I kept the poisoned napkin folded in my sleeve the entire day.
It left a faint scent floral, bitter, wrong. Every time I moved my arm, I remembered what it could do. What they wanted it to do.
But I didn't burn it. Or hand it over.
I waited.
That evening, I passed the outer hall where the lesser consorts' attendants gathered to gossip. The girl who had tampered with the tea set the one who folded napkins too carefully was there, kneeling among them, pouring broth with a lowered head.
As if nothing had happened.
But her hands trembled.
I slowed as I passed a column, pretending to adjust my tray.
And there, between the pillar and the nearest window ledge, I left the folded napkin just visible enough to catch attention.
I didn't even turn to look.
By morning, a rumor had bloomed:
One of the junior attendants was ill.
She claimed she'd touched something cursed.
No one believed her.
The supervisor said she'd requested leave.
The physician said it was nerves.
But I knew better.
She'd seen the napkin.
She recognized her own work.
And now she was afraid.
Not of being discovered.
But of who else might think she'd failed.
That afternoon, I found a fresh sheet of paper on my pillow.
No drawing. No message.
Just one pressed camellia petal, dried into the page.
A silent reply.
He saw.