The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis
Chapter 59: Don’t Dirty Your Hands

Chapter 59: Don’t Dirty Your Hands

From the far end of the banquet hall, Zhu Deming watched with narrowed eyes as Zhao Xinying exited through the tall carved doors, her steps measured, unhurried, and yet fragile enough to draw sympathetic murmurs from the nobles closest to her path. Shi Yaozu trailed behind her like a shadow, silent and sure.

Zhu Deming didn’t move. Not yet. He kept his gaze fixed on the remaining players of this staged spectacle. In particular, Zhao Meiling. There was never any doubt in his mind that something was going to happen tonight. He couldn’t remember a banquet that didn’t have at least one or two scandals attached to it.

Mostly, they were the unwilling kind.

After all, that was how his mother ended up married to the current Emperor and pregnant. She was nothing more than a poor maid who walked into the wrong room at the wrong time when someone had drugged the then Crown Prince.

Shaking his head, knowing that Xinying was better than that, smarter than that, he still felt his stomach drop as he observed Zhao Meiling.

She sat with elegance folded into every line of her body, her eyes on the dancers in the center of the hall. She made no move to gloat. No smirk. No sideways glance at her father or the Emperor. But Deming saw the gleam behind her lowered lashes.

She believed she had won. And that worried him.

After a moment, she slowly stood and murmured something to her servant. The girl nodded, and together they slipped away from the celebration with a grace designed not to disrupt the flow of music or the glimmer of wine cups.

But Deming’s eyes followed her exit like a hound scenting blood.

And Zhao Meiling? He could only hope that she was walking directly into the trap that Xinying had set.

-----

The side chamber was small and private, decorated with plum blossom panels and velvet floor cushions. An oil lamp flickered gently in the corner, casting soft golden light across the room. A pitcher of tea had already been poured and set on the side table. A single cot was placed near the screen wall, covered with a brocade blanket—just enough to suggest luxury without excess.

Zhao Xinying sat on the edge of the bed with her back to the door. Ever so slowly, she rotated her head, trying to relieve the tension in her shoulders from the fancy hairstyle on her head. There were at least six hairpins in her head, digging into her skull, and she was getting cranky.

Shi Yaozu stood at her side, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his face unreadable.

The door creaked open.

Zhao Meiling stepped in, her servant trailing behind her like a well-trained bird. "Sister?" she called softly, her tone rich with false concern. "I heard you weren’t feeling well. I thought I might—"

She stopped mid-step.

It hit her all at once—the pressure in her head, the sudden slickness of heat that slid down her spine, the cold sweat pricking beneath her arms. Her vision swam, and for one awful moment, she didn’t know which direction was up.

Then she collapsed to the floor in a heap of rose-gold silk and ruined pride.

Her servant gasped and rushed to her side, but Zhao Xinying didn’t so much as flinch.

"I wouldn’t touch her if I were you," she said, her voice calm, almost lazy. "She’s having a bit of a... reaction. I wouldn’t want you to catch anything from her."

The servant froze, uncertain.

From the far door, another figure entered the chamber. Shi Yaozu stepped aside to let him through, and the air shifted subtly as Zhu Lianhua appeared, unconscious, limp, draped over the second guard’s shoulder like a decorative rug that had outlived its use.

The shadow guard, dressed all in black, lowered the Third Prince with care. He didn’t toss him, but there was no reverence in the act, either. Just cold efficiency.

Zhu Lianhua’s silver-white robes shimmered faintly in the lamp light as he was arranged onto the bed.

Shi Yaozu gestured to the unconscious woman on the floor, and the guard silently walked over to her and picked her up. The servant protested for a brief moment, but one look from Zhao Xinying silenced her.

"If you keep your mouth shut, you can keep your life," she announced, looking down on the servant like a vengeful god. "But if you speak one word of my involvement in this, I promise you, your flesh will melt from your bones and your tongue will melt down your throat. Is Meiling really worth all that?"

The servant frantically shook her head as she quickly left the side chamber. The shadow guard placed Zhao Meiling beside the Third Prince and stepped back, his head bowed as he waited for his next order from Shi Yaozu.

"Dismissed," grunted Shi Yaozu, waving his hand. As if he were made from smoke and shadows, the man seemed to disappear in plain sight.

"Now," purred Xinying, rising from her seat with slow, deliberate grace, "for the final touch."

She moved like smoke, graceful, untouchable. Standing over the bed, she raised a hand and exhaled gently, letting out a thin stream of black mist—darker than ink, softer than breath. But this time, the scent had shifted. No longer cold metal and moss.

Now it was cloying. Warm. Sweet.

A touch of lust, threaded like venom through a rose.

The mist slithered down like ribbons, caressing the unconscious pair like invisible fingers. It seeped into the fabric of their clothes, slid beneath their collars, curled behind their ears.

And then it took root.

Zhao Meiling gasped first, her eyes flying open. They were glassy, unfocused. Her cheeks flushed. Her breath hitched in her throat as she turned, as if drawn by a force she couldn’t see, toward the man beside her.

Zhu Lianhua shifted next. His body tensed. His fingers twitched, then curled.

Their movements became mirror images—slow, aching, inevitable.

And then they collided.

Mouths, hands, limbs—all heat and urgency and something far too primal to be dignified. No recognition. No restraint. Only want.

Zhao Xinying watched them with the calm detachment of someone observing a storm behind a window.

She turned to Shi Yaozu, her voice cool. "I think this room is a little too occupied for my tastes."

His lips twitched, the closest thing he gave to a smile.

"Shall I prepare another?" he asked, already reaching for the door.

"No need," she replied, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. "Voyeurism isn’t my thing, so I’m going to allow them some private time to enjoy themselves. Let’s go take a walk around the garden, shall we?"

As they stepped out of the room, the sounds behind them intensified—moans, silk rustling, the patter of urgent hands on brocade. Xinying didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.

Let them tangle themselves in shame. She had other games to prepare.

-------

Outside the chamber, Zhu Deming stood in the shadows of the corridor, watching, waiting. He said nothing as Shi Yaozu and Xinying passed him, his gaze scanning Xinying up and down just to make sure that she was unharmed.

Coming to a stop, she turned and looked at Deming. "We’re going for a walk," she said softly, her voice easing something inside of Deming. "Did you want to come?"

He looked back at the side chamber that was getting louder and louder. It didn’t take a genius to know what was going on in there, and frankly, he would rather pluck his eyes out than to see that sort of thing.

Nodding his head, he fell into step on the other side of Xinying, leading the way gently to the gardens. "Next time, don’t dirty your own hands," he murmured softly. "And remember to wear the ribbon."

"Only if you give me a hairpin."