The Garden Pavilion Gathering

The morning light filtered through gauzy silk curtains, soft and pale as rice water. Bai Ningwei sat by the dressing table, combing her hair in deliberate strokes. Her eyes didn't touch the bronze mirror. She didn't need to see what had changed.

Yuling appeared in the doorway, silent as always, but this time she held something in her hands — a square envelope stitched with red thread.

"A letter," she said. "From Eldest Miss Bai."

The envelope was thick, creamy, and far too elegant for a household invitation. The scent of pear blossoms clung to the paper like gossip. She broke the wax seal with a hairpin and unfolded the contents.

"Dearest Sister," it began in graceful calligraphy. "Join us this afternoon for tea and conversation in the west pavilion garden. Just a small gathering of women. We so look forward to seeing your lovely face."

Ningwei held the parchment at arm's length.

"Will you attend?" Yuling asked.

"I'm trying to decide if I value my pride more than I value fresh tea."

Yuling tilted her head. "You're already dressed."

Ningwei looked down. Blue silk, freshly pressed. Hair pinned into a modest bun. Kohl lining her lashes like war paint.

"Hm," she said. "Curious, isn't it?"

From the corner of her vision, the System flickered.

[Optional Event: Social Gathering]

[Risk Assessment: Elevated.]

She tucked the letter into her sleeve and stood. "Let's go disappoint someone."

——

The west pavilion was trimmed and shaded by two towering camphor trees. Sunlight filtered through the leaves like shifting lace, and the air was heavy with the scent of magnolia and thinly disguised judgment.

By the time Bai Ningwei arrived, the other women were already seated on carved benches around the low tea table, their posture too perfect to be natural. Silken sleeves brushed against teacups as quiet laughter rose and fell like a well-practiced instrument.

There were five guests in total:

Second Madam in grey gauze, eyes soft and calculating.

Third Concubine, bejeweled and smug, her daughter clinging to her arm like a silk ornament.

Two unmarried cousins, barely out of childhood, whispering behind fans.

And at the center, wearing seafoam-green with silver-threaded embroidery, was Bai Ruolan.

She smiled when she saw Ningwei, wide and warm like the hearth of a snake's den.

"Sister," Ruolan said, rising to her feet. "What a joy it is to have you with us. We worried you'd grown too delicate for sunlight."

Ningwei inclined her head. "I'm building my tolerance slowly, starting with snakes and moving up to scorpions."

A sharp breath from one cousin. Second Madam's lips twitched.

Ruolan's smile didn't falter. "Then it's fortunate we've prepared light refreshments."

Yuling quietly slipped away to stand with the servant girls along the periphery. The pavilion was ringed by flowering vines and silence, the kind that thickened instead of comforted.

Ningwei sat last, folding her robes beneath her. The seat left open for her was slightly lower than the others.

Ruolan poured tea herself. A subtle signal. No maids. No buffer. Just hands too practiced for sincerity.

As she handed over the cup, she said, "You must tell us what it felt like, waking from the dead."

Ningwei accepted the cup but did not drink. "Less dramatic than waking to this conversation."

Laughter from the cousins again, more hesitant now.

Second Madam spoke then, her voice honeyed: "Still, your health is a blessing. Some girls linger for months before passing, leaving families in such awkward mourning."

"I'm told mine ended quickly," Ningwei replied. "Though not quite quickly enough."

Ruolan tilted her head. "Some say you were poisoned."

"Some say the moon is a mirror," Ningwei said, brushing her sleeve. "Not all things said deserve echo."

There was a pause. A shift in the breeze. The tea steamed in shallow porcelain cups but none of the women reached for theirs.

Finally, the Third Concubine leaned forward, her voice higher and too sweet. "Your mother… she was from a merchant clan, wasn't she? Not one of ours."

A calculated jab, veiled in curiosity.

"Yes," Ningwei said.

That silenced the table.

Even Ruolan hesitated, eyes narrowing just slightly.

The System pinged faintly in her vision:

[Social Pressure Detected. Response Grade: Controlled Retaliation.]

Ningwei set down her tea untouched and looked at Ruolan.

"You didn't invite me here to talk about my mother," she said. "Or tea."

Ruolan smiled again, but the corners of her mouth had stiffened.

"You're right," she said. "We invited you because we were curious. It's rare for a girl to rise twice, once in scandal, once in sickness. Naturally, we worry for the family's reputation."

Ningwei stood slowly.

"Then consider this my contribution: a ghost who remembers more than she should."

She bowed to the gathering, low and deliberate. When she rose, her eyes were on Ruolan.

"Thank you for the tea," she said. "But I prefer to choose my own poison."

And with that, she turned and left.

Behind her, the pavilion murmured with barely concealed discomfort. Ruolan's cup trembled once against its saucer before she stilled it.

———

Back in her quarters, Bai Ningwei sat at her writing table, watching dust drift lazily through the slats of late-afternoon sun. The same type of tea she'd refused earlier now sat steaming in her own cup, untouched.

Yuling entered quietly and knelt to undo the fastenings of Ningwei's outer robe, but her movements were stiffer than usual.

"You disapproved," Ningwei said.

The maid's hands paused. Then resumed. "I was surprised."

"That I left early?"

"No. That you spoke that plainly."

"I wasn't raised to be charming," Ningwei said. "But then again, I wasn't raised very well."

Yuling didn't respond, but the cloth she folded had creases sharp enough to cut skin.

Ningwei studied her. "You're very loyal to the household."

"I serve where I'm assigned."

"And if you were assigned to serve a drowning girl?"

Yuling's eyes flicked up, then away. "Then I'd try to keep her afloat. Until I'm told not to."

A beat of silence.

Then Ningwei reached into her sleeve and retrieved the red-threaded note she had found the day before. She laid it flat on the table and smoothed the edge with one fingertip. Her voice was quiet.

"This girl - the one who wrote this - she was desperate. I think she knew too much. Or maybe just enough to be dangerous."

She glanced at Yuling. "She trusted someone she shouldn't have. I don't plan to make the same mistake."

Yuling didn't flinch, but her fingers curled tighter around the folded robe.

"I understand," she said.

Ningwei looked down at the page again. The cinnabar stain on the corner had darkened slightly with time, like blood bruising on old skin.

The System pinged:

[Emotional Deviation: Within Range]

[Token Fragment Proximity: Stable]

"Do you know who delivers the physician's ledgers to the steward?" she asked suddenly.

Yuling blinked. "Usually one of the outer servants. But I believe Second Madam reviews them first."

"Of course she does," Ningwei murmured. "Even cowards hide behind someone."

She tucked the note away and stood.

Yuling opened the storage chest and pulled out a fresh robe, this one darker, almost ink blue. "Are you going out?"

"I'm going to take a walk," Ningwei said, wrapping her sash. "And maybe ask someone the wrong question. Just to see how they react."

"Should I come?"

Ningwei paused.

"No," she said. "If I fall into a pond, I want at least one person left who knows how to lie for me."

Yuling exhaled, maybe a laugh, maybe not, and bowed.

As Ningwei left the room, the pendant in her drawer gave off the faintest pulse. Not enough to light. Just enough to warn.

——-

The southern garden was quiet, the kind of silence cultivated with purpose. No chattering maids, no laughter, not even the rustle of gossip. Just the stillness of trimmed hedges and red koi circling in slow, suspicious loops.

Bai Ningwei's steps made no sound as she approached the silk-draped veranda. Second Madam sat beneath the awning with her back straight and her shoulders relaxed, stitching chrysanthemums into a piece of ivory silk. The pattern was intricate and elegant, the sort meant for gift-giving, not use.

"You've come without being called," Second Madam said without lifting her gaze. "How brave."

Ningwei gave a shallow bow. "If I waited to be called, I'd never leave my courtyard."

Second Madam glanced up, lips twitching in almost a smile, but not quite. "So you've learned."

She gestured to the empty cushion beside her, not warmly, but not coldly either. "Sit. Before the tea turns."

Ningwei obeyed, tucking her sleeves properly as she sat. The cup she was offered had a faint crack along the rim, but the tea inside was fragrant: osmanthus, subtle and cloying. A drink for apologies. Or regrets.

They sipped in silence for a while.

"You've grown quieter," Second Madam said at last. "Not that you were ever particularly loud."

"Being dead tends to rearrange your priorities."

A soft laugh. "Don't be morbid. It unsettles the help."

"I think it unsettles you more," Ningwei said, calm and unblinking.

Second Madam set her embroidery aside.

"Say what you came to say."

Ningwei did not hesitate. "The medicine. The one that nearly killed me. Did you authorize it?"

Second Madam's face did not change. She poured more tea, slow and smooth. "I approve many things. Tea blends, herbal tonics, midwives. I don't mix the powders myself."

"But you sign off on the physician's prescriptions."

"I do."

"And Bai Ruolan?"

"She is the future of this house," Second Madam said, with a hint of pride. "She concerns herself with greater matters. Family reputation. Social ties. Daughters like her become the steel in a family's spine."

Ningwei placed her cup down with care. "And daughters like me?"

Second Madam tilted her head. "You were always too clever. Your mother made the mistake of letting you believe it would protect you."

"She also said not to trust this household."

"She said that while putting a green hat on your father. " Second Madam's voice stayed soft, but her eyes were iron. "There are many kinds of ruin, child. Some women are born into it. Some inherit it. Your mother earned hers."

Ningwei's throat felt tight - not with emotion, but memory. That chill sensation again, like stepping into a life she hadn't lived but still carried in her bones.

"I was ten when she died," she said. "And I still remember that no one let me cry at the funeral."

Second Madam didn't reply immediately. She resumed her embroidery instead, as if words were a luxury to be earned.

"She disgraced the household. If you had cried, it would have looked like defiance."

"She was drowned."

"Yes." A pause. "And then we sewed your name back into the family ledger and waited for you to become quiet enough to keep."

The wind stirred the bamboo blinds, casting shadows across the tea set.

Ningwei looked down at the swirling leaves in her cup. "The dose was doubled the day before I collapsed."

"Was it?"

"You know it was."

Second Madam sighed. "Then perhaps it's a good thing you survived."

"That sounds like regret."

"It sounds like advice." She met Ningwei's gaze at last, her voice low. "There are things worse than death in this house. I don't say that to frighten you, only to remind you that even survival must be done properly."

A silence fell between them, heavy as iron.

"Do you believe in redemption?" Ningwei asked quietly.

Second Madam blinked, caught off-guard by the question.

"Redemption," she said finally, "is a name we give to victories when they don't look like winning."

"And girls who return from the grave?"

"Should remember whose hands pushed them in."