The market smelled of fish and frying bread, of wet earth and the sharp green of cut herbs. Phuwin kept his eyes down, the rough wool of the borrowed cloak scratching at his jaw, the hood pulled low enough that all anyone could see was the pale curve of his mouth and the hands he kept pressed against his belly beneath the fabric.

A woman selling oranges called out to him, something about the price being good today, and he shook his head without lifting his gaze. Another voice, a man's, deeper—"Fine morning, miss"—and he walked faster, the packed dirt of the street soft beneath the thin soles of his shoes.

He had not worn shoes like these in years. The palace had given him silk slippers, embroidered, soft as breath. These were simple things, leather and rope, and they let him feel every stone through the sole. He liked that. It kept him present. It kept him from thinking about the bed he had left, the hand still open on the empty sheet.

The stall he was looking for sat at the far end of the market, tucked between a butcher's and a stall of dyed cloth. The shopkeeper was an old man with a face like wrinkled leather and hands that moved with the slow certainty of someone who had spent a lifetime sorting stems from leaves. He looked up as Phuwin approached, his eyes scanning the cloak, the hood, the shape beneath.

"What can I get you, miss?"

Phuwin lowered his voice, just enough to blur the edges. "Herbs. For wounds. For pain."

The old man nodded and turned to the shelves behind him, and Phuwin let his eyes drift across the rows of jars and bundles. Dried flowers in paper cones. Roots tied with twine. Powders in clay pots with wooden lids, each one labeled in a careful hand.

His gaze caught on a small glass bottle near the end of the shelf. The label was plain, the ink faded, but the word was clear enough.

Abortion.

His hand moved before he told it to, pressing against the swell of his belly through the wool of the dress. The baby kicked, a small sharp motion against his palm, and he felt it in his throat, a sudden tightness that made it hard to swallow.

Six children, he thought. Six children and one more on the way. Aric, barely old enough to hold his head up. Imaria, growing tall and serious. Xiana, with her broken ankle and her fierce quiet eyes. Ovoale, lying in a room with her chest rising and falling on machines. Lunara, the daughter he had named in secret and never spoken aloud. And this one. This small life, moving inside him, unaware of what its mother was doing in a market stall with a bottle in her hand.

"Miss?" The shopkeeper's voice pulled him back. "Did you find what you need?"

Phuwin's fingers closed around the bottle. It was small, light, the glass cool against his palm. He brought it to the counter and set it down beside the bundle of herbs the old man had already wrapped.

"I want these too," he said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt.

The old man looked at the bottle, then at him. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—a question, maybe, or a judgment—but he only nodded and wrapped the bottle in brown paper, tucking it into the same bag as the herbs.

"That'll be twelve copper," he said.

Phuwin counted the coins from the small purse at his belt, his fingers clumsy in the cold. When he handed them over, the old man smiled, and his face softened into something almost kind.

"You have a beautiful smile, miss," he said. "And a lovely voice. Take care of yourself."

Phuwin's smile felt like a crack in his face, but he held it. "Thank you."

He turned to leave, the bag clutched against his chest, and that was when he saw them.

Guards. Five of them, in the dark green and gold of the imperial house, moving through the crowd with the purpose of men who were looking for something. For someone.

For him.

His heart slammed against his ribs. He pulled the hood lower, tucked his chin, and walked. Not running—running would draw their eyes—but quickly, his legs moving faster than they should, his hand pressed against his belly as if he could hold the baby still, hold himself still, hold this whole fragile moment together.

He didn't see the woman until he collided with her.

She gasped, stumbling back, and her hands caught his arms to steady them both. The motion was too sharp, too fast, and the hood slipped.

It fell back from his face, and the morning light hit him full in the eyes.

The woman stared. Her mouth fell open. "Empress?"

His blood went cold.

"Empress!" The word rose, sharp and bright, carrying across the market like a bell. "Oh my lord, it's you! Are you all right? Your Majesty, are you hurt?"

Around them, heads turned. Conversations faltered. The crowd seemed to part like water, and he saw the guards snap their heads toward the sound, saw them start moving, shoving through the press of bodies toward him.

He didn't think. He just ran.

The bag of herbs and the bottle of pills were clutched against his chest. His other hand held his belly, the baby bouncing with every stride, and the pain hit him low and sharp, a cramp that doubled him for a step before he forced himself upright and kept going.

"It's really the empress!" someone shouted behind him. "The empress is here!"

He turned left down a narrow street, the crowd thinning, and risked a glance back. The guards were still coming, their boots loud on the packed earth, their mouths open as they shouted for him to stop.

He ran faster, his breath tearing at his throat, his legs burning, and then he saw it—a cart, a simple farmer's cart with a canvas cover, waiting at the end of the street with a driver who looked up in surprise as Phuwin stumbled toward him.

"Please," Phuwin gasped, his free hand gripping the side of the cart. "Please, I need—I need to get to the traditional healer's home. Clove's house. Please—"

The driver stared at him, his eyes wide, and Phuwin saw the recognition dawn, saw the shock of it move across the man's weathered face. "Your—Your Majesty."

"Please." Phuwin's voice cracked. "They're coming. Please, you have to—"

He didn't finish. The driver moved, reaching down to haul Phuwin up onto the bench beside him, and Phuwin scrambled onto the seat just as the guards burst out of the side street behind them.

"Go!" Phuwin shouted. "Go, go, go!"

The driver cracked the whip. The horse lurched forward, and Phuwin grabbed the edge of the seat with both hands, the bag pressed between his knees, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

The guards' shouts faded behind them. The cart rattled down the street, past stalls and houses and people who turned to stare at the sight of the empress of the realm clinging to a farmer's cart, his cloak gone, his dress muddy at the hem, his face white as paper.

Phuwin didn't look back until the street had emptied and the guards were nothing but distant shapes. Then he slumped against the seat, his whole body shaking, and pressed his hand to his belly. The baby kicked again, softer this time, and he closed his eyes.

"Your Majesty." The driver's voice was tentative. "You look very beautiful today. But your dress—it's quite ruined."

Phuwin opened his eyes and looked down at the hem of the dress, caked with mud and dirt, the fabric torn at the knee where he must have scraped it against something in his flight. He laughed, a small broken sound.

"It's fine," he said. "It's fine."

They drove in silence for a long time, the cart rattling over the roads, the morning light growing brighter around them. Phuwin sat with his hand on his belly, his fingers tracing small circles over the swell of the fabric, and he did not think about the bottle in the bag. He did not think about the word on the label. He thought about the waterfall, the sound of it, the way the water had always seemed to understand him better than any person ever had.

The cart stopped in front of a small house at the edge of town, a modest place with a garden of herbs and a wooden door painted blue. Phuwin climbed down on legs that barely held him, and he turned to the driver, pressing a few coins into his hand.

"Khop khun," he said. Thank you.

The driver tipped his hat. "You're welcome, Your Majesty."

He rode off, and Phuwin stood alone in front of Clove's door, his hand on his belly, the bag clutched against his chest. He raised his hand to knock, and the door swung open before his knuckles touched the wood.

A woman stood there—one of the ladies who helped Clove, her face round and kind, her eyes going wide the moment she saw him.

"Your Majesty! You're back already. I'll get Healer Clove—"

She stepped aside, and Phuwin walked in, the door closing behind him with a soft click that felt louder than thunder.

Clove came quickly, her robe tied loose over a simple dress, her dark hair unpinned and falling around her shoulders. She took one look at him and was there, her hands on his arms, steadying him, guiding him to a chair.

"Sit," she said. "Breathe."

Phuwin sat. His hands were shaking. He set the bag on the floor between his feet, and Clove knelt in front of him, reaching for the bag.

"Let me take that—"

"Wait." His voice came out sharp, and Clove's hands froze. "I need something from it first."

She looked at him, her brow furrowing, but she nodded and pulled back. Phuwin reached into the bag and found the brown paper parcel, the one with the bottle inside. He unwrapped it, his fingers clumsy, and slid the small glass bottle into the pocket of his cloak.

Clove stared at him. Her eyes moved from his face to his pocket and back again, and something in her expression shifted—a wariness, a question she didn't know how to ask.

"That was fast," she said slowly. "The market. You couldn't have been gone long."

Phuwin didn't meet her eyes. "I ran."

"Ran?"

"The guards. They're looking for me. Pond sent them."

Clove went very still. "Chai," she said after a long moment. "He would. He must be losing his mind."

Phuwin said nothing. He stared at the floor, at the cracks in the tile, at the dust motes floating in the thin morning light.

Clove helped him up, her arm around his waist, and guided him down the hall to the guest room. She helped him out of the dress, the fabric peeling away from his skin, and he stood in his underclothes, his belly round and heavy, his hands pressed against it as if he could hold everything in.

"I'll put the cloak in your bag," Clove said, and she did, folding it carefully, tucking it away. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him, her eyes soft, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Phuwin took a deep breath. "It's near time, isn't it?"

Clove smiled, a small sad curve of her lips, and reached for his hand. "Yeah," she said. "Your baby will be beautiful."

Phuwin nodded. He squeezed her hand once, then let go. "I'm going to wash up."

He walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, the wood cool against his palm. He stood there for a moment, listening to Clove's footsteps retreating down the hall, and then he moved.

The bag was on the floor where Clove had set it. He opened it, found the cloak, and slid the bottle out of the pocket. He set it on the counter beside the sink, then filled a cup with water from the tap.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, his hair tangled and loose around his shoulders. He looked like a ghost. He looked like someone who had already left.

He opened the bottle. A single pill fell into his palm, small and white and unremarkable.

He put it in his mouth.

The door opened.

Clove stood in the doorway, her mouth already open, a question on her lips—and then she saw him. She saw the bottle on the counter. She saw the cup in his hand. She saw his throat move as he swallowed.

"Phuwin."

He stumbled back, the bottle catching on the edge of the counter and spilling, the pills scattering across the cracked linoleum like small white seeds.

Clove crossed the room in three strides and grabbed him. Her hands closed on his arms, hard, desperate, and he tried to push her away, but she held on.

"Spit it out," she said, and her voice was low and shaking. "Phuwin. Spit it out now."

He shook his head. Tears were in his eyes, hot and sudden, spilling over his cheeks.

"Phuwin!" Clove's voice rose, cracked, broke. "Stop it! You're going to hurt yourself! Stop doing this! Spit out the pill already!"

Her fingers found his jaw, forced it open, and he gagged, the pill coming up onto his tongue, and he spat it onto the floor. It landed with a wet sound and lay there, small and white, against the cracked tile.

He coughed, his whole body heaving, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His tears kept falling, and he couldn't stop them, couldn't stop any of it.

Clove watched him. Her eyes were wet too, and she pulled him close, wrapped her arms around him, and he crumpled against her, his face pressed into her shoulder, his sobs muffled by the fabric of her dress.

"Phuwin." Her voice was thick. "Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

He couldn't answer. He just cried, his hands fisted in her dress, his body shaking with the weight of everything he couldn't say.

Clove held him tighter. "Don't do this again. If it's too much pain, you tell me. I'm here for a reason. That pill could really hurt you." She pulled back, just enough to look at his face, her hands framed around his jaw. "You have six children and a husband to keep loving. Don't do this. Okay?"

Phuwin nodded weakly against her, still crying.

Clove pulled him close again, and they stayed like that, kneeling on the bathroom floor among the scattered pills, the water running in the sink, the morning light slanting through the small window. And Phuwin cried until there was nothing left, until his body went still and quiet, until the only sound was his breathing, slow and shallow, and the distant echo of the waterfall he had left behind.