The preparation hall stirred to life before the sun had fully crested the outer walls, its vast space bathed in the soft gray of pre-dawn. Fresh water sloshed in wooden buckets carried by yawning juniors, their sleeves damp from the well's chill. Silk trays gleamed under lantern light as maids wiped them clean with soft cloths, the faint squeak of fabric on lacquer blending with the low rustle of robes. Voices moved through the room like a gentle wind through bamboo leaves—hushed, overlapping, laced with the night's lingering worries: "The gardenias for Gyokuyou-sama's pavilion need extra spacing—little Lingli's too sensitive for close blooms." Or, from a corner near the resin shelves: "Lihua-sama's maids sent word again; her ladyship's health demands the mildest herbs, no bold notes." The air held a tentative freshness, jasmine from the outer gardens mingling with the earthy bite of unpacked roots, but beneath it all, a whisper of yesterday's heaviness—faint, like smoke not fully cleared.
Hui-lan stepped inside then, her presence cutting through the early fog like a warm hearth in winter. Her sleeves were neatly folded back, apron tied firm, her round face carrying the quiet command of someone who'd wrangled palace rhythms for decades. The younger maids—four or five clustered near the central tables, sorting ties and vials—straightened at once, their chatter dying to polite bows.
"Good morning, Madam Hui-lan," they chorused, voices bright but tentative, like birds testing the dawn.
"Good morning, young ladies," she replied with a gentle smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she set down a small basket of fresh ties. "Up early today? The rite's pull is strong, isn't it?"
One of the girls—a freckled junior with her hair still tousled from sleep—stepped forward shyly, twisting her apron in her hands. "May we ask... what are our assignments this morning? The trays for Loulan-sama's pavilion are half-packed, but I don't want to guess wrong—she's sharp about the silks."
Hui-lan tilted her head lightly, amusement softening her features. "Not much yet, really. Maomao will be here soon enough; once she arrives, you'll know what to do—and what not to do." She chuckled low, the sound warm as fresh tea. "Her nose misses nothing."
The girls laughed softly, a ripple of shared relief breaking the tension. "That's true," one murmured, a slim maid with braids pinned neat. "She always decides everything—like yesterday with the lilies. One look, and the whole hall shifted."
Another, the freckled one, nodded, but her smile faded to curiosity. "Speaking of... Madam Hui-lan, where's that new girl? The one from Gaoshun-sama's side? We haven't seen her today."
"The... Moon girl?" the braided maid added quickly, her voice dropping as if the name might summon shadows. "She was so quiet yesterday—helped with the racks without a word. Thought she'd be here early."
Hui-lan's smile softened further, a fond light touching her eyes, like remembering a favorite scroll. "Yelan is resting today," she said gently, folding her hands at her waist. "Her health isn't quite up for the full preparations—not after yesterday's air."
"Oh..." a third maid murmured, her fingers pausing on a vial label. "Is she unwell because of the flowers? Maomao said sensitive people might be affected—the oil buildup, the dizziness."
Hui-lan gave the same gentle smile, unchanging as a lantern's steady flame. "Perhaps. The palace's scents can cling, especially for newcomers. But she's resting now, safe in her room. No need to fret."
The girls exchanged glances, a mix of concern and that inevitable palace curiosity bubbling up. The freckled one leaned in a touch, voice hushed. "May I ask something? It might be rude..."
Hui-lan nodded encouragingly, her posture open. "Yes?"
"Why does that quiet girl call you Obāsama?" the girl blurted, cheeks pinking. "Are you... related by blood or something?"
The others froze, then nodded quick—the braided one whispering, "Yeah, we wondered. It's sweet, but... she says it like it's natural."
Hui-lan laughed softly, the sound light and genuine, like wind chimes in a summer breeze—no offense taken, only warmth. "By blood? No, nothing like that."
"But," she continued, her tone turning reflective, eyes drifting to the window where dawn's first blush touched the eaves, "some relationships don't need blood to take root. They grow from shared silences, small kindnesses... a hand extended when the day's too heavy."
The maids leaned in, hanging on her words like threads on a loom. "So... she's not your granddaughter?" the freckled one asked, voice small.
Hui-lan shook her head, her smile turning wistful, the lantern light carving gentle lines on her face. "I don't have any children. From the day I was sold into this palace as a girl—younger than you are now—I never left these walls again. No family beyond the ones we make here, stitch by stitch."
The room fell quieter still, the weight of her words settling like dew on leaves. The braided maid bit her lip. "Then... who is Yelan? Where'd she come from?"
Hui-lan paused, then answered with a light laugh that chased the melancholy, her eyes sparkling fond. "I don't know much myself. A month ago, Gaoshun-sama found her in the outer gardens—wild-eyed, stubborn as a cornered cub, but with a steadiness that caught him. He asked me to look after her, keep an eye as she settled. Time passed, and... we grew close. Shared rounds, quiet talks over tea. One day, out of nowhere, she called me Obāsama in front of a middle-ranked maid—like it'd always been that way. And I thought..." She trailed off, gaze distant for a beat, as if seeing a different path. "If heaven had granted me a child, perhaps my granddaughter would have been like her—calm as winter snow, but with a spark that lights the room without trying."
"So maybe heaven granted her to me instead," Hui-lan finished softly, laughing again, the sound wrapping the girls like a shawl. "Who knows? The palace has its ways."
The maids exchanged glances, a soft "aww" rippling through them. "That's sweet," the freckled one whispered. "She really is kind—we saw her yesterday, helping with the porcine root baskets when my arms gave out."
"And two days ago, in the storage room," the braided maid added, nodding eager. "She spotted the damp rack before anyone, moved it without a fuss. Quiet, but... good."
"So she isn't bad at all," a third chimed, her frown from earlier smoothed away. "We keep calling her the 'silent girl' or 'Moon girl'—maybe we should just say Yelan."
A fourth nodded, eyes bright. "Yeah. She's... fitting in, isn't she?"
Before they could spin more, a sharper voice rang out from the hall's rear, cutting the warmth like a cool draft.
"Are you four holding a tea party in here?"
They froze, spines straightening like pulled strings. A middle-ranked maid stood with arms crossed, her face set in that no-nonsense line—sleeves crisp, hair pinned severe. "If you're that free with your tongues, go to the Emperor's outer court and fetch the incense sets. Now. The rite waits for no gossip."
"Yes, Madam!" the four chorused, scattering like startled quail—bowls abandoned mid-sip, ties left half-tied—as they grabbed cloaks and hurried out the side door.
The preparation hall returned to its quiet motion, trays gliding smooth, cloths rustling soft. Water splashed in buckets, vials clinked in neat rows. The dawn light strengthened, gilding the edges of vases and scrolls, chasing the last shadows from the corners.
And Yelan —though absent, tucked away in her room with tea and rest—was already being spoken of in low, unguarded voices. Whispers that wove through the morning like incense smoke: kind, quiet, fitting. Not the "Moon girl" or "silent one" anymore.
Just Yelan.
The palace, in its endless weave, had begun to name her.