As soon as Madam Hui caught wind of my grand plan to treat the injured soldiers, she shut it down faster than a palace door in winter.
"You are an unmarried woman and a guest of Prince Wei," she said, her tone sharp enough to slice tofu. "That places you among the nobility. It is highly inappropriate for someone of your position to involve herself in such work."
"But it's not about status," I argued, trying to keep my voice even. "Madam Hui, I just want to help. I know how to clean wounds, how to stop bleeding. It's something I can do that actually matters."
Her expression did not soften. If anything, it grew more rigid.
"Intentions do not change propriety," she snapped. "There are roles and expectations here. You must understand your place."
And there it was again—the invisible box I was supposed to stay in. Pretty. Quiet. Useless.
"I can't just sit around decorating the furniture with my boredom," I said, frustration bubbling up. "There are people getting hurt. I can help."
"You must not," she said with finality, crossing her arms with the solemn authority of someone who'd run this palace longer than most people had been alive. "This is not your place. You are not a healer. You are not a servant. You are a guest of the Prince, and that means behaving like one."
I was trying so hard to keep it together, but the condescension burned.
"So what exactly is a guest supposed to do?" I muttered. "Float around the palace like a useless cloud of silk and etiquette?"
Before Madam Hui could snap back with another pearl of ancient wisdom, a flurry of footsteps cut through the tension.
A breathless servant girl skidded into the room. "Prince Wei!" she gasped. "He heard—he's coming!"
"Oh no," I whispered. "Please tell me he's not—"
But there he was, sweeping into the room like he owned the air. Wei Wuxian moved with that effortlessly chaotic energy he carried like a cape, eyes darting from Madam Hui to me like he'd walked into the middle of a scandal and was already amused.
"What's this?" he asked, his tone casual but his brow lifted in curiosity. "Are we hosting a small rebellion today?"
Madam Hui bowed with the weight of a thousand years of protocol. "Your Highness, I was explaining to Miss Mei Lin that it is not appropriate for her to take on the duties of a battlefield healer. It is beneath her station."
Wei Wuxian turned to me, one brow still raised, and I tried very hard not to wilt under his gaze.
"She wants to help," Madam Hui continued. "But it is not her role."
He crossed his arms and looked back at her, smirking faintly.
"And what role is that, exactly? Looking decorative? Mei Lin has a talent. Why would we discourage someone willing to use their skills to help others?"
Madam Hui's lips pressed together so tightly I was surprised they didn't fuse shut.
"With respect, Your Highness, it sets a dangerous precedent. Her behavior could invite gossip. And it may reflect poorly on you."
Wei Wuxian waved a hand dismissively. "People will gossip whether we give them a reason or not. At least this way, we'll make it worth their while."
I stifled a laugh. Madam Hui did not.
"But she is a young lady. Unwed. Unranked. Foreign."
He gave her a playful look. "She also happens to be someone who saved my life, which gives her a bit of leeway, wouldn't you say?"
Madam Hui hesitated. I could see her battling decades of tradition against one casually rebellious prince.
Wei Wuxian turned to me, his smile more sincere now. "Mei Lin, if you want to help, you have my full permission. I'll talk to the staff and make arrangements. But," he added with a mischievous twinkle, "you might want to be ready for a little pushback. This palace isn't known for its adaptability."
I nodded, my heart swelling with gratitude and adrenaline. "Thank you," I said, meaning it more than he probably knew.
"Don't thank me yet," he said lightly. "You're about to enter the thrilling world of palace logistics and conservative aunties. You may want a sword."
Madam Hui sighed deeply, like she'd just resigned herself to a lifetime of headaches.
"At least allow me to oversee the arrangements," she muttered.
Wei Wuxian grinned. "Of course, Madam Hui. Who else could possibly keep us all in line?"
As he swept out of the room, I turned to her, offering a small, hopeful smile.
"Please trust me. I just want to do something good."
She gave me a long, unreadable look. Then, finally, she nodded.
"Very well, Miss Mei Lin. But don't say I didn't warn you."
***
The next day, I was escorted to the so-called "infirmary" near the training ground. I had braced myself for something like the palace infirmary where they treated Wei Wuxian—bustling healers, rows of neatly arranged herbs, maybe even some incense burning for dramatic effect.
Instead, I found… a room. A big, drafty, mostly a room with a clutter of boxes here and there.
There were a few beds (barely), a rickety shelf with some rolled-up cloth, and an old man snoring in the corner like he had personally retired from giving a damn sometime in the last dynasty.
The soldier escorting me cleared his throat. Loudly.
The old man jolted upright like he'd been electrocuted—if electricity even existed here.
"Eh?! What? Who—what time is it?!" he barked, rubbing at his face and nearly falling off the edge of his cot.
"This is Miss Mei Lin," the soldier explained quickly. "She's here by order of Prince Wei to assist with treating the injured."
The old man squinted at me like I'd just insulted his tea.
"Help? With what? These boys just need a bit of cloth and a slap on the back. Maybe a bowl of soup if they're really whining."
"I'm here to help with proper wound care," I said, trying to sound confident and not at all offended that he'd reduced medical treatment to 'soup and slaps.' "Even minor injuries can lead to infection if left untreated."
He grunted, clearly unimpressed. "You a healer, then?"
"Let's call me... 'medically inclined.'"
That earned me a skeptical grunt.
"Name's Old Liang. Retired soldier. Been patchin' up people since before you were born. What exactly do you think you're going to do here?"
"First, assess what supplies we have," I replied, stepping past him and surveying the room. "Then reorganize this place into something that doesn't look like a storage closet for lost hopes."
Old Liang raised an eyebrow. "We've got some clean cloth, a few herbs—comfrey, yarrow, dried mugwort, the usual. Maybe some salve for burns. No fancy tools. What else are you looking for?"
"Do we have alcohol?" I asked, already half-expecting the answer.
He frowned. "You mean to drink?"
"To clean wounds. Disinfect."
"Oh. Well, there's wine."
I blinked. "Okay. That'll do for now."
He scratched the back of his neck, muttering under his breath as he shuffled toward the door.
"I'll go ask for a jar from the kitchens. Don't know what you're planning with it, but alright."
With him gone, I turned back to the room and started mentally rearranging the space. That empty corner could be a check-in spot. We'd need a shelf or table there for bandages, another section for herbal poultices, maybe a quiet area in the back with the least-dusty bed for the truly banged-up.
It was a far cry from a modern hospital—more like a glorified linen closet—but it had potential. With some reorganization and a lot of cleaning, this place could actually function.
Then I got to work checking the supplies, curious (and mildly alarmed) about what I'd gotten myself into. I carefully examined each jar and bundle of herbs. Some looked familiar—ginger root, dried chrysanthemum, something that suspiciously resembled licorice—but a lot of it? Totally alien. One jar literally smelled like damp earth and regret.
I leaned in closer. "What even is this? Cursed parsley?"
Still, I did my best to identify what I could. Years of binge-watching medical dramas and doom scrolling on health channels had given me a vague sense of what certain treatments looked like, and I wasn't completely helpless. I knew CPR. I had a basic grasp of first aid—the kind you pick up from workplace trainings and Girl Scouts.
And okay, I may or may not have practiced stitching on a piece of pork skin with my sister once or twice during her med school days. She thought it would be fun to teach me how to suture. I thought she was mildly insane, but I went along with it.
Turns out, it's harder than it looks.
With the help of a few servant girls and some curious soldiers—who hovered nearby like they expected me to combust at any moment—we quickly transformed the space. We cleared out old clutter, organized the herbs by what they looked and smelled like (don't come for me, professionals), and rearranged the beds into a cozy little recovery corner.
I even made a makeshift "check-in" counter using a dusty table and an inkstone.
Just as we were putting the finishing touches on the setup, Old Liang returned, carrying several bottles of wine like someone who was either about to clean wounds or throw a dinner party.
He stopped short in the doorway.
"...Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, blinking at the revamped infirmary. "This place looks completely different. You've done a fine job."
I gave a sheepish grin. "Just needed a little tidying up."
Old Liang gave me a long, squinty look. "Are you a healer?"
I shook my head. "Not really. I've just watched... a lot of medical dramas," I said, wincing at how ridiculous that sounded out loud. "And I've had first aid training. I know CPR. My sister's a doctor — uh, healer — and she taught me a few things. I even stitched up pork skin once. That probably doesn't count for much, but it's something."
He looked so puzzled, but there was a glimmer of something that might've been amusement in his expression.
"Well, if you can keep the boys from bleeding out, I don't care where you trained. Let's see what you've got."
I looked around the room — herbs lined up (kind of) logically, beds made, tools arranged with care — and for the first time since landing in this strange, ancient world, I felt like I might actually be useful.
No internet, no electricity, no degree. But I had a steady hand, a weird amount of secondhand knowledge, and the stubborn need to do something that mattered.
My mother used to joke that I should've gone to medical school with my sister. I always laughed it off, saying, "One in the family is enough." I had chosen a different path — business school — with the dream that one day, we'd open a clinic together. She'd be the brilliant doctor, I'd handle the operations. It was our plan. A real future.
Thinking about it now brought a bittersweet smile to my face. That dream felt like a lifetime away — like it belonged to another version of me entirely.
Without modern medicine, I had to be creative. As I rummaged through the boxes and jars of supplies, Old Liang eyed me like I might start building a spaceship from herbal poultices.
"What exactly are you looking for?" he asked, one brow arched.
"Ideas," I replied with a wry smile. "And maybe some silk thread. Or horsehair?"
He nodded, not unkindly. "Silk thread's expensive, but we've got some. Horsehair? Plenty of that. We use it for fishing lines and bowstrings."
I made a mental note. Ask Madam Hui nicely about the silk thread. Possibly bribe with compliments or tea. I'd also have to find a way to bend one of their straight needles into a curve — easier said than done without pliers or modern tools, but hey, I once opened a can with a spoon. Innovation was a survival skill.
I wasn't a real doctor, and I didn't have a license or a clinic.
But I had a will to help, a little know-how, and an ancient infirmary to run.