Date: 8th day of the 1st month to 9th day of the 1st month, 3rd year of the Xianfeng Reign (29 February 1852 – 1 March 1852)
Morning crept gently into Yi Ning Palace, brushing frost against the outer screens. Inside, a brazier crackled softly, the scent of sandalwood curling in lazy spirals as the household moved with quiet purpose.
Lanyin stood at the scroll desk, lips pressed in a thin line as she read.
"If it pleases you, mistress, today's itinerary registers a field inspection of a 'ritual steam harmonization chamber'… located in the southern district."
Across the room, Xingzhen adjusted the collar of her plain traveling robe, her tone even.
"Correct."
Yuling, half-wrapped in a winter cloak, blinked.
"We're going outside?" she asked, then winced and bowed quickly. "Apologies, Mistress."
"Yes. You heard correctly."
Renshu leaned against the window frame, arms crossed.
"And how many regulations are we ignoring with this manoeuvre?"
"Three," Xingzhen replied. "Four, if one counts the seal."
Lanyin's expression didn't change, but her voice betrayed a sliver of irony.
"Mistress may wish to note… I carved that seal."
"Then I have complete confidence in its authenticity."
Mei Hua, kneeling at the travel chest, slid a short blade into her boot.
"Should we be stopped, Mistress?"
"We maintain our composure," Xingzhen said. "And continue forward."
Yuling glanced up from tightening her belt.
"And if they chase us?"
Xingzhen didn't miss a beat.
"Then we test whether all those morning drills were worth the effort."
Renshu snorted. "Finally. A use for all that dignity."
Their eyes met for a brief second, and though Xingzhen said nothing, the edge of her mouth curled ever so slightly.
"We leave in fifteen minutes," she said. "Dress plainly."
As they dispersed, swift and practiced, the usual silence of the palace held something new.
Not rebellion. Not danger.
Just a glimmer.
The promise of a reprieve—if only for a day—from scripts, suspicion, and the weight of watching eyes.
The Gate of Auspicious Clouds stood still beneath a sky bleached pale by morning frost. Crimson-painted beams gleamed coldly in the light, and the chill wind slipped between pillars like a breath held too long.
A lone eunuch stood at the checkpoint, scroll in hand, examining the documents passed to him.
He frowned. "This route isn't listed on today's master schedule. There was no advance notice of a ritual audit."
Lanyin stepped forward with practiced composure, her hands neatly folded before her.
"The Palace Efficiency Secretariat requested a spot inspection, with discretion. Mistress will be filing her report before dusk."
The eunuch looked up, uncertainty flickering in his expression. "Ah… I see. Even so—"
Renshu gave a subtle glance toward the gate, then back at him.
"If clarification is needed," she said smoothly, "we can prepare a formal dispatch and wait here until the Secretariat confirms receipt."
The eunuch flinched at the idea. His eyes darted between the seal, the waiting party, and the clock tower in the distance.
"That won't be necessary. Everything seems in order." He stamped the document hastily. "You may proceed. May your audit be... efficient."
He bowed slightly and stepped aside.
The women moved through the gate in silence. Not one broke formation until they reached the final archway, past the guards' line of sight.
Only then did Yuling inhale deeply and speak, voice hushed but trembling with excitement.
"Mistress… we have exited the inner court."
"Keep your eyes forward," Mei Hua said without looking at her. "And your voice lower."
"Yes, understood," Yuling whispered back.
"No sudden gestures," Lanyin added, adjusting her cloak.
"No unnecessary delays," Renshu said.
Xingzhen, walking at the head, offered no commentary.
But as the cold wind met her face, clean and unscented by incense, she allowed herself one long breath.
A small silence bloomed around them—ten paces of stillness with no watchers, no titles, no forms to recite.
"We proceed east," she said, eyes fixed ahead. "Before the hour changes."
And so, they did—five figures moving through Beijing's wintry morning. Four in service. One in command.
The Magnolia Bathhouse stood tucked between a lacquer shop and a tofu seller's stall—modest from the outside, quiet and clean. But within, it opened into a space wrapped in warmth and silence. Steam drifted gently from the sunken marble pool, catching soft light from shaded lanterns. The air smelled faintly of cedar oil and winter pear blossom.
Their cloaks were still chilled from the morning frost when they stepped inside the private chamber. The bath attendants bowed and left without question.
The five women stood in practiced stillness.
"Mistress," Lanyin began softly, "shall we assist with the preparations?"
Xingzhen unfastened her outer robe and set it neatly aside.
"That won't be necessary. You've done enough preparing today."
Renshu raised a brow. "We're still under orders, aren't we?"
Xingzhen looked at them all, one by one. She exhaled, then spoke with deliberate calm.
"We are not in court. We are not being observed. For today, I would prefer if you didn't call me 'Mistress.'"
A pause.
"You don't want us to address you properly?" Lanyin asked, hesitant.
"Not while we're here. No titles. No formality. Just Xingzhen."
Yuling blinked. "Really?"
"Unless it brings you some deep personal comfort," Xingzhen added dryly.
Renshu smirked. "So, if I call you 'Little Zhen' or 'Zhen Zhen'?"
"Then I will assign you to scroll copying until your hand forgets how to hold chopsticks."
"Understood," Renshu said, clearly not deterred.
Mei Hua folded her arms. "And you're sure about this?"
"Yes. For one day. No ranks between us."
Something cracked—like ice melting into spring.
"Finally," Yuling groaned. "My spine was about to become one with my kneecaps."
"The kitchen matron made me submit a form just to borrow ginger," Mei Hua muttered.
"I once bowed to a decorative vase because I thought it was a minor official," Yuling said.
"The vase probably had more sense than half the inner court," Renshu replied.
"My ceremonial hairpin broke last week, and no one even looked up," Lanyin added.
They began to undress—not with stiffness or decorum, but with the unhurried movements of people finally relaxing. When they entered the water, a collective sigh escaped all at once.
Renshu groaned. "This is better than moon festival wine."
"And no one is asking about embroidery style preferences," Lanyin said.
"Or noble lineages," Mei Hua added.
"Or assassination plots," Renshu finished cheerfully.
"Or poisoned scrolls!" Yuling threw in.
Renshu flicked a splash of water at her. Yuling yelped and retaliated. Mei Hua joined in without warning, dousing both with perfect aim. Lanyin vanished beneath the waterline like a ghost.
Xingzhen leaned back against the edge of the pool, allowing herself a quiet laugh.
"You are all behaving like children."
"Says the woman who forged a seal to sneak us into a bathhouse," Renshu said.
They laughed again—loud, unmeasured, unafraid.
Then Yuling let out a soft sigh and stared at the ceiling.
"Isn't it nice? Why can't we just stay outside forever?"
"Because we'd be caught and reassigned to latrine inventories," Mei Hua said.
"Or imprisoned," Lanyin offered.
"Or executed, if we're lucky," Renshu added.
"So dramatic," Yuling pouted.
Xingzhen tilted her head slightly, eyes half-lidded in the rising steam.
"Maybe I should ask the emperor to construct a bathhouse inside Yi Ning."
The pool went still.
"For efficiency's sake," she added, deadpan.
Yuling splashed. "Please do! Call it the Harmonization Annex!"
"With an attached dumpling kitchen," Renshu said.
"And no Matron Liu," Lanyin muttered.
"We'll name it The Shrine of Sanity," Mei Hua intoned.
Laughter bubbled up again—this time higher, warmer, freer.
The steam swirled. Their shoulders slackened. There were no robes, no rankings, no scripts. Just warmth, breath, and shared silence.
For a few stolen hours, they weren't a palace unit.
Just five women remembering what it felt like to be alive.
The theatre stood at the end of a narrow lane lit by red lanterns. Smoke from roasted chestnuts lingered at the entrance, curling into the night air. Inside, the room was warm, crowded, and loud—wooden beams echoing with laughter and foot stomps.
They had taken seats near the back of the gallery, under deep hoods and behind a screen of couples and students chattering over plum wine. No guards. No announcements. Just anonymity.
Onstage, chaos reigned.
A flustered scholar was trying to escape a marriage proposal. His suitor, a sharp-tongued widow, chased him around a cabbage cart with a ladle and a written promise of dowry.
"He fainted because she held his hand?" Yuling whispered, scandalized.
"In his defense, she's armed," Mei Hua deadpanned.
"So's half the inner court," Renshu muttered. "We don't faint, we document."
"Speak for yourself," Lanyin said. "I faint with dignity."
The scholar tripped over a basket. The widow brandished a scroll and shouted:
"You promised! I cooked your tofu!"
"I never said which tofu!" he wailed.
The crowd roared.
Xingzhen watched—not just the stage, but the crowd, the flicker of flame in the lantern glass, the wooden columns humming under footfalls.
Then her gaze lifted—almost casually.
She found him immediately.
In the rafters, hood drawn low, half-shadowed. Emperor Yizhu sat alone, perfectly still, eyes fixed on her—not the stage, not the players. Just her.
She met his gaze. Calm. Direct.
For one long moment, she didn't look away.
Then—softly, intentionally—she smiled.
A small smile. Deliberate. As if to say: I see you. I know you're here. And I don't mind.
Then she turned back to the stage, the smirk still ghosting her lips.
Yizhu stared down at her in stunned silence.
She smiled. Not for the court. Not for negotiation. Just for me.
And she knew I would understand.
Below, Yuling burst into laughter again.
"She hit him with a rice scoop! This is genius!"
"I want a widow like that," Renshu muttered.
"You'd be the widow," Mei Hua corrected.
"Fair."
Lanyin leaned closer to Xingzhen, lowering her voice.
"You smiled just now."
"Did I?" Xingzhen said, eyes still on the stage.
Renshu grinned. "Wow. This play is a miracle. It made Xingzhen smile."
"Must've been the tofu joke," Xingzhen replied, her voice lighter than before.
But her gaze lingered once more on the rafters—just for a breath.
And high above, Yizhu remained where he was.
Not emperor. Not master of the realm.
Just a man, wondering how one smile could undo so many walls.
The streets of Beijing had changed with nightfall. Lanterns floated on silk cords above the crowds, swaying like fireflies in lazy formation. Vendors called out under glowing umbrellas, steam curling from bamboo baskets and copper woks.
The five women blended easily, cloaked and laughing, eyes darting from stall to stall. With the palace behind them, the air itself felt looser.
"Look!" Yuling pointed at a street vendor skewering candied hawthorn. "Those are shaped like rabbit ears!"
"Don't point," Lanyin said out of habit.
"Then look intensely."
Renshu was already passing the man a coin. "Five skewers. And one apology for the noise."
They walked slowly, snacking. Yuling's cheeks puffed with syrup-coated sweetness.
"This is better than any New Year feast," she mumbled.
"That's because you weren't force-fed eight types of fish balls last year," Renshu replied. "Diplomatic cuisine, my foot."
Xingzhen took a skewer without a word but gave Yuling a nod of thanks. The sugar caught in her hair. She ignored it.
Mei Hua, wiping syrup from her fingers with mild distaste, muttered, "This would never pass kitchen inspection."
"Exactly why it's delicious," Renshu said, holding out a preserved plum for her.
"That's just salted pain," Mei Hua replied.
Lanyin peered into a noodle stand as they passed. "That man is boiling something with tar."
"That's broth," Yuling said brightly.
"It's black," Lanyin replied.
"It's adventurous," Renshu added. "Like you were, once. Briefly. In spring."
They passed by a puppet theatre where a wooden tiger ate a man's leg to applause. Xingzhen slowed, glanced at the crowd, then kept walking.
"That tiger had better instincts than most ministers," she murmured.
Yuling nearly dropped her candy laughing.
A pair of young scholars passed them, deep in debate over poetry versus mathematics. They didn't even notice the five cloaked women they brushed past.
And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—no one watched them. No one bowed. No one whispered or recorded their every step.
They were anonymous.
Alive.
And laughing.
The Lantern Inn sat at the edge of a quiet canal, its red eaves dusted with frost, tassels swaying gently in the night breeze. Compared to the palace, it was nothing, no gates, no guards, no rituals. Just a warm upstairs room and the smell of broth.
The women slipped inside unnoticed, cloaks damp from the road. Their room was small but private, lit by a single lantern and warmed by a squat brazier. Outside the window, river ice creaked faintly in the dark.
Dinner was already laid out: yam and mushroom stew, soft tofu with ginger syrup, roasted chestnut cakes. Humble, fragrant, and comforting in a way palace banquets never were.
"This tofu," Renshu declared after the first bite, "asks for no praise. And yet, it earns it."
"That's because it's not trying to impress visiting governors," Mei Hua said, reaching for a second bowl.
"Or nobles who think salt is a personality," Lanyin added dryly.
"Or cooks who need a five-paragraph explanation for soup," Yuling offered.
Xingzhen didn't speak, but she smiled behind her cup of tea.
They ate slowly, the room full of small sounds—chopsticks tapping bowls, soft laughter, the rustle of shifting cloaks. The air was heavy with warmth, and something gentler beneath it.
After the dishes were cleared, Yuling curled near the brazier.
"Why can't we end every day like this?"
"Because the universe isn't that kind," Lanyin said.
"Because we serve a monarchy," Mei Hua added.
"Because Xingzhen's idea of a reward is an annotated ledger," Renshu said.
"That's not true," Xingzhen replied. "Once I gave you the colored ink."
Laughter again—easy, unguarded.
"Still time to order the emperor to build us a bathhouse annex," Renshu said.
"With dumplings," Yuling added.
"And no rituals," Lanyin said.
"And no one watching," Mei Hua finished.
The laughter faded gently, giving way to quiet.
Then Xingzhen said it—low, steady:
"One day… after all this trouble… I want us to live like this."
She wasn't smiling now. Her voice carried no command, no irony.
Just the truth.
"No scripts. No ranks. No secrets. Just people. Just us."
None of them spoke for a breath.
Then:
"We'll hold you to that," Renshu murmured, eyes softer than usual.
"I hope you do," Xingzhen replied.
Outside the window, a single shadow leaned against the alley wall—hood drawn low, breath rising into the frost.
Yizhu stood silent beneath the dim lantern glow, still as stone.
He had heard every word.
He reached into his robe and withdrew a folded slip of paper. With careful strokes, he noted:
"Consider annex at Yi Ning—private, quiet, medicinal steam use. No officials."
He paused, then added another line below.
"She said… no scripts. No ranks. Just people."
The ink bled slowly into the paper.
'Could such a life ever be real? Not just for her… but for me?'
He folded it, tucked it away, and listened—one last moment to their laughter inside.
It was soft. Alive. Free.
Then he turned into the dark and vanished—his breath vanishing into the frost like a man dreaming of a world he'd never dared want.
The room was small, lit by a single candle and warmed by the last of the brazier's glow. Five floor mats lay side by side on the polished wood, thin quilts tucked neatly over each. Outside, frost whispered against the paper windows.
Inside, the women lay in half-silence.
The kind of silence that only comes when no one wants to ruin a perfect day by admitting it's ending.
Yuling spoke first, voice muffled beneath her blanket.
"I had a dog before the palace. Named Baozi. He was a thief."
Heads turned. She smiled into the quilt.
"He once took a pork bun from a soldier's hand and ran across a neighbour's roof like a little bandit."
Soft chuckles rippled through the room.
"He'd sleep curled against me every night. Warm. Always smelled like straw and soy paste."
She paused.
"When they brought me into the inner court, I asked if he could come too. They laughed. Then I asked again."
Another pause.
"I got a beating for it."
The room fell quiet.
Then Mei Hua's voice followed, low but steady.
"My father carved chess pieces from discarded wood. Couldn't afford ivory. He made me a set shaped like vegetables."
She let out a short breath.
"My general was a radish. He always got captured."
"That's because you don't know how to use vegetables in war," Renshu muttered.
"Or because cabbages are pacifists," Yuling offered.
They laughed again, softer now, but real.
Lanyin stared at the ceiling.
"I never wanted to serve anyone. But I chose Xingzhen."
That made the room go still again.
Xingzhen turned her head slightly on the pillow.
"Why?"
Lanyin didn't hesitate.
"Because the only time I've seen someone walk into the palace and look power in the eye without blinking… was you. You knew how it worked. You knew how to survive it. And maybe… how to change it."
"That's not exactly comforting," Xingzhen replied.
"But it is true," Lanyin said.
Renshu rolled to her side.
"I thought this job would get me killed in three months."
"And now?" Mei Hua asked.
"Now I'll only die of scrollwork. And seasonal feasts."
"A noble death," said Yuling solemnly.
Their laughter this time felt worn-in—no longer just release, but familiarity.
Then Xingzhen spoke.
"I had a friend once. When I was very young."
The room stilled again.
Her voice wasn't wistful. It was even, measured—like she was testing each word for weight before letting it go.
"He was clever. Quieter than me, but always a step ahead in some things. We used to compete to see who could finish homework the fastest. He cheated most of the time. Never admitted it. I still won, of course."
A breath. A small smile.
"Once, he told me that when we were older, he'd make sure we ended up somewhere with clean air, good food, and no rules. Somewhere we could just… rest. A child's dream of adventure and freedom."
The others said nothing.
"He died when I was eleven. Quick. Stupid. Pointless. A fire, in a place we weren't supposed to be."
"No one remembered him after that. Not even the people who taught us."
She turned onto her side.
"Civilization moved on, and I remembered the fragility of life, for him and for me. Futures were vague, and outcomes became necessary, more so than ever."
No one moved.
Then—softer now—Xingzhen continued:
"But today… I remembered what it felt like to hope for the future."
She pulled the quilt higher over her shoulder.
"So yes. I meant what I said during dinner."
"One day, after all this trouble… I want us to live like this."
"No scripts. No ranks. No secrets. Just people. Just us."
Lanyin reached across the dark and quietly adjusted the edge of Xingzhen's blanket.
Yuling rolled toward her, voice a whisper:
"Do we get Baozi back, in that future?"
"You'll have a whole kennel," Xingzhen said.
"With dumpling privileges?" Renshu asked.
"Conditional on good behaviour."
The candle burned lower. Bodies shifted closer. One by one, they drifted toward sleep.
Outside, frost traced lace across the inn's windows.
Inside, five women breathed in rhythm. No court. No rank. No orders.
Just a stolen night of peace, woven by trust and softened by shared warmth.
They were no longer just surviving. They were beginning to belong.
By the time the gates of the Forbidden City came into view, the sky was only beginning to pale.
They walked in twos, cloaked and quiet, shoes damp with frost. No one spoke of the cold. No one dared mention what time it was.
They slipped through the servant passages like ghosts—Mei Hua leading, Renshu murmuring cover lines to passing eunuchs, Yuling yawning into her sleeve.
Lanyin clutched a folded scroll. Xingzhen walked at the back.
They didn't look back.
Not even when the golden roofs of the outer court came into view, glimmering cold and distant, as if daring them to try again.
By the time they returned to Yi Ning Palace, Matron Liu was waiting in the corridor with a pot of tea and the world's flattest expression.
"Good morning, Noble Consort Yi."
"Good morning, Matron Liu," Xingzhen said smoothly, not breaking stride.
Matron Liu's eyes flicked over each of them, hair tousled, faces wind-burned, steps too soft to have come from bed.
She poured a cup of tea.
"The Ritual Audit Division delivered inquiries during your absence," she said. "Also, three memos from the Palace Efficiency Secretariat, and one urgent document that smells suspiciously of wine."
"I see," Xingzhen replied. "How efficient of them."
"Breakfast will be delayed," the matron added coolly. "The kitchen servants are recovering from surprise inspections."
Yuling hiccupped a suppressed laugh. Renshu elbowed her.
Matron Liu took a long sip of tea, glanced at the rising sun, then at Xingzhen again.
"I assume… nothing improper occurred."
Xingzhen's smile was the most innocent lie ever worn in daylight, outshining even the best of performers.
"Nothing at all."
Behind her, Lanyin was already walking into the study, Mei Hua peeling off to check for messages.
Yuling hesitated, then turned back.
"Matron Liu?"
"Yes?"
"If we ask nicely… could the kitchen staff make dumplings tonight?"
Matron Liu blinked. Just once.
Then, quietly, she said:
"I will inquire."
And she did not stop them.
Later that day, a note reached the Palace Works Ministry, bearing the emperor's seal:
"Yi Ning Palace. Steam annex. Unmarked. Discreet.
No formal entryway. Private use only. Completion preferred before winter ends."
It bore no explanation. Only the command. And in the margin, almost like an afterthought, were five tiny dots inked side by side.