NOVEL NEXT Chapter 285: The Sweetness Of It All
The kitchens smelled of fat and smoke even at this hour.
I didn't walk all the way in. After the first few times I had done it, I got tired of the side looks from the staff.
But even with me just outside the doors, the cooks still froze anyway, their ladles suspended, and their knives hovering mid-stroke over cabbages. They were used to princes and ministers coming for orders, not me.
"I need something sweet," I said.
One boy stammered, "Sweet—?"
"Rice boiled with honey. Fruit if it's ripe enough. Anything candied that won't break teeth." My tone was clipped, and I could see them scrambling in their minds for which jars they'd hidden behind the vinegar.
A woman bowed so quickly her forehead nearly hit the cutting block. "At once."
I didn't stay to watch. I knew how fast a kitchen could move when death was the alternative.
By the time I returned to the east chamber, two trays had followed on the arms of terrified apprentices.
They carried honey rice in small bowls, slices of pear glazed in syrup, and strips of candied ginger laid out like soldiers on a plate. I let them set the trays down by the brazier and dismissed them with a flick of my hand.
WeiWei was still on the pallet. His fists had not moved from Yizhen's robe. His face was clean now, his breath steadier, but the glue and dye had left their shadow like a memory that skin didn't want to forget.
I sat beside him, lifted a piece of pear with my fingers, and pressed it lightly to his lips. "Eat," I said.
He blinked, eyes glazed with the thickness of exhaustion. For a moment he didn't move. Then Yizhen shifted his arm under the boy, adjusting him just enough that he could breathe easier. Wei's mouth opened, not for me, but because the man holding him made the world less sharp.
The pear disappeared between small teeth. He chewed once, twice, swallowed.
"Again," I said.
He ate another, and another after that. His little jaw worked until the sticky sheen of syrup smeared at the corner of his mouth. He lifted a hand to wipe it, but it was the wrong hand—the one that still clung to Yizhen's robe. He refused to let go.
I caught his other hand, cleaned his mouth with the cloth, and pressed a thumb to his pulse while I had the chance. It beat strong, faster than it should, but not faltering.
"Better," I murmured.
The rice went down more slowly. He took only a few spoonfuls before his head drooped against Yizhen's chest, mouth sticky with honey, lashes heavy. I set the bowl aside and brushed the crumbs from his chin.
I could feel Yizhen's eyes on me. When I looked up, his gaze didn't dart away like a guilty man's. He watched openly, the way someone watches fire when they can't decide if it will warm them or burn them.
"It wasn't that long ago that you were handing me an envelope with a name on it," I said softly, almost absently, "you kept me stocked in jasmine tea."
A faint curve touched his mouth. "I remember. No one else seemed to notice that you liked it."
"No one else bothered," I said. I didn't add that I had liked it because it tasted of a mountain I wasn't supposed to miss. He didn't need that piece of truth.
He didn't press further. He simply lowered his head slightly, enough to let Wei's cheek rest more comfortably against his collarbone.
Mingyu had taken a seat in the corner, silent as always, eyes sharp enough to pin every movement in the room.
He hadn't spoken since before the food arrived. He didn't need to. His silence was its own decree: Yizhen was allowed here.
I dipped a cloth in warm water, wrung it out, and wiped WeiWei's hands clean. He resisted at first, whining softly, but when the last stickiness was gone, he sagged again, clinging tighter with fingers that looked too small against adult silk.
"Enough," I said softly. "Sleep now."
Lin Wei shifted, trying to roll toward me without releasing Yizhen.
He ended up wedged between us, his back pressed against my chest, his face still buried in Yizhen's robe. His fists were tangled in fabric, but one of his feet kicked weakly until it found my leg, as if making sure I hadn't vanished.
I let my arm slide over him, settling my palm over his small ribs. His breaths lifted and fell against my hand, shallow but steady. The warmth bled into my bones.
Yizhen didn't move. He didn't speak. He sat with the stillness of a man who knew if he shifted too much, he might undo something fragile. His eyes caught mine over the boy's head, and in them I read no triumph, no sly satisfaction—just awareness.
This wasn't a victory. It was a burden. One he had chosen the moment he bent to pick up a child that wasn't his.
Shadow stirred at the threshold, ears pricked. Yaozu's men outside shifted in the dark, their boots crunching occasionally on frost.
Somewhere far off, a night watch bell tolled, muffled, reminding the city that order still lived.
Inside this room, order had changed shape.
WeiWei sighed, the sound small but final, and his body went slack against both of us. Sleep took him fully this time, heavy and certain.
I pressed my face briefly to his hair, breathing in the scent of soap and smoke and something that was simply him. Then I laid back on the pallet, drawing him against me. My arm circled his waist; his hands stayed locked in Yizhen's robe.
The three of us fit together without trying, the boy the hinge between two lives that had not meant to touch.
I let my eyes close. For the first time in days, I let myself breathe like a woman who wasn't already sharpening knives in her head.
The brazier's glow painted the walls, Shadow's low rumble filled the silence, and Wei's breath carried me under.
The last thing I felt was the faint pull of silk against my son's grip, and the heat of another man's presence I had not invited but would not refuse.