"Not all loyalty is loud. Some devotions are practiced in silence so long they forget how to scream."
The blossom was gone by morning.
Xu Feiran stood at the edge of the courtyard in her robe, hair unbound, slippers brushing against the cold stone. The plum tree stood as it had before—bare, unmoved. Only the wind stirred now, cold and dry, like breath that had forgotten warmth.
Had she imagined it?
Yue'er arrived a moment later, her arms filled with fresh linens and a bundle of winter herbs from the apothecary.
"You're up early," she said, setting the bundle down by the inner doors.
Feiran didn't turn. "I thought I saw something last night."
Yue'er paused.
"A person?"
"No. A bloom."
Yue'er followed her gaze to the tree, then back to Feiran's expression.
"I'll ask the gardener," she offered gently.
Feiran said nothing. Her hands folded inside her sleeves.
After a moment, she added, "Perhaps it doesn't matter."
But Yue'er had already turned toward the courtyard wall, her brow furrowed.
"I saw someone yesterday," she said quietly.
Feiran looked up.
"Who?"
"A maid I didn't recognize. She wasn't dressed for our wing. No insignia. She stood near the east side entrance. When she saw me looking, she smiled."
"That's not unusual."
Yue'er's mouth pressed into a line. "It wasn't a friendly smile."
Feiran waited.
Yue'er continued. "It was the kind of smile people use when they've already decided how you'll die."
Later that day, Yue'er moved through the servant corridors, head low, arms full of threadwork for the upcoming festival garments. Her steps were quiet, but not sneaky—she had learned long ago how to blend in without appearing to hide.
The back corridors of the palace were a maze of half-closed doors, muted footsteps, and air that smelled faintly of camphor and starch. Voices moved through them like threads: sharp, muffled, often untraceable.
She passed three junior maids whispering in the laundry yard.
"…they say she slept alone again…"
"…three nights since they've spoken…"
"…Lady Wen said the Crown Princess wears mourning colors beneath her robes—"
Yue'er didn't flinch. She turned the corner and found the head laundress waiting.
"Mistress Huan sent for extra crimson thread," she said briskly.
The woman handed her the bundle and bowed without speaking. Yue'er returned it and turned to leave.
And there—standing just at the edge of the opposite corridor—was the maid she had seen the day before.
Still unmarked. Still smiling.
Yue'er froze.
The girl dipped into a low curtsy. Too low.
Then rose and whispered, "The flowers are blooming again."
And walked away.
Yue'er's hands tightened around the thread until her knuckles went white.
She said nothing to Feiran until they were alone that night.
Feiran sat by the low writing table, re-reading the prince's poem for the seventh time. Her expression was distant, but not vacant. Focused, in the way someone becomes when pain has turned into theory.
Yue'er closed the door behind her and knelt.
Feiran looked up.
"You're kneeling."
"Because what I'm about to say is not for open air."
Feiran blinked once, then set the poem aside.
Yue'er said, "I saw her again."
"The maid?"
"She spoke this time. Just one line."
Feiran waited.
Yue'er repeated it: "The flowers are blooming again."
A long silence stretched between them.
Feiran reached slowly for the lacquer box and opened it, revealing the hairpin.
She studied it in the candlelight. The ruby gleamed red as blood beneath fire.
"She's not watching just me," Feiran said. "She's watching you, too."
"I know," Yue'er replied.
Feiran looked up.
"She thinks you're weak," Feiran continued. "That she can scare you with poetry and metaphor. That you'll tell me to be quiet. Be cautious. That you'll keep me small."
Yue'er leaned forward.
"And what will you do, Niangniang, when she tries something worse than a riddle?"
Feiran's voice was soft.
"I will bloom out of season."
For a moment, nothing passed between them but the faint crackle of the brazier and the tick of something ancient in the wall.
Then Yue'er reached forward and placed her hand over Feiran's.
It was rare, that touch.
Even in private, Feiran rarely permitted contact. Her grace was always held at arm's length. But she did not pull away.
"I failed you once," Yue'er whispered. "The night you were betrothed. I should've told your mother what I knew. I should've spoken. I saw Meilin in the library wing, carrying something wrapped in silk. I thought it strange. I didn't ask."
Feiran's eyes darkened.
"You were fourteen."
"I was old enough to speak."
Feiran closed the box.
"I don't blame you," she said.
"I do."
They sat in silence again.
Then Yue'er added, quieter still, "If anything happens now, I won't be silent. Not again. Not if it costs me everything."
Feiran looked into her friend's eyes.
Dark. Steady. Silent no longer.
She said, "It won't cost you. Not this time."
That night, a single plum blossom bloomed again in the courtyard.
This time, it did not disappear.
It remained, small and defiant, trembling in the cold.
A promise.
Or a warning.