The first time Basen Ma saw him, the boy was kneeling beside the incense table, hands folded neatly over his thighs, head slightly bowed as a guest passed. He was still, like sculpture — but his stillness was purposeful, trained, charged. He wore the soft green of the Verdigris House, but his robe slipped subtly at the collar, just enough to hint at the hollows of his collarbones. Not accidental, Basen thought. Never accidental in a house like this.

Still, he hadn't expected him to be there.

He’d heard whispers of a new apprentice — one with pedigree, brought in not for coin but for craft. The Verdigris Matron’s own grandson. Most took that as an old woman’s indulgence. Basen did not. He had known the Matron long enough to see how her choices rippled outward like silk on water.

But he hadn’t known the apprentice would look like that.

He returned the following week under pretext — a matter of city permits, contracts, taxes. Excuses. The Verdigris House rarely required his oversight. Yet he lingered. Let the Matron pour the tea. Let his eyes wander.

There he was again, half-shadowed by the lattice screen, kneeling to refill a censer. This time their eyes met.

Just a flicker — a moment. And then the boy dropped his gaze like silk falling from a shoulder.

It should’ve meant nothing. Basen was too old, too refined, too cautious for this kind of thing. And yet...

He started noticing more. The boy’s presence in the quietest corners of the House. The way he learned quickly which guests to avoid, which to charm. How he never raised his voice — not even when another apprentice spilled oil across his feet. The way he walked: with care, but not with fear.

One night, Basen arrived during the quiet hour, after rain. The Matron was indisposed, and the house smelled of plum blossoms and wet stone. As he passed the moon gate to the inner garden, he found him there — alone, standing barefoot in the rain-damp corridor, hair half-undone, reaching up to place a lantern. A thread of wax dripped over his fingers. He did not flinch.

He hadn’t seen Basen yet. His posture was casual, unguarded.

Basen should’ve turned away. Should’ve gone back to the gate. But he stood, watching, something sharp curling behind his ribs.

The boy adjusted the lantern, then finally turned.

This time, he did not lower his gaze.

He held it — for just long enough.

Basen felt it like heat under his skin.

The next day, a lacquered box arrived at the Verdigris House. Inside: a comb of carved river-jade, not new but exquisitely kept, the kind passed down rather than purchased. No note. No seal. But the Matron would know. And you would know. Sitting across from him in the private room. Without anyone informed, it would be immoral.

“This is a gift for you”