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The water's still boiling when I grab the bowl. My fingers scream. I don't let go.
The strip-search starts in an hour. They'll check every seam, every pocket, every fold of cloth we own. I need this gone before then. The recipe page is folded inside the bowl's false bottom, right where I shoved it three nights ago when the third prince left it on the cutting board. My mother's handwriting. Her last batch of chrysanthemum wine.
The porcelain cracks under my grip. Boiling water spills across my wrist. I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper.
"You okay?" Qiu's voice comes from behind me. Too close.
I don't turn. Can't. My burnt fingers are prying at the bowl's base, trying to pop the false bottom before the heat makes the glue permanent. The edge of the page is already curling, browning at the corner.
"Jin?" She touches my shoulder.
I flinch. The bowl hits the floor. Porcelain everywhere.
The page skitters across wet stone. Qiu's eyes track it. She's faster than me. Always has been. Her hand moves.
I grab her wrist. Hard.
She freezes. Looks at my hand, then at my face. I never touch anyone. Ever. The mute girl who scrubs pots doesn't grab people.
"What's that?" she whispers.
I don't let go. My burned palm is throbbing. Her pulse hammers under my thumb. She could scream right now. One shout and Nanny Liu comes running. One look at that page and I'm done.
Qiu's the type who cries when she drops an egg. She covers for other girls when they're late. She shares her New Year candy.
She's also the type who'll sell anyone to save her own skin.
I watched her do it last month. Kitchen Girl Number Seven tried to steal rice. Qiu reported her before the sack was even hidden. Number Seven lost two fingers. Qiu got promoted to vegetable prep.
"Jin." Her voice drops lower. "They're coming in an hour. Whatever that is, you need to hide it now."
I still don't let go.
"I won't tell," she says. "I swear."
Liars always swear. That's how you know.
But the page is smoking now. Actual smoke. The hot stone is cooking my mother's last recipe right in front of me. In an hour they'll strip us down to skin. They'll find it anyway.
I need her.
I hate that I need her.
I let go. Qiu rubs her wrist. Red marks where my fingers were. She stares at them for a second, then looks at me different. Like she's recalculating.
"What do you need?" she asks.
I point at the page. Point at my uniform. Point at the door.
She's not stupid. She gets it immediately. "You want me to smuggle it out before the search."
I nod.
"Where?"
I don't know. I didn't think this far. My hands won't stop shaking. The burns are blistering already, white and angry across my palms. I can't hold a knife like this. Can't work. Can't cook my way up the ranks like I planned.
Qiu crouches. Picks up the page with two fingers, careful. It's still warm. She holds it up to the lamplight.
"This is a recipe," she says slowly. "Chrysanthemum wine. My grandmother used to make this." Her eyes narrow. "This handwriting's really old. Twenty years, maybe?"
I don't breathe.
"Why do you have this?" She's not whispering anymore. "Why are you—" She stops. Looks at me. Really looks. "You're not just some orphan, are you?"
I grab for the page. She pulls it back.
"Answer me first."
I can't. I'm mute. That's the whole point. I open my mouth anyway, just to show her. Nothing comes out. Never does.
Qiu watches my face. "You can hear me fine. You understand everything. But you don't talk." She tilts her head. "Can't, or won't?"
I don't move.
"The strip-search isn't random, is it?" Her voice gets quieter. Sharper. "They're looking for something. Or someone." She holds up the page. "This is why."
She's too smart. I knew she was too smart. That's the problem with the girls who survive here. The stupid ones die fast. The smart ones start asking questions.
"I'll hide it," she says finally. "But you owe me. When this is over, whatever you're doing, I want in."
I stare at her.
"I'm not stupid," Qiu says. "Everyone here is running from something or looking for something. You're looking. That means there's something to find. Something worth risking a strip-search for." She folds the page, small and tight. "Something worth money, probably. Or revenge."
Revenge. The word hangs between us like smoke.
I don't confirm. Don't deny.
"I'll take that as a yes." She tucks the folded page inside her cheek, between gum and teeth. Her words come out mushy now. "I'll spit it out after. Hide it under my mattress until tonight. They never check the sleeping quarters during day shift."
It's a bad plan. Terrible plan. The page will dissolve in her spit. The ink will run. My mother's last recipe will turn into wet pulp.
But it's the only plan I've got.
Qiu sees my face. "It's wax paper," she says, words still mushy. "See? The ink won't run. I've done this before. Letters, mostly. Love notes from the guard boys. They pay me in buns."
Of course she has a side business. Of course.
Footsteps in the corridor. Heavy ones. Nanny Liu's wooden clogs, click-clack-click.
"Strip-search formation!" Liu's voice echoes off stone. "Everyone to the courtyard! Now!"
Qiu's eyes go wide. She grabs my arm, pulls me toward the door. The other kitchen girls are already lining up outside. Thirty of us, all silent, all terrified.
Nanny Liu stands at the front with two guard women. They're holding wooden batons. Not for hitting. For checking. They'll prod every inch of us, check our hair, our mouths, between our toes.
If they find the page in Qiu's mouth, we're both dead.
Qiu squeezes my hand once. Her palm is sweaty. The page makes a small bulge in her cheek, barely visible. She keeps her face turned away from the guards.
"Line up by height!" Liu barks. "Shortest in front!"
I'm medium height. Middle of the line. Qiu's shorter. She'll go first.
We file into position. The morning sun is too bright. My burnt hands throb with every heartbeat. The blisters are weeping now, clear fluid running down to my wrists.
One of the guards notices. "You. What happened to your hands?"
I hold them up. Bow my head.
"Clumsy," Nanny Liu says coldly. "She dropped a soup bowl. Boiling water everywhere. I'll dock her pay."
The guard loses interest. "First girl. Step forward."
Qiu steps out of line. Her face is blank. The bulge in her cheek is gone. She swallowed it. She actually swallowed the folded page.
She's going to choke. She's going to die right here and my mother's recipe dies with her.
But Qiu just stands there while the guards pat her down. They check her hair. Her ears. They make her open her mouth, stick out her tongue.
Nothing.
She swallowed it whole.
The guard waves her through. "Next."
Girl after girl. They check everyone the same way. Rough, thorough, humiliating. When it's my turn, they barely glance at my burnt hands. They're looking for hidden pockets, concealed weapons, stolen food.
Not recipes. Not yet.
They wave me through.
The whole thing takes an hour. When it's done, Nanny Liu looks annoyed. "Back to work. The Dowager wants lotus soup for lunch. Move."
We scatter. I try to find Qiu in the chaos but she's gone, disappeared into the vegetable prep room. I can't follow. My hands are useless. Liu assigns me to pot-scrubbing for the day.
Fine. I can scrub with burnt hands. I've done worse.
The morning drags. My blisters pop and bleed into the wash water. The other girls avoid me. Bad luck, they think. The clumsy mute who can't even hold a bowl.
Let them think that.
At lunch, Qiu slips past me to dump vegetable scraps. She doesn't look at me. Doesn't speak. Just drops a tiny folded paper into my wash bucket as she passes.
I fish it out. It's damp but intact. The wax paper held. My mother's handwriting is still clear, still perfect.
Chrysanthemum wine. Fifteen-day ferment. Autumn harvest only.
And on the back, in different ink, fresher ink, someone else's handwriting:
Tested. Approved for Empress's birthday banquet. Assigned to Kitchen Master Liu.
Nanny Liu.
The head kitchen manager who's been here for thirty years. The woman who decides who lives and dies in this kitchen. The woman who assigns every dish, tastes every plate, controls every ingredient that goes to the imperial family.
Nanny Liu made my mother's wine.
Nanny Liu served it to the Empress.
And my mother died for it.