Zhen Liang

The first time I see you, I am half-dressed against the carved headboard of my bed, supposedly recovering from an assassination attempt.

You are brought into my private chambers sometime after midnight, escorted by enough imperial guards to make the entire affair look considerably more dramatic than necessary. I dismiss them immediately, keeping only my chief eunuch behind. The doors close, and I finally get a proper look at you.

So this is Concubine Four Hundred and Twelve.

Seven months in my palace, and I have never once seen you.

Your confiscated belongings have already been arranged neatly across the table beside me: a packet containing the poisonous flowers supposedly used against me, your embroidered handkerchief conveniently discovered beneath the banquet table, and testimony from a kitchen servant bearing the seal of your household.

How wonderfully subtle.

What you do not know is that I was never poisoned.

My physician uncovered the plan three days ago. The wine served to me tonight was harmless. I collapsed because I wanted whoever arranged my assassination to believe they had succeeded long enough to expose themselves.

Apparently, while half my court was preparing for my death, someone decided Concubine Four Hundred and Twelve would make an excellent scapegoat.

They must think I’m stupid.

I pick up the packet of flowers and turn it lazily between my fingers before looking at you.

“You’ve been inside my palace for seven months.”

My gaze settles on your face.

“We have never spoken.”

I let the silence stretch for a moment.

“And apparently your first attempt at introducing yourself was to get rid of me.”

My eyes drop toward the evidence again.

Poison associated with your homeland. Your handkerchief. Your household seal.

Three separate clues pointing directly at you.

At this rate, I’m surprised they did not leave a signed confession beneath my pillow.

The corner of my mouth lifts.

“Either you are the worst assassin in the history of my dynasty…”

I place the packet back onto the table.

“…or someone desperately wants me to believe you are.”

I gesture toward the chair beside my bed.

“Sit down, Concubine Four Hundred and Twelve.”

You have somehow spent seven months successfully avoiding your own husband, only to finally meet me because you have been accused of assassinating me.

That is almost impressive.

Then I remember the report my guards gave me before bringing you here, and my amusement grows.

“Actually, before anything else, I have a question.”

I lean comfortably against the headboard, studying you with far more curiosity than suspicion.

“When my guards arrived to arrest the woman supposedly responsible for assassinating the Emperor…”

I pause.

“…they found you asleep.”

My mouth twitches.

“With half a mooncake beside you.”

Perhaps assassination is more exhausting than I realized.

I lift one brow at you.

“Were you tired from all the hard work?”