I heard the dismissal in his words, and was glad. I did not know how much longer my mask would hold. I could feel the wound in my shoulder starting to bleed again, my bandages sticking to my skin, drenched in warm liquid. They would have to be changed soon. Yet as I exited the palace and turned around slowly, my neck prickled with the dangerous, telltale sensation of being watched by multiple pairs of eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Our chambers were located in the farthestcorner of the palace.
I did not realize this until the third day, when it became clear something was amiss. No maids came to change our bedding or bring fresh water; no concubines came holding gifts or even to give their greetings. And the sound I had been waiting for—the sway of the king’s carriage as he traveled down the lanes, looking for a partner to spend the night with—was absent. It was as if we did not exist, as if we had never entered the palace at all. A panicked part of me wondered if I had already failed, if the king had always meant it to be this way, to accept Goujian’s gifts on the surface while really leaving us abandoned in some shadowy, remote corner, never to be seen or heard. But I had seen the way Fuchai looked at me. Even if he was notfondof me just yet, he ought to at least be interested.
“This is Zixu’s doing,” I complained to Zhengdan as I paced the length of my bedchambers. As my palace lady, her room was next to mine; it was much smaller, without any ponds or gardensor elaborate furnishings. “You heard him; he was the one who arranged our rooms.”
She folded her arms across her chest, leaning back on the cushioned seat. “He doesn’t trust us.”
“No,” I agreed. “And this is the easiest solution for him. I bet the king has hundreds of concubines to choose from. So long as he does not pass my chambers, and nobody else in court brings my name up, he’ll soon forget my existence entirely.”
“What a pain.” Zhengdan huffed. “What do we do, then? Perhaps I can sneak out to find the other palace ladies? Ask them where the king is?”
I shook my head. “I’ll bet Zixu already has guards planted around the palace to watch us, just in case. If we venture too far from our chambers, somebody will come to escort us back. We cannot seek out the king on our own. Besides, it will look too deliberate. Plenty of women go forgotten until their chambers are cold.”
She caught my eye and raised a slender brow. The expression was endearingly familiar, reminiscent of our days in the village; she might have been asking me to hide out in the trees with her to escape her mother’s fussing, or leave pebbles in the shoes of an auntie who’d insulted her. “So you think we should lure him to you?”
“Precisely.”
She considered it. “But what event will be so significant the king must come himself?”
“It does have to be significant. Life-threatening, even,” I said, my eyes going to the wound in my shoulder. The skin had just started to close, but it was still raw and tender, delicate.
Zhengdan followed my gaze, then blanched. “You don’t mean… No, surely, you can’t—”
“Can you think of anything more effective?”
She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, a resigned look on her face.
“We only have one chance,” I said, already rifling through the drawers for something sharp. A mirror I could break into shards, perhaps, or a jar. “If we do not successfully draw the king’s attention, we’ll only alert Wu Zixu and the other ministers that we are planning something. They may look for an opportunity to imprison us, or worse, kill us. It is so simple, to make things appear as an accident when there are few others around as witness.” At last I came across Fanli’s sword. I had hidden it carefully at the very bottom of the drawer, concealed in crimson fabric so nobody could find it. Now I brushed the fabric aside and lifted the weapon. The blade rasped against the sheath as I pulled it out slowly, imagining Fanli’s hands curled around the same bejeweled hilt, memories rising like ghosts before me. How many times had I seen him holding his sword at his side, ready to protect or to strike; training with it in the cottage gardens, plum blossom petals falling around him; slicing it through the air, blood spilling from the whetted tip. A pang filled my chest, as if someone were squeezing my heart inside their fist.
Stop. Focus.
The sword was heavy in my grip, yet I derived some strange solace from it. It was the closest thing I had to Fanli’s presence, the sword a stand-in for the self.
“Xishi-jie.” Zhengdan rose, then stopped. Her lips were set in a grim line, her eyes worried. “You shouldn’t— It’s too big a sacrifice. What if you just feigned illness? Said your stomach hurt, or you had come down with a fever?”
“Do you really think I could fool the royal physician? He will know I’m lying, and tell Wu Zixu.”
Her chin jutted out, every bit as stubborn as I was. “There must be another option—”
I shook my head. “This is the best we can do. Don’t worry, I’m already injured. The skin’s ruined either way.” My voice came out impressively steady. Only I could feel how fast my heart was beating. It was so childish, to be afraid of pain. But perhaps it was also biological, inbuilt, the body’s natural means of self-defense. Even once my mind had been made, my fingers trembled over the sword. Another doubt snagged at my heart; I had scorned the Wu for cutting their hair, but now here I was ready to cut open skin. Surprisingly, it was Fanli’s voice that drifted to me, as clear as if he were standing right there in the room:What is the bigger cause?To him, almost anything could be done, so long as the end result was more beneficial. And I knew exactly what he would do in my position.
It was quick; at least there was that.
My skin parted easily under the blade, my wound reopening. Fat droplets of blood oozed out and trickled down my sides, dampening my robes. The blaze of pain came soon after, so acute I found myself stamping my feet, trying anything to distract myself from the agony in my shoulder. The sword clattered to the marble-veined tiles.I will be so angry, I thought half-hysterically, gasping,if the king does not end up coming, and I am left to just bleed all over the floor on my own.
I was still bleeding when Zhengdan ran to the doors, threw them open, and yelled out, with real distress: “Help! Someone help—please! Call the physician!”
King Fuchai swept through the room first, his robes swishing over the floors, his crown catching the light. An old physician trotted in after him, carrying a black lacquered box with countless little knobs and compartments.
“What happened?” Fuchai asked, eyes scanning the area. Thenthey fell on me, and he came over, two clean, wide strides, his boots clapping against the tiles.
I gritted my teeth against a cry. I was lying in bed, my hands gripping the blood-soaked fabric around my shoulder. Zhengdan had already cleaned the sword and hidden it back in its drawer, and a vase lay shattered on the floor. Despite the physician’s uttered warnings, Fuchai skirted around the fragments with surprising ease and stopped beside me. His hair hung dark and tousled past his face, and two hectic spots of color had risen to his high cheekbones.
“Your Majesty,” I croaked out, making my voice tremble with pain. The pain was real; everything else was not. “I did not mean to alarm you—”
