The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis
Chapter 42: Gardening: Because Murder Is Wrong

Chapter 42: Gardening: Because Murder Is Wrong

The robe was too red.

Not just red—imperial red. That obnoxious, overcompensating shade that screamed obedience and virtue and sacrifice. It shimmered under the lantern light, the gold-threaded phoenixes along the hem practically flapping their wings with smug superiority.

I looked like someone had dipped me in blood and crowned me with expectation.

"Too red," I muttered at the mirror.

Behind me, I could hear him approaching—quiet, confident footsteps. Zhu Mingyu didn’t bother announcing himself anymore. I suppose husbands don’t have to.

He appeared in the mirror’s reflection, half-dressed in dark robes, carrying a lacquered box like it was something sacred. I didn’t move.

"It suits you," he said, staring at my reflection like I was staring at his. "Here. This is for you," he continued, holding out the beautiful box.

I turned slightly. "Unless it’s my freedom, I don’t want it."

He didn’t smile. Just held it out a little farther, waiting.

Curiosity beat out stubbornness by a hair. I took it and flipped the lid open. Inside sat a small mountain of keys—some ancient, darkened by age; others new and sharp-edged. There were seals. Thread-bound ledgers. Thin red cords wound through them like veins.

It looked like a trap disguised as responsibility.

"What is this?" I asked.

"The keys to your new domain," he said calmly. "The household is yours now. The treasury, the budgets, staff, repairs, harem affairs, seasonal reports—"

"No," I replied, shooting him down fast.

He blinked. "No?"

I snapped the lid shut and tried to hand it back to him. "No," I repeated, saying the word more slowly so that he could understand it better.

"You’re the Crown Princess," he pointed out, like that should explain everything.

"I noticed."

"This is your duty."

"Then I’m resigning. Effective immediately."

He exhaled like I was being dramatic. I wasn’t. I was being efficient.

"I’ll handle the money, the servants, even the festivals if I have to. But I’m not touching your harem."

His brow twitched. "You’ll have to. It’s part of the role—"

"Do you even understand what you’ve created over there?" I cut in. "You have five women locked up in silk-trimmed rooms with nothing to do but hate each other and wait for you to blink in their direction. You don’t let them read anything with teeth. You don’t let them write anything unapproved. And gods help us all—you don’t even let them garden."

He looked legitimately confused. "Why would they need to garden?"

I gave him a look that could have sterilized crops.

"Because it’s that," I said slowly, "or they start sharpening hairpins in the dark."

He stared.

"Do you know how therapeutic it is to yank a weed out of the earth?" I continued. "Especially one that looks vaguely like a head with a spine attached? It clears the mind. Centers the soul. Prevents murder. And unless I’m completely wrong, murder is still wrong here, right?"

Zhu Mingyu crossed his arms in front of me, flexing the muscles that I really shouldn’t have noticed in the middle of an argument. "That’s a horrifying metaphor."

"That’s survival," I replied point-blank. "You’ve essentially placed five high-strung women in solitary confinement and expect them to remain docile. You think they’re sitting there pining for your affection? They’re planning murder in embroidered cursive. They have time, Mingyu, and time is more dangerous than poison. Every time I walk past their wing, the silence hums at me. That’s not peace, that’s premeditation."

He made a noise like a suppressed laugh. "They’re respectful. Polite."

"They’re plotting in cursive. Hell, some of their plans might be hidden in the latest thing that they embroidered, for all I know."

"You’re supposed to guide them. Be a model."

"I am a model. For not stabbing you in your sleep. Every day I succeed, we call it a successful marriage. When I fail," I shrugged my shoulders. "I’ll get a new husband and try again."

Zhu Mingyu rubbed his face like he was trying to erase it. "You’re impossible."

"No," I said sweetly. "I’m practical. You gave me control of the estate, and you are explicitly stating that that includes the harem, right?"

"Yes," he replied warily. His eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure out what was going on in my head. Joke’s on him, I wasn’t even trying to hide it.

"Then I’m revamping it," I said with a big smile.

His gaze narrowed. "Revamping it, how?"

"Gardens. Training. Candle-making. A library. Possibly a knife-throwing corner if they promise not to aim at each other’s eyes."

"You want to give them weapons?"

"Technically, they already have them," I replied, rolling my eyes. "Fans, hairpins, poisoned compliments. I’m just providing an outlet for them that is not me."

"I’m not sure this is the kind of order the palace expects—"

"Oh, please," I snapped. "You’re handing me control over five angry, cooped-up women in silk slippers who’ve spent years trying to claw their way into your bed and now get to watch you parade me in front of the Empress. I’m the fox who walked into the henhouse—only to find out every hen in there already learned kung fu."

He covered his mouth, and I realized—annoyingly—that he was laughing.

"They are not kung fu hens," he said under his breath.

"They will be if I don’t do something about it."

He groaned softly.

"I’m going to give them something better than slow insanity," I added. "You have no idea what it’s like, do you?"

He straightened. "What?"

"To be trapped," I said. "Not just behind walls, but behind expectation. To have your future shrink down to the size of a man’s attention span. They didn’t choose this life. Most of them were given as gifts, bartered like livestock, offered by ambitious fathers hoping their daughters would birth the next emperor."

"You speak as if you pity them," he said, his voice taking on a rough tone. I also couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t answered my question.

I held his gaze. "I don’t pity them. I respect the fact that they haven’t set anything on fire yet."

He studied me for a long time, then said, "This is still your duty. I’m not asking—I’m telling you. The women’s quarters are yours now. That’s final."

I lifted the box and made a face. "Then they’re going to work."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Whatever I tell them. Pulling weeds. Stitching blankets for orphans. Learning how to gut a fish with a sharpened chopstick. I don’t care what it is, but if I have to be in charge of them, I’m not letting them rot."

He looked vaguely horrified. "You’re going to militarize the harem."

"No," I said lightly. "I’m going to civilize it."

He opened his mouth—then stopped. Thought better of it.

"We leave in ten minutes," he said at last, turning for the door. "We’re expected at the palace. You’ll serve tea to the Empress."

"Lovely," I muttered.

"You’ll need to kneel."

"I’ll try not to stab anyone while I’m down there."

He paused at the threshold. I could feel his hesitation even with his back turned.

"One more thing," I called.

He looked over his shoulder.

"If I find one broken pot or a single rotting chrysanthemum in that wing," I said calmly, "I’m taking it as a declaration of war."

"And your response?"

"Swift and poetic."

His lips twitched. "Remind me never to give you a palace."

"You already did," I said, holding up the keys.

He left, and the door clicked shut behind him.

I stared down at the box in my lap.

This wasn’t what I wanted. Not the title, not the palace, not the politics. But if it was power they handed me, I wasn’t going to waste it. Not on embroidered handkerchiefs or scripted poetry contests.

No, I’d build something out of this. Something strong. Something honest. Something dangerous.

Let the harem plot all they wanted.

I had the keys.

And a very, very sharp trowel.