. “Let me,” I said, quiet, lowering myself to the ground behind him and plucking the ointment from his closed fingers. “Let me help you.”
I heard him swallow. “This is not for you to do.”
“I know.” The words rang out; like coins tossed down a waterfall, I could not tell when they landed, where. But he did not stop me; he simply held himself with even more stiffness than usual, his eyes ahead. I dipped one finger into the jar. The ointment was cool,smooth with oil, and almost sweet, the fragrance of a winter flower I thought I recognized.
The seconds expanded. We both seemed to be waiting.
Very carefully, I pressed one finger to the scar snaking down the center of his spine, where he could not reach. His skin burned to the touch. And something burned inside me, too, a flame behind my ribs. We had never been so close; he had never been so exposed. I could feel the resistance of hard, tensed muscle, the unnatural rise of his scars as I traced my fingertip down the jagged line.
He shuddered.
“Am I hurting you?” I asked, pausing.
A silence, before the reply came: “You could never hurt me.”
But when I shifted closer and touched the ruined space between his shoulder blades, his whole body was trembling, the muscles under his skin pulled as taut as if he were in battle. The scent of the crushed flower soon suffused the tight space between us. I felt almost dizzy from it, though my attention did not waver. Every time I moved to apply the ointment, he flinched, then tried to twist his head to look back at me.
“Stay still,” I told him.
“It is difficult,” he said, “to not see you.”
“I’m almost done now.” I hoped he could not detect the hitch in my breathing. When I had smeared the last of the ointment into his skin, I stood and stepped back, letting him dress, my gaze following the subtle movement of his shoulders.
“Thank you,” he said, hoarse. “Nobody has… before.”
Then he turned around fully, and his lips parted at the sight of me. He looked almost… afraid. A primordial emotion, something that crept up through his ice mask.
“I came to show you this. Do you think it fits?” I asked, spinning a slow circle before him, feeling how the air moved against myskirt and the gems swung in my hair.Reckless, a voice in the back of my mind chided.Foolish.I had already toed over the invisible line too many times tonight, crossed into forbidden territory. But there was another voice, a memory of Fanli, the expression on his face:I have.
“Yes,” he replied. His hands flexed, then curled at his sides, so tight that his knuckles strained white. “I believe so.”
“Really?” A gale blew against the window panels, scattering petals through the gaps into the room. The door slammed shut behind me. My blood pounded in my ears as I lifted my chin at a calculated angle. “Look closer.”
“Xishi.” There was a strain in his voice, a note of caution. He did not move.
“What?”
“Stop it.”
I raised my brows at him. “Stop what?”
“You know what you’re doing.” He released a soft huff of air, like a laugh, but there was an edge to it. The collar of his normally immaculate robes was creased, the sash around his waist tied in a hasty, uneven knot. “This is not—meant for me. It is for their king.”
“Am I beautiful enough for him, do you think?” I kneeled beside him, my skirts spilling around me like blood from a mortal wound. My fingers tingled, even though they held nothing. Would it be like this with the Wu king? Like standing on a great precipice, one move away from tumbling through the air, from losing or gaining everything? I doubted it. “Am I all that you hoped I could be?”
“You are…,” Fanli began, then trailed off. Swallowed. He angled his head away from me, toward the wall, so I could see the strain in his jaw. His breathing was uneven. It grew less steady the closer I drew. I do not know what gave me the nerve, but I grabbed his chin. Gently. Forced him to look back up at me. His skin was even smoother than I’d expected. Faultless. Delicate.
