The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis

The garden behind the east pavilion had been designed for peace.

White stones traced the footpaths. Water trickled from a curved bamboo fountain into a basin carved from black jade. Plum trees leaned over the lattice fence, heavy with early bloom. The wind carried the faint scent of pine, mingled with the ash from the tea fire.

I sat alone in the center of it all, behind a single low table swept clean of anything unnecessary. Two cushions. One teapot. No guards. No distractions.

She would assume I wanted her to be relaxed.

Let her.

I had chosen every detail myself. Not just the tea leaves—oolong, soft and smooth, but with a bite when brewed just so—but the placement of the tray, the exact distance of the table from the stones, even the slope of the roof that let in just enough sun without its heat. The blossoms had been left to fall freely. Nothing trimmed. Nothing perfect. Just… honest.

The Empress would have liked it. The Imperial Concubine would have hated it.

But this wasn't her garden.

And it would be best if she were smart enough to stay out of a war that wasn't hers.

I dressed simply. A green robe with no embroidery, my hair half-pinned, the rest left long and heavy down my back. No jewelry, no elaborate head pieces. I wore nothing that could distract her.

I wanted her to see me clearly.

To mistake simplicity for softness.

Servants had come early, bustling about the pavilion to rinse porcelain, prepare the fire, and sweep the gravel. I let them work without interruption, then dismissed them before she arrived. Her guards protested at the entrance, which was expected, but I left them standing at the edge of the stepping stones.

The Princess was punctual in the way power often is—not late enough to insult me, not early enough to bow or show that she valued my time. A typical power play, no matter what era you were in.

She stepped into the garden with that same court-trained grace she showed at the banquet last night. Today she wore pale coral, trimmed with white and gold. Her phoenix hairpin had been replaced by something subtler—pearls and tiny leaves, polished and precise.

She was dressed for spring.

She was dressed for a performance.

"Your Highness," I said, bowing just low enough to acknowledge her rank. "Welcome."

"What a lovely place," she replied, eyes drifting across the stone paths, the trees, the sky. "It suits you."

"It's quiet," I replied, gesturing toward the cushion. "And quiet definitely suits me."

She sat without hesitation, tucking her hands into her sleeves as she looked around again. "I didn't expect to find such elegance tucked so far from the main court."

"You'd be surprised how many things thrive when left alone."

Her lips curled. "Solitude has a cost, doesn't it? Even the most beautiful gardens need visitors—or no one remembers they exist."

I began to rinse the cups, not answering right away. Let her listen to the sound of water, to the absence of voices. Let her sit in the stillness and wonder whether she'd misstepped already.

She didn't fidget. She didn't rush.

But she did look around again, twice actually. Not nervously, more like calculatedly.

She was taking inventory of my territory. I could see as she counted the exact number of steps to the edge. The absence of guards. The layout of the table. She wasn't just polite. She was well trained.

I poured the tea—precise, steady. The oolong carried notes of osmanthus, warm and subtle, a bloom that waited patiently before showing its full taste.

She took her cup in one smooth motion. "You perform the ceremony yourself. That's rare."

"I find value in doing things with my own hands," I said. "It's easy to misjudge something once it's been handled by too many others."

She sipped. "Is that how you see the Crown Prince?"

I didn't blink. "No. He's not something to be handled, let alone to be handled by others."

Her eyes glittered. "You're very protective."

"I'm territorial," I said lightly, setting my cup down. "There's a difference."

The silence stretched between us for a bit… and that was when she said something that surprised me. "He's not supposed to be married, you know."

The words came gently, too gently, like a leaf dropped in water.

I narrowed my eyes, the smile on my face tightening just a fraction. "Is that what they say in Baiguang?"

A slow smile curved her lips. "No. That's what I know." I could have sworn I heard her say 'read' under her breath, but I couldn't be sure.

She blinked once, then looked away—too casual. She thought she'd hidden it.

But the shift had already happened.

Read?

No one says that. Not in conversation. Not like that.

Not unless they know what a book is. And not the type that they read here.

Something cold touched the back of my neck.

I poured more tea to cover the stillness that followed, even as my thoughts shifted.

She thinks she is living in a story, that she read a book and is now in it. Her statement about the Crown Prince… the way she stared at him at the banquet… she thought she knew how things were supposed to go.

The only problem was that I didn't seem to be in it.

Good.

Let her keep guessing what I am going to do next.

Let her walk into my garden believing I'm not part of the ending.

By the time she realizes otherwise, she'll already be bleeding.

I refilled both cups, keeping my expression neutral as she continued to scan the area. The steam curled upward between us, slow and fragrant, wrapping the space in something warm and deceptive. That was the thing about oolong—too light and it was soft, too long and it turned bitter. Balance was everything.

The Princess didn't speak again right away. She just watched me, eyes fixed on my hands as I folded the tea cloth and repositioned the kettle. She was waiting for a slip.

I gave her nothing.

"You've been trained," I said finally, setting the cloth down.

She arched a brow. "In tea?"

"In performance."

A pause. Not long. But deliberate.

"It's part of the job," she said.

"To charm?"

"To listen."

I studied her posture, the tilt of her neck, the faint tension at the base of her thumbs. She was still in control, but only just. Her earlier confidence had been rooted in something she hadn't yet revealed—something deeper than diplomacy or flattery.

I decided to test it.

"I imagine Baiguang has its share of whispers," I said, tilting my head. "About the palace. The Crown Prince. The succession."

Her gaze didn't waver. "Many. And they all contradict each other."

"But you seemed so certain at the banquet who would sit on the Throne once the Emperor is no longer here."

Her lips curled. "I'm careful about which versions I trust."

I leaned back slightly, resting my hand on my lap. "Then you'll understand why I ask: where exactly did you read that the Crown Prince wasn't married?"

Another pause.

This one longer.

She set her cup down carefully, the porcelain making the softest sound against the tray.

"There are… records," she said. "Writings that circulate through trade routes. Court observations. Speculations."

Too smooth.

Too rehearsed.

"And in those writings," I said quietly, "I don't exist."

She didn't respond.

I watched her like I would a blade in a stranger's hand—too long in one place, too steady.

"You've come to step into a story you think you already know," I said, not raising my voice. "You've studied the characters, the setting, the plot. You've prepared your role well."

"And yet here you are," she replied, not smiling anymore. "A new character."

Not a rival. Not a mistake.

A glitch.

She didn't understand me because she hadn't read about me in her version of the book.

I reached for my tea, sipped slowly, and set the cup down with care. "Tell me, Your Highness. What happens in the version you read? Do you marry the Prince? Does the villain fall? Does the clever girl win?"

Her throat bobbed slightly. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," I said. "Because if you've read the ending, you should know… I don't share stories. And I don't share husbands."

She stood without waiting to be dismissed. "Thank you for the tea," she said.

"You haven't finished it."

"I've had enough."

I stood as well, matching her height with ease.

"Then take care on your way back," I said, voice velvet over glass. "Wild things sometimes grow in my garden. And not all of them are polite."

Her eyes flicked once more to the tea tray, then to the tree behind me.

It hit her then. She hadn't noticed just how old the peach trees were around us because I wasn't the one to plant them. However, those who did plant them never thought that they would bloom here.

They were never meant to bloom here.

But I made them.

Just like I made myself bloom in such a hostile environment.

She left without another word, and I stood in the falling light, watching petals drift silently to the stone. She thought she knew the ending, but unfortunately for her, she didn't even know which book she was in.