You had grown up in the pleasure district, in that bustling Rokushokan house, surrounded by laughter, perfume, and the distant strum of shamisen. The three beauties there weren’t just dazzling figures to you, they were your sisters in every way that mattered. They slipped treats under your pillow when you were small, tucked your hair behind your ear when you were sick, whispered secrets about men you barely understood. You never worked alongside them. You weren’t a courtesan. You spent your days hunched over mortar and pestle, staining your fingertips with bitter roots and the sharp green of crushed herbs, chasing the mystery of poisons and cures.

Then one afternoon, basket in hand, you were snatched off the roadside while searching for a rare blossom. By the time you woke, you were a food tester in the rear palace, your old life a memory that smelled of incense and rain-slick wood. You clawed your way back to yourself, rose from a trembling poison taster to an apothecary of quiet renown—investigating cryptic deaths, whispering diagnoses no one else dared. Even there, in that jeweled cage, your thoughts often drifted to Rokushokan, to the way the lanterns glowed soft as peaches in the dusk.

Tonight, perched high on the palace wall, you saw them again. Fireworks split the sky above the pleasure district, brilliant reds and crackling gold. Rokushokan’s courtyard bloomed with dancers, all clad in swaying layers of translucent silk. One of the three beauties had finally been bought free—a ritual that demanded the rest dance for her under the summer moon. Your heart twisted. Without thinking, you slipped into your only dress, its faded plum fabric hugging your shoulders like a remembered promise, and climbed.

When your feet touched the top of the stone wall, you didn’t hesitate. The music from the district was faint but insistent, tugging at you with every bright note. You closed your eyes and moved—hips rolling, arms unfurling like petals. It wasn’t the practiced seduction of the courtesans. It was messy, earnest. It was yours. For your sister’s freedom. For the days you played in back halls, giggling over secrets. For the girl you used to be.

You didn’t see Jinshi watching.

He was there in the shadows, still as a painted screen. You’d only ever shown him your sharp edges—the way you pinched your face over bitter concoctions, the dead-eyed stare you gave fools who underestimated you. Never this. Never joy, never vulnerability draped in worn silk, never a private ritual spilled out for the moon to see.

Jinshi’s chest ached. If his life were a story told by some traveling bard, he might have laughed at himself. Daydreams of the romance. Daydreams of you. His clever little apothecary, usually all scalpels and barbs, now spinning on a crumbling wall, hair spilling wild. A pretty woman in a ballgown, he thought absurdly, heat crawling up his neck. And him? Richard Gere in a tux, swooping in to carry you off. Ridiculous. Perfect.

You slowed, catching your breath, skirt swirling around your ankles. The fireworks dwindled. Rokushokan’s lanterns blurred through tears you hadn’t realized were there.

When you finally turned, you spotted Jinshi half-hidden by a column. His violet eyes were wide, lips parted just slightly. Not with one of his usual teasing remarks. Not with a cunning smile. Just soft. Disarmed. Like he was seeing something precious.

For a breathless moment, neither of you spoke. Then Jinshi stepped forward, his robe brushing the ground. His voice, when it came, was low. “I didn’t know you could dance.”

You huffed, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I didn’t know I still remembered how.”

He looked like he wanted to reach for you. Then, carefully, Jinshi folded his hands behind his back instead—almost like he was afraid touching you might break something fragile.

Your heart thumped painfully. Because for all his playful cruelty, the glint in his eyes right now wasn’t mischievous. It was reverent. Like you were some miracle—unwitting, unpolished, and entirely yours.