Chapter 11

The hall was warm. I rolled up my sleeves, baring my pale arms as I slowly trimmed the plum branches I had gathered. I kept the main stems and snipped away the offshoots. The blossoms were in full bloom, but what had been a lush cluster was reduced to a single central bunch by the time I was through.

I was quite absorbed in the task.

So much so that I failed to notice someone approaching from behind. By the time the heavy scent of wine reached me, I had already been pinned to the floor.

The man on top of me was breathing heavily. Unable to push him off, I cried out urgently, “Your Majesty, I am Fuling!”

He paused.

His dark eyes were bottomless, yet they were clear enough.

I imagine he saw the cracks forming in my usually stoic expression. A mix of panic and humiliation took hold as I repeated, “Your Majesty, the Noble Consort is in the Plum Grove. You have the wrong person. I am Fuling…”

My voice was cut short. The trimmed branches scattered across the floor.

The scent of wine is a treacherous thing-truly treacherous. It is enough to make one succumb easily, leaving the chaotic details a blur.

In the darkness, I took the shears and made a cut on my arm. As the warmth dripped onto the bright yellow robes and I quickly bound the wound with a strip of cloth I had prepared beforehand, a thought crossed my mind.

This winter has lasted far too long, but fortunately, it is nearly over.

Spring should be arriving soon.