Page 72 of The Cinders

Mostly true, she had returned after an hour passed, to ask if she could bring him something to eat.

‘Your highness could do with more congee,’ she’d said rather boldly.

He’d declined politely, and she had slid the panel closed to return him to privacy.

Xian had almost cried out at the sound, the harsh scrape of the wood leaving him covering his ears.But he’d set the experience aside, blaming exhaustion.He’d hardly slept since his encounter with the Englishman two nights ago; sleep was impossible when one lay there watching his aura seep gently from his skin.

The woman returned not half an hour later, bringing the bowl of congee he had refused.Again, the opening of the door had raked at his ears, sounds magnified as though he stood in a cave.

But this time it was worse.The waft of century eggs and warm rice hit his nose, and the pungency roiled his stomach; the scent clogging his nostrils, sitting heavy at the back of his throat.

‘Your highness?’the woman had cried, in some alarm.‘Are you alright?’

He certainly was not.His senses had gone mad.

Xian continued his tip-toed way down the corridor, his room in sight, and his muscles tensed by the fear he’d come across someone else whose innocent movement would claw at his ears.Heaven forbid an attendant appeared with a tray of river snail rice noodles; a recipe that was favoured in Manhao.Xian’s stomach turned now, just thinking on the stench of the dish.

A heavy thump came from somewhere further down the corridor.Xian braced a hand against the wall, closing his eyes while the sound reverberated through his skull.

To his mind, a giant had just dropped a boulder from heaven, but instinct told him it was far more likely the thump of mats being laid out as attendants prepared the rooms for the approaching evening.

He reached his room, and if anyone happened by they would think him strange for how carefully and slowly he drew the panelling back.But even in doing so slowly, the rasp of the wood along its fixtures made him grit his teeth.

When he was finally inside, Xian unfastened his veil and sank down onto the pile of cushions near the window; where the daphnes caught the afternoon light against their petals.

The flowers’ sweet but spicy aroma grabbed at him, shoving its citrus undertones down his throat; the hint of vanilla battling with all the rest.

Every note of the flowers’ perfume made itself known to him; lemon, ginger, orange blossom, even a touch of jasmine, all combined to create the daphnes unique scent.

Xian groaned, grabbing a cushion and pressing it to his nose.

‘What is wrong with me?’

Even the cushion did not truly shield him, for it had its own signature smell: wool and horsehair, though thankfully time had weakened the odour from both.

Laughter floated up from the garden beyond Xian’s window.Or rather, it flung itself at him; a slap against his ears.Xian cast the pillow aside.

He knew that laugh; with its careless and sensual nature.

Forgetting caution in his rush, Xian flinched at the sound of his own feet pounding on the floor.He drew back the curtain.The day, halfway through its afternoon, was pleasant, the sky clear, the sun a golden orb headed towards its horizon berth.

But Xian had eyes only for the garden below.And the daemon who walked within.

He searched for Sir William, certain it was that man’s laughter he’d heard.Every aspect of their encounter was scorched into Xian’s mind.

The mandarin’s inner courtyard held no plants capable of hiding a man completely, the landscaping done in such a way that whoever walked among the low shrubs and rockeries would be seen very well.

A chance to parade themselves, a pastime so many in the mandarin’s court seemed to enjoy.

Xian peeked from behind his curtain, holding the fabric as something of a shield against the life beyond his window.A useless shield, of course, but giving him something tangible to hold on to.

He needed that.His world was morphing before his eyes…and his nose…and his ears…all about him was unfamiliar.

Xian’s search for the Englishman was fruitless.The courtyard was occupied only by a couple of officials; marked by their distinctive caps and the buzi embroidered on their surcoats.Xian peered at the rank badges, and a quiet gasp slipped between his lips.The details of the embroidery appeared so clear, easily distinguishable despite the distance between them.Of course he might have recognised the Golden Pheasant on the second rank official’s chest from its distinct colours alone, but Xian could make out the subtle red of the bird’s eye and the hint of indigo the seamstress had laid at the wing.If he squinted, he swore he could see each run of thread.

Xian blinked quickly, rubbing at his eyes.His tired, overwrought imagination must be fooling him.

When he looked again to the men, they had turned their backs, heads tilted close as they took the meandering pebbled path towards the west wing.