Chapter 1
“You’re seriously selling me off to the crown prince?” Linh Yue exclaimed as she burst into the Head Physician’s private office, her sleeves half-pushed up and hair slightly damp from the midday heat.
The sharp scent of crushed lotus root filled the air, mixed with dried sandalwood and the faint earthy smell of old medicinal books. Bai Song didn’t look up. He was hunched over his desk as always, brush in hand, writing in tight, meticulous characters across a worn scroll.
“I’m not selling you off,” he said evenly, finishing his line with a firm stroke. “I’m appointing you.”
Yue crossed her arms. “Ugh! Working at the palace is going to be so boring! So many strict rules with eyes on you everywhere!” Her voice pitched upward with dramatic despair.
“Not like you’re going there to have fun,” Bai Song replied without missing a beat.
She moved around his desk with a practiced familiarity, leaning forward until she was inches from his ear. “Old man,” she whispered conspiratorially, “be honest—how much were you paid?”
That earned her a response. Bai Song finally looked up from his work with a patient sigh, rolled the scroll into a tight cylinder, and whacked her on the head with it.
“Ouch!” Yue rubbed her crown with a pout that bordered on theatrical. “Abuse! Witnessed and recorded!”
“Why would I sell you off when I can give you to them for free?” he muttered, turning to the shelf behind him. He selected a leather-bound volume by touch alone, as if the placement of every book was carved into his memory.
“Wowww,” Yue clapped her hands slowly. “So generous. Such a benevolent father figure.”
“You’re not my daughter,” Bai Song said, flipping the book open. “You just act like one. A particularly annoying one.”
She perched on the edge of his desk, ignoring the way he gave her a disapproving glance. “Xiao Ren would die to do this. Why pick me?”
Bai Song looked over his glasses at her, his expression finally serious. “I didn’t pick you just because I could pick anyone. I appointed you because I trust you. It’s the Royal Palace. Not just anywhere.”
Something in his voice made her sit straighter.
For a moment, the room quieted. Outside, the wind stirred the wind chimes strung over the window—little copper bells that had hung there since she was ten. They tinkled like old laughter, like comfort.
Yue blew out a breath. “You’re really not joking, are you?”
“I rarely do,” he said mildly.
“You do when you drink ginseng wine,” she countered.
“That’s not joking,” he muttered. “That’s survival.”
Yue hesitated. Then: “You said it was a request. From the Crown Prince?”
Bai Song nodded. “He sent word through the Imperial Health Bureau. He wants someone from the State Clinic with high clearance and specialization in circulatory medicine.”
“That’s weirdly specific.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Which is why I’m sending someone who knows how to keep her mouth shut.”
“Flattery,” Yue said, holding a hand over her heart. “I’m touched.”
He gave her a look. “You’re used to handling difficult cases. And difficult people.”
“You mean you.”
“I meant nobles,” he said dryly, “but thank you for volunteering yourself.”
She sighed dramatically, sliding off the desk. “How long do I have?”
“You leave at dawn.”
“What?” she yelped.
“You’ll be escorted by a palace carriage. I’ve prepared your documents and letters of clearance.” He gestured toward a small lacquered box on the side table. “Also, your registration seal. Try not to lose it this time.”
“That was once,” she muttered, grabbing the box with a scowl.
“And bring your green kit. The full one.”
“Seriously? You think he’s dying?”
“No,” Bai Song said. “But he might be lying.”
Yue paused. “Lying about what?”
Bai Song looked back down at his papers and didn’t answer right away.
After a moment, he said, “Don’t ask questions until you’re inside. And don’t speak unless spoken to. He’s not known for patience.”
Yue rolled her eyes. “Lovely. Just my type.”
He didn’t respond, but his eyes flicked up once more.
Then, in a softer tone: “You’ll do well.”
She blinked. It wasn’t often Bai Song said anything like that out loud.
She opened her mouth to make a joke—but for once, nothing came.
The silence between them settled for a moment, like dust in a sunbeam, until Yue finally let out a breath and dropped onto the cushion beside the low table with theatrical defeat.
“So let me guess. I’m going to be poking needles into royal flesh and pretending I don’t hear political whispers?”
Bai Song made a faint noise. “Close enough.”
She pulled the lacquered box toward her and opened it. Inside were four neatly stacked slips of authorization paper, her registration seal, and a long, folded scroll with a wax emblem pressed into the ribbon — the imperial insignia.
She raised a brow. “So official. Are they planning to frame me the moment something goes wrong?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I knew it.”
He picked up a porcelain teacup and blew on the surface before sipping. “They didn’t just ask for a physician. They asked for a female physician. That narrows the list to three. One is barely sixteen. One stutters when under pressure. Then there’s you.”
“Oh, so I’m the least of all evils,” she said, mockingly. “I’m honored.”
“No,” he said. “You’re the one I trained.”
Yue paused, lips parting, just a little. Her hand hovered above the registration seal. Then, quickly, she closed the box.
“You know I don’t care about fancy places,” she said, softer now. “And I definitely don’t care about bowing to princes.”
Bai Song leaned back. “But you do care about patients who don’t let themselves be treated.”
That struck a nerve. Her eyes flickered up to meet his.
“What else do you know?” she asked.
“Enough,” he said simply. “Enough to know he doesn’t trust the people already treating him. And that he doesn’t want anyone near him who answers to the palace first.”
“And you think I don’t?”
He gave her the faintest of smiles. “You answer to no one. That’s your most irritating trait. And your most valuable.”
She snorted, crossing her arms. “You make me sound so charming.”
He stood then, walked to one of the shelves near the back wall, and opened a small wooden drawer built into the frame. After a pause, he drew something out — a long, narrow box.
She tilted her head.
“You already gave me a gift last New Year. That ghastly dried fish paste. I’m still traumatized.”
Bai Song didn’t answer. He returned to the table and placed the box in front of her.
Inside was a slender silver hairpin, curved at the tip like a crescent moon. Its body was carved with tiny motifs of lotus leaves and small, careful characters — protection charms for health, balance, and silence.
She stared at it, then slowly picked it up.
