Yuanfeng 8th year, sixth month. The heat made me miss air-conditioning every single day.
I'm not exaggerating. I really missed it.
I squatted in front of the stove in the Inner Kitchen, simmering mung bean soup. Sweat rolled from my forehead down to my chin and dripped onto the stove with a quick sizzle before vanishing. I lifted my sleeve to wipe my face and thought: the Columbia East Asian Library in summer was so cold I had to wear a down jacket, while the Song dynasty kitchen was hotter than a sauna. If Emily knew I was working in a place like this, she would probably say, "Ivy, when you chose food studies back then, did you ever imagine you'd one day be cooking without air-conditioning?"
I hadn't imagined it. But right now I didn't have time to dwell on it.
What kept circling in my mind wasn't the heat control—it was the page I had pulled out from under my pillow the night before. Grandpa's handwriting. It clearly stated: Yuanfeng 8th year, third month. Emperor Shenzong passed away. Ascension at age nine. Below that, in smaller characters I hadn't noticed before: "Yuanyou 8th year, Empress Dowager Gao passed away. Zhezong assumes personal rule at age seventeen."
Eight years. The Empress Dowager would still control him for eight more years. Only after that could he make his own decisions. Then he would rule for just seven years before dying at twenty-five.
I calculated the timeline over and over in my head, and the conclusion was always the same—he had only sixteen years left. No, he still had sixteen years. What if I could help him live past twenty-five?
I stared at the mung bean soup in the pot and suddenly remembered the first public health class I took at Columbia. The professor had said, "Prevention is more important than treatment. A good dietary plan can extend life by ten to twenty years." At the time I was eating a sandwich in the back row, thinking the words had nothing to do with me. Now I realized that class was the most useful thing I had ever learned in my life.
That night, I asked the young eunuch for paper and a brush. The paper was the palace's coarse kind, the brush was worn, and I had to grind the ink myself. I lay on my pallet, using the moonlight slipping through the window crack, and began to write. I crossed things out, rewrote them. It felt like writing a thesis, but a million times more important.
In the end, I produced something. It wasn't a policy essay or a strategy. It was my own American-style project plan, translated into language a Song person could understand.
"Zhao Xu Healthy Survival Plan"
Goal: Help him live past twenty-five. Ideally to seventy or eighty, until he's too old to walk and still needs me to cook for him.
Timeline: Tentatively sixteen years. Extend if necessary.
Problem List:
Too thin. Clearly malnourished. Not enough sleep. A nine-year-old only sleeping four shichen (eight hours) a day is far too little. Too much pressure. Scolded by the Empress Dowager, tested by the grand tutors, argued over by the ministers. Even I wouldn't be able to sleep. No exercise. Sitting and reading all day; riding and archery have been neglected. Poor medical conditions. No antibiotics, no vaccines, no emergency rooms in the Song dynasty.
Solutions (three-phase approach):
Phase 1 (6 months to 1 year): Eat well.
More meat, fish, eggs. Protein is crucial. Osmanthus sugar congee at most twice a week. I know he likes it, but too much sugar will stunt growth. Regular meals. No skipping breakfast just because he stayed up memorizing texts.
Phase 2 (1 to 3 years): Build habits.
Exercise for half a shichen every day. Riding, archery, walking—anything that gets him moving. Sleep a full four shichen every night. No secretly reading at midnight. Get angry less. When scolded, take deep breaths and think, "When I grow up, I'll deal with you."
Phase 3 (3 to 16 years): Long-term maintenance.
Regularly observe his complexion, tongue coating, and pulse. I can't diagnose illness, but I can tell if he's lacking energy. Keep his mood positive. Hear more kind words, fewer harsh ones. I have to stay alive. Only then can he keep having meals. So I must survive first.
I drew three lines under the last point. Yes, this was the most important one. For a mere sweeping palace maid to survive deep inside the palace was almost as difficult as helping him live to twenty-five.
I folded the plan neatly and tucked it under my pillow together with the notes. Grandpa's paper was right beside them, its edges already frayed, but the characters still clear: "Zhezong assumes personal rule at age seventeen."
Eight more years. In those eight years, I couldn't just cook for him. I had to help him get through it.
The next day, when the young eunuch came to collect the food box, I asked extra: "What did His Majesty study today?"
"Zizhi Tongjian. The one written by Sima Guang."
"Did he understand it?"
The young eunuch thought for a moment. "While the grand tutor was lecturing, His Majesty kept nodding. But after the tutor left, His Majesty said, 'I didn't understand, but I couldn't say so.'"
I tightened my grip on the spoon.
"Tomorrow, have him write down the parts he doesn't understand and send them back with the food box."
The young eunuch's eyes widened. "Sister, you're going to explain the books to His Majesty?"
"Not explain the books. Just help him sort them out. When I was in school, the professor made us write down what we didn't understand, then we discussed it together."
"You? You're just a…" He didn't finish, but I knew what he meant. A palace maid. A sweeping palace maid. One who had studied ten years in New York and been lectured on Song history by Grandpa since childhood—a palace maid.
"Just say I said it."
He hugged the food box and ran off.
The next day, there was an extra note inside the food box. The characters were a little neater than last month, but still crooked:
"Aheng, the grand tutor said, 'Using history as a mirror, one can understand the rise and fall of dynasties.' I know what the sentence means, but I don't know—what can you do once you understand the rise and fall?"
I stared at the note for a long time. A nine-year-old child was asking a question that many adults couldn't answer.
On the back of the note I wrote:
"Once you understand the rise and fall, you can avoid making the same mistakes. If you don't make mistakes, you won't die young. If you don't die young, you can live longer. If you live longer, you can do all the things you want to do. This is what I learned from my grandpa. He spent his whole life reading history books."
When the young eunuch took the note back, his hands were shaking. "Sister, you wrote on the note? What if someone sees it…"
"So you have to hide it well. Don't let anyone see. This is called encrypted communication. My roommate taught me. She studied finance and was always talking about information security and risk control."
He didn't understand, but he nodded.
In the afternoon when the food box was returned, there was no note inside, only a drawing. It was ugly, but you could tell it was a person standing in front of a desk. Next to it was a circle with one character inside: "Understood."
I put the drawing away and tucked it under my pillow. The sixth one.
Mid-June, when the young eunuch arrived, his expression was off. He stood at the doorway of the Inner Kitchen for a long time before coming in.
"Sister, His Majesty was scolded by the Empress Dowager today."
"Why?"
"The Empress Dowager said His Majesty wasn't diligent enough in his studies. She said that when the late emperor was his age, he could already write policy essays. His Majesty said, 'I can write them too.' The Empress Dowager said, 'What you wrote was all taught by the grand tutor, not your own thoughts.'"
I ladled the congee into the lacquered box and added half a spoonful of extra sugar.
"After he returned, His Majesty sat at his desk for a long time without moving. Later he said something. I didn't dare remember it."
"What did he say?"
The young eunuch lowered his voice: "His Majesty said—'Does nothing I say count?'"
The spoon in my hand clattered onto the stove.
That night, I wrote a whole page on the note. It wasn't a lecture—it was a list. I used the method Americans love most: pros and cons analysis.
"Things you cannot decide right now:
The Empress Dowager decides when you wake up, so you have to wake up then. The grand tutor decides what books you memorize, so you have to memorize them. The ministers argue back and forth; you can only sit and listen. You cannot eat whatever you want (but I can secretly make it for you). You cannot go wherever you want.
But things you can decide:
Whether you want to eat properly. Whether you want to secretly learn more. Whether you want to remember today's unhappiness and change it when you grow up. Whether you want to trust me. I believe that one day you will be able to decide everything."
I drew a line under the last sentence. Then, after thinking, I added one more line:
"P.S. This is called 'sense of control.' My psychology professor said so. You can't control others, but you can control yourself."
The next day when the food box was returned, the note was still there. But on the back was an extra line, written more carefully than usual, stroke by stroke, as if tracing red copybook characters:
"I trust you."
I looked at those three characters, standing in the corridor, and tears fell. Not from being moved, but from the pressure. He trusted me. A nine-year-old emperor had placed his life in my hands. Who was I? Just a foreign student who didn't even know when she could go back.
That night, I wrote another plan. This one was about "how to survive the next eight years."
"Eight-Year Survival Action Guide"
His tasks:
Study. Not just what the grand tutors teach, but how to be an emperor. Watch how the Empress Dowager handles court affairs, observe which ministers are loyal and which are treacherous, see how people in the history books succeeded or failed. Wait. In eight years he will be the master of the realm. This is called "delayed gratification." Stanford did an experiment—kids who could wait usually succeeded later in life.
My tasks:
Make sure he eats enough. The body is the foundation of revolution. Let him know that at least one person's cooking is something he can eat whenever he wants. Let him know that at least one person's words are something he can say whenever he wants. Survive eight years. Stay with him.
I drew three lines under "Survive eight years."
That night, I stacked the two plans together and tucked them deep under my pillow. Grandpa's paper was at the very bottom, then Zhao Xu's notes, then my plans on top. Like a sandwich, layering past, present, and future.
At the end of June, the young eunuch brought both bad news and good news. The bad news: the Empress Dowager had added two more classes for Zhao Xu; now he had to study two extra shichen every day. The good news: Zhao Xu had learned a new skill—faking illness.
Not real illness, but pretending to have a headache to skip half a shichen of class. When the young eunuch told me, his voice was very low but his eyes were bright: "His Majesty said you taught him this."
"When did I teach him to fake illness?"
"His Majesty said, 'Aheng once said that those who don't know how to rest don't know how to work.' His Majesty said, 'Resting is faking illness, and faking illness is resting.'"
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. When had I said that? But I had written something similar in the corner of a note—"balance work and rest." He had remembered. And applied it creatively. This kid's brain worked faster than mine.
That night, I wrote on the note:
"Faking illness is okay. But don't do it too often. If you do it too much, it stops working. This is called 'diminishing marginal utility.' Economics 101."
He replied:
"Then I'll save it. Use it only when it's most important."
I smiled.
In early July, I did something bold. I copied the "Phase 1" section of the "Zhao Xu Healthy Survival Plan" in my ugliest handwriting, pretended it was a "new meal plan proposed by the Inner Kitchen," and slipped it into Zhao Xu's lacquered box.
The meal plan read:
Breakfast: congee, egg, small dishes. Lunch: meat, vegetables, soup, staple. Dinner: light and not too filling. Snacks: fruit, dried fruit, osmanthus sugar congee (at most twice a week).
When the young eunuch saw the last line, his face turned white. "Sister, His Majesty loves osmanthus sugar congee the most. You're cutting it down to twice a week?"
"Too much sugar is bad. It makes you gain weight, causes cavities, and stunts growth. This is called 'nutrition science.'"
"Are you sure you want me to tell His Majesty this?"
"Tell him. Say I said it. This is called 'honest communication.'"
That afternoon when the lacquered box was returned, there was no note inside, only a drawing. It showed a very fat tiger, with one character beside it: "Hmph."
I burst out laughing. Then I picked up the brush and wrote on the back of the drawing:
"A skinny tiger looks more handsome. Look at you—being thin makes you look good. This is called 'aesthetics.'"
The next day, the lacquered box contained an extra note:
"Really?"
I replied:
"Really. When have I ever lied to you?"
He replied:
"You did once. When Father passed away, you said, 'His Majesty will definitely get better.'"
I stood in the corridor holding the note for a long time. Then I wrote:
"That time I lied to you. But since then, I've never lied again. This is called 'building trust.' Trust is accumulated little by little, just like collecting these notes."
He replied:
"I know. That's why I trust you."
I tucked this note under my pillow with the others. I counted—there were already more than ten. Each one was proof that he was still alive. Each one was proof that he was growing up.
In mid-July, one night while I was simmering mung bean soup in the Inner Kitchen, the fire flickered and my shadow danced on the wall. I suddenly thought of Emily. She had probably already graduated, found a job, and moved out of that apartment. Did she ever think of me? The roommate who said she wanted to open a noodle shop?
I smiled at the flames. Then I lowered my head and wrote on the note:
"Phase 1 of the plan completed. Phase 2 begins: exercise for half a shichen every day. This is called 'healthy lifestyle.' American kids know this from childhood."
I slipped the note into the lacquered box.
The next day when the box was returned, there was something extra inside—a small stone. Round and smooth, probably picked up from the edge of the pond in the Imperial Garden. A note was stuck to the stone:
"Today I walked in the Imperial Garden for half a shichen. Picked up this stone. For you."
I held the stone in my palm; it felt cool. Then I placed it beside my pillow together with the notes.
Zhao Xu Healthy Survival Plan—Phase 1, successfully completed. Phase 2, beginning. There would be Phase 3, Phase 4, Phase 5… until he lived past twenty-five. Until he reached seventy or eighty, until he became an old man who could no longer walk or eat by himself.
Even then, I would still make him osmanthus sugar congee. Twice a week. No more than that.
This was called "long-term investment." Columbia hadn't been a waste after all.
[End of Chapter 6]