The doorway between the sitting room and bedroom did not have a door; a screen with inlaid mother-of-pearl separated the two rooms, the polished wood gleaming by moonlight. I went to the screen, peeking behind it to make sure she still slept.

A shape lay in bed, on top of the covers.

I frowned. It was a bit chilly at night in the wet season. Perhaps she ran hot? I could barely make out the stirring of her chest as she breathed. I supposed I should be grateful she was a heavy sleeper.

I turned back to the sitting room and, squinting in the darkness, found her desk. The top was immaculate, a few books shelved above it. Nothing overly interesting. Ningsu’s Proverbs, a book of maps, another on economics. I opened the top drawer.

A plain book lay there. I picked it up and held it to the open window. I couldn’t be certain, but it looked green. It looked like the journal that had once belonged to Nisong. My heartbeat kicked up a notch. Nisong and Wailun were sisters; perhaps their parents had gifted them these journals at the same time.

I took a chance and lit the small lamp by the desk. I waited, but Wailun didn’t stir. I’d been right – it was green, and the exact same shade as the journal I’d found in my palace’s secret library. I flipped the book open.

Wailun was older than Nisong, and her writing reflected that. The entries were more focused on her relationships, on the subtle politics she was already a party to. There were large gaps of time between entries, but it looked like she wrote in it consistently.

And then, she’d stopped. The last part of the book was blank except for dates. She’d written in dates for every day yet nothing beneath them. I flipped back, to the last entry she’d written. It had been in the year 1538. Two years before my father had created me.

A chill crept up my spine, something pricking at the back of my mind. My father couldn’t pull Nisong’s memories from her blood; he’d burned her body before realizing he could attempt to reconstruct her. Where, then, had he pulled them from?

“What are you doing in my rooms?”

I whirled. Wailun, who had been fast asleep only a moment before, now stood in front of the wooden screen, very much awake.

“Who are you?” I said, unable to stop the question from slipping past my lips. “Are you still Wailun? What did Shiyen do to you?”

She scoffed. “Your father? He did nothing to me. Now answer my question. You may be the Emperor and here under my hospitality, but I did not give you leave to enter my rooms in the middle of the night, nor to look through my personal things.”