My palm sweats on the wooden box holding the imperial seal.
The clerk taps his foot.
He is impatient and thin smile.
"Seal takes time," he says.
"Seal?" I answer, voice small.
"Verification seal," he repeats. "From Revenues."
"I brought the copy," I say, holding the scroll tight.
The room hums with paper and men.
Paper rustles like dry leaves.
Guards shuffle boots.
"Name?" a scribe asks, pen hovering.
"Li Mingyue," I say.
"A copyist? From the Minor Archive?"
"Yes," I say.
Short.
"Why are you at Revenues?" he asks.
"Official order," I reply, showing the folded note.
The scribe reads.
His face does not change.
"Wait," he says.
"Wait," I echo.
I watch the door.
People pass with bundles.
A minister argues with a merchant near the painted screen.
They trade numbers like knives.
"What's that scent?" someone mutters.
"Gold and sweat," another answers.
"Money smells funny," a boy says and laughs.
I slip between desks.
My robe brushes ink and fingers.
A clerk snatches a paper and glares.
"Keep moving," a guard grunts.
I move.
He signs my note with a sharp stroke.
"Return after one bell," he says.
"One bell," I repeat.
I pivot, scroll pressed to breast.
A corridor opens to a hall where men bow and haggle.
Sun slices through lattices.
He is there by the pillar.
A ring of jade on his thumb catches light.
He leans, one hand tucked, voice low and exact.
Princely posture, merchant's stare.
"Zhao Kang," someone says under their breath.
"Prince Zhao Kang," another replies, like a spell.
He argues about tariffs with a thin-faced minister.
His hand flutters over a chart.
Numbers bend to his will.
He smiles, not kindly.
I freeze, breath a small noise.
A memory slides like a quick blade.
Pearls stacked on velvet.
His fingers test a pearl, cold and sure.
"Everything has a price," he says.
His thumb touches mine.
Disgust.
"Li Mingyue!" a clerk snaps.
"Focus," Xiao Mei hisses behind me.
"Focus," I breathe.
I cross the hall on small feet.
I keep my back low, eyes down.
I hand the scroll to the scribe who signed it.
He nods and points to the box.
"Seal chest is guarded," he warns.
"Then I wait," I say, patient like a ledger.
I set the scroll on the box and slide my hand away.
The Prince's voice cuts the room.
"Double-thread brocade from Lingnan," he says, voice smooth.
"A rare weave," the minister answers, throat tight.
"Do you have numbers?" he asks.
"Two thousand bolts," the minister says.
"Customs tax?" the Prince asks.
"Standard," the minister replies.
My mouth moves without my will.
"Brocade of double-thread Lingnan," I say, the term precise and old.
Conversations hush as if someone dropped a coin.
The Prince stops mid-gesture.
His eyes snap.
"Where did that come from?" he asks, narrowing his gaze.
"A clerk?" someone whispers.
"From the Minor Archive," the scribe mutters, pointing a crooked finger.
He steps from the pillar.
The jade ring flashes.
He moves toward me like a fisherman drawing a line.
"Who taught you that?" he asks, face unreadable.
"Just a term," I say, small.
Short.
"How does a harém maid know this method?" he presses, calm like glass.
"Broader knowledge exists," I say.
Dry.
"That answer won't do," he replies.
His gaze maps my hands.
Ink stains show on my fingers.
He lifts a brow.
"You held a merchant's scroll," he observes.
"I handled a copy," I say, voice level.
He smiles without warmth.
"Tell me," he says. "Where learned the double-thread method?"
"Silk traders," I answer, each syllable careful.
He tilts his head, considering.
"Prove it," he says suddenly.
"Prove?" I echo.
"Show me a test of brocade. Speak the differences between Lingnan and southern drafts."
A hush settles like a lid.
"Why?" the minister asks, throat tight.
"Because the term is dead for three generations," he says.
"It implies knowledge or access," the Prince adds.
"Access to old trade codes," someone mutters.
Xiao Mei squeezes my sleeve.
"Keep quiet," she breathes.
"I can't," I whisper, teeth tight.
"This is dangerous," she hisses.
"Sometimes danger opens doors," I reply, short.
He steps closer, so close I feel the heat of silk.
"Demonstrate," he orders.
"I cannot—" I start.
"Just speak," he says. "Name the twist, the weft, the tension."
I breathe.
"Double-thread weft," I say. "Two wefts run parallel per pick. It makes heavier face and sheen."
The room shifts.
"Exactly," the Prince says, interest clear now.
"Most merchants forget," he mutters.
"Your voice is steady," he notes.
"Practice," I lie flat.
"Why would you lie?" he asks.
"To survive," I answer.
He studies me long enough to pick a fault.
"Do you sell silk?" he asks.
"No," I say.
"Do you trade?" he asks.
"No," I reply.
He clicks his tongue.
"A maid who knows trade codes," he says. "A copyist who handles ledgers. Curious combination."
"It is only coincidence," I say.
"Coincidence rarely survives many ledgers," he counters.
"Do you know the family Ling?" he asks out of blue.
"Only name," I answer.
"Where?" he presses.
"Old records," I say.
"Records you touch daily," he replies.
"How is it you speak this way?" Xiao Mei whispers, fear edged.
"Because I saw it," I say, three words. "I learned trade."
"From whom?" she mouths.
"From life," I say, short.
The Prince laughs once, soft.
"A maid with a past," he says, like tasting a rumor.
"Past is messy," Xiao Mei whispers.
"Do not say that word," I snap, sharp.
He leans in, voice low.
"If you have knowledge," he says, "you can trade it."
"If you trade it," I say, "you can buy a horse and run."
He grins, slow and cruel.
"Who teaches you these codes?" he asks again.
"Merchants on river docks," I answer.
He studies my eyes like a jeweler checks a gem.
"You're dangerous," he says softly.
"Not yet," I reply.
He straightens.
"Keep working," he orders the minister.
"Check the ledger," he tells the clerk.
He moves away like a current that pulls without sound.
"Why did you say it?" Xiao Mei hisses as soon as he turns.
"He stopped," I reply.
"He looked," she says, voice tight.
"Good," I say, short as a coin.
"We're marked now," she whispers.
"Marked?" I repeat.
"He will ask more questions," she warns.
"Then answer carefully," I say.
The bell rings once.
"Time," the clerk says, collecting the seal.
"Take care," he warns, voice thin.
"I will," I echo.
I tuck the scroll in my robe.
The seal box thumps closed.
Hands ripple through the hall like small waves.
I move toward the door.
"Li Mingyue," the Prince calls back, voice calm as a blade.
I stop, breath small.
He watches me like a scale.
"Where did you learn 'brocade of double-thread Lingnan'?" he asks, voice loud enough for more than me.
The room leans in.
My heart hammers against small ribs.
I hold the question like a coin.
A hush drops.
Whispers sharpen.
"Who is she?" a clerk asks.
"A maid with ink," someone answers.
Xiao Mei squeezes my sleeve.
"Stay small," she whispers.
"I stay small," I say.
The minister folds a chart.
"This can't be ignored," he tells Zhao Kang.
"Ignore nothing," Zhao Kang replies.
"Fetch ledgers," he orders.
"Bring the Minor Archive copies," the minister tells a clerk.
"And keep the girl near," Zhao Kang adds, eyes on me.
"Keep her near?" the clerk repeats, baffled.
"Yes," Zhao Kang says. "She spoke a dead term. We find the source."
My arms go light.
Xiao Mei pulls my sleeve.
"They will watch," she hisses.
"Let them watch," I whisper. "We show what we choose."
A man hustles back with bound folios.
They set the ledgers on the table, cords like veins.
"Open," Zhao Kang says.
Pages turn.
Eyes scan.
"Here," a clerk points.
"Shipment south, payment rerouted," Zhao Kang reads.
"A sigil marks it," he mutters.
"Bring the handlers," he orders.
"Bring those who touched the ledgers," the minister replies, voice tight.
A eunuch bows.
"Consort Li requests verification," he says.
"Consort Li?" Zhao Kang repeats, sharp. "Why?"
"She requests review before tonight's visit," the eunuch answers.
"Bring the list here," Zhao Kang says.
"And keep the girl near accounts," he repeats, tapping his jade ring.
Xiao Mei pulls harder now.
"Now?" she whispers. "Now they close in."
"Now," I reply.
I slide away and tuck the copy into a scroll tube.
My hands are quick.
The clerk doesn't watch.
I wrap wax over the tube and hide it in a crate due for movement.
"Done?" Xiao Mei asks.
"Done," I say, breath even.
A bell rings.
Men run.
Paper shuffles like feet.
The hall narrows into my chest.
Zhao Kang steps back to the pillar.
He watches me without moving his lips.
An aide bends and whispers.
Zhao Kang's gaze sharpens.
He walks toward me like a tide.
"Why say 'Lingnan'?" he asks, voice low.
"Because I copied it," I reply, blunt.
"Copying does not teach codes," he says. "Who taught you the method?"
"Merchants," I answer, one word.
He studies my palm, the ink on my fingers.
"A maid who knows trade terms and handles ledgers," he says, soft. "A risky mix."
"Then watch," I reply. "You will see only what you are allowed."
He smiles a small, closed smile.
"Perhaps," he says, "we test how deep her river runs."
"How?" the minister asks.
"Fetch the handlers," Zhao Kang instructs. "List their names. Bring me anyone linked to Lingnan shipments."
"Yes, Prince," the clerk says.
"Keep her under watch," Zhao Kang adds, voice low to a eunuch.
"Yes, Prince," the eunuch replies, bowing.
Xiao Mei's hand presses my wrist.
"Promise you'll not be reckless," she whispers.
"No more reckless," I answer, though my hands still shake.
Zhao Kang leans close, voice almost a caress.
"If someone taught you this, that teacher matters," he says. "People with old codes are dangerous and valuable."
"Then value me," I say, tone flat.
He tilts his head, assessing.
"Where did a maid of the harem learn the term 'brocade of double-thread Lingnan'?"