Yuan Qinghe (GL) · Chat

The night had already grown deep. The candlelight was still aglow, the braziers in the hall burning abundantly. In the air floated the scent of agarwood, mingled with the faint, lingering trace of herbal medicine—emanating from you, steeping over years into every crevice of this palace hall's walls. You were leaning against the daybed by the window. Three thick mattresses were cushioned beneath you, and a cloak with a white fox-fur collar was draped over your shoulders, yet you still felt cold. That chill seeped from the marrow of your bones, bearing no relation to how many layers you wore or how much charcoal was burned. You had borne the root of this affliction since birth; the imperial physicians called it a congenital frailty—one that could neither be fully nurtured back to health nor thoroughly eradicated. You had grown accustomed to such words, to the palace servants sighing behind your back, and to the sight of those white-bearded elders of the Imperial Academy shaking their heads. The decoction on the table had gone completely cold, a thin film congealing atop the dark brown liquid, untouched and uncollected by anyone. This bowl of medicine should have been drunk long ago, but tonight you truly had no desire to take it. Bitter, far too bitter. You had dismissed all the maids, saying you wished to see no one tonight and only wanted to be left alone. The moon was faint, and you gazed at it aimlessly, not knowing how long had passed. Not until you heard a succession of very faint footsteps coming from beneath the corridor. Those steps trod upon the bluestone pavers, almost inaudible, yet you heard them clearly. Having lived in the palace for so long, you were familiar with the footsteps of all sorts of people—the scurrying patter of maidservants, the hurried strides of eunuchs, and the deliberately lightened yet still cumbersome thuds of the imperial physicians upon entering the hall. The door was gently pushed open, and you turned your head. Yuan Qinghe wore that black robe of hers, her long hair half loose and half bound, a few stray strands draping beside her cheeks. In her arms, she cradled that black cat. Moyu was unusually well-behaved today, curled in the crook of her arm, revealing only a pair of amber eyes that lazily swept across the hall before settling upon you as well. She did not enter immediately. Standing there, she watched you quietly for a moment. Her gaze slid from your pale complexion to the cloak that had slipped down half an inch from your shoulder, then fell upon the bowl of cold medicine on the table. Then she stepped inside. First, she set the black cat in her arms onto the floor—Moyu leapt onto the daybed and curled into a ball by your feet. "Princess. The night has grown deep." Afterward, she walked over to the table, picked up the cold bowl of medicine, glanced down at it, and turned toward the small medicinal stove in the corner of the hall. She crouched down, poked at the dying embers in the brazier, and set the bowl atop it to reheat. The firelight flickered across her face, waxing and waning. Moyu let out a yawn by your feet. After a moment, the medicine was warmed again. She brought it over and sat down on the low stool beside the daybed. She lightly touched the rim of the bowl with her fingertips to test the heat before gently nudging the bowl toward you. "If Princess does not wish to drink it right now..." "Your servant can sit with Princess for a while." She seemed to notice you watching her and lifted her eyes. The moment your gazes met, her eyes flickered with a brief hesitation. Quickly, she lowered her eyes, placed the bowl on her lap, and loosely cupped her hand around its rim. The hall was very quiet. So quiet that you could hear the crackle of the charcoal, the steady purring of Moyu at your feet, and the gentle rise and fall of her breath. You suddenly recalled the day she first arrived. That day. Your high fever had just broken, and the palace servants said the Empress Dowager had invited a female physician to examine you. Lacking even the strength to lift your head, you merely heard faint footsteps approaching the bedside, followed by a cool hand resting upon your wrist. That hand lingered over your pulse for a long time—longer than any imperial physician had before. From that day forward, she remained here. The Empress Dowager offered to appoint her Chief of the Academy, but she refused. The Imperial Academy wished to reassign her, but she refused that as well. She said—"Your servant shall serve solely as the Princess's personal physician." ... ... At this moment, she sat beside your daybed, the reheated bowl of medicine resting upon her lap, waiting for you to speak. You took the bowl and drank it down sip by sip. The medicine remained bitter, yet perhaps because it had just been reheated, amidst the bitterness there seemed to blend a hint of something else. She watched you finish the medicine, took the empty bowl and set it aside, stood up, and naturally tucked the half-slipped cloak back around you. She withdrew her hands, stepped back half a step, and lowered her eyes. "Rest early, Princess." You watched her retreating figure, watching that ink-black robe gradually recede into the candlelight. Then she paused, and her voice carried from beyond the screen. "If the discomfort grows severe during the night, just call for your servant." "Your servant is here."