The ninth day of the seventh month, Yuanfeng's eighth year. The osmanthus had bloomed.
Their fragrance filled the Imperial Garden—thick, inescapable, intoxicating. I knelt by the window of the Inner Kitchen, spreading the plucked blossoms across a fine bamboo sieve, arranging them petal by petal. The midsummer heat was relentless, but my food dehydration course at Columbia hadn't been wasted—twenty minutes of drying, an hour of cooling, then drying again, then cooling again. Eunuch Li watched me turn the flowers over and over until he finally couldn't help himself: "Girl, are you drying osmanthus or concocting elixirs?"
"Replying to Eunuch Li: this is called low-temperature dehydration. The moisture evaporates slowly, so the fragrance stays trapped."
He shook his head and left. What he didn't know was that I wasn't just storing osmanthus. I was storing notes.
I had collected over twenty of Zhao Xu's notes by now. From the early, crooked characters—"A Heng, I've been eating well"—to the later ones—"A hundred years, no changing"—to the most recent: "I trust you." Each one I folded neatly, arranged by date, tied with a red string, and tucked beneath my pillow. Grandfather's paper was there too, its edges already fraying, but I couldn't bear to throw it away. Sometimes, sleepless at night, I would take them out and read them one by one. Watching his handwriting grow from crooked and trembling to steady and sure, from painstaking strokes like tracing red characters to writing several words in a row without shaking.
These notes were more real than any history book. The histories would only write: "Yuanfeng eighth year, Emperor Zhezong ascended the throne." They wouldn't write what his handwriting looked like when he was nine.
That night of the ninth, when the young eunuch came for the food box, he brought an extra message: "His Majesty says, today's note—you must burn it after reading."
I froze. "Why?"
"His Majesty says, from now on, some words must be burned after reading. They cannot be kept."
The green lamp flickered silently before the hall; distant insects chirped like whispered secrets. I took the note from the food box and unfolded it. It read:
"A Heng, today the Grand Tutor spoke of 'Affairs of Emperor Renzong's Reign,' saying that when Emperor Renzong was young, the Empress Dowager held court from behind a screen, and the court officials divided into two factions, attacking each other. Renzong wished to speak, but when he spoke, no one listened. The Grand Tutor said this was 'power not yet returned, words lighter than goose down.'"
I stood in the corridor holding that note for a long time. In my New York dormitory, burning paper like this would get you arrested by the fire department; here, the murder of memory passed without witness. From deep within my robes, I produced a small cloth bundle—silica gel desiccant I'd brought from New York, hoarded and never used. I sprinkled a few grains beside the paper ash, protecting the floor from damp. Then I took out my fire starter and lit the note. Flames licked the edges; characters curled one by one, blackened, turned to ash. Wind came and scattered the ashes across the ground, mixing them with fallen osmanthus petals.
A passing palace maid asked in a lowered voice: "Palace maid Shen Heng, why do you burn your writings?"
"Nothing. Just waste paper."
She left suspiciously. I looked at the ashes on the ground and suddenly realized: Zhao Xu had grown up. Not taller—he was still thin, still under four feet. But he had begun to understand that some words cannot be spoken, some words cannot be kept. At nine years old, he had learned this.
That night, I wrote on a new note:
"What happened to Renzong afterward? How many years did he wait?"
The following afternoon, when the food box returned, the back of the note read:
"Eight years. He waited eight years."
Eight years. The same as Zhao Xu. From Yuanfeng eighth year to Yuanyou eighth year—also eight years.
I wrote on the note:
"Then you can wait too. After eight years, you will be master of all under heaven. Then you may speak what you wish to speak, do what you wish to do."
After thinking, I added:
"But until then, you must first stay alive. Eat well, sleep well, exercise well. Don't let them anger you to death."
He replied:
"Good. Then you must wait with me."
I read this note three times. Then I burned it too. As the flames leaped, I suddenly remembered my final semester at Columbia, when my advisor knocked on the door urging my thesis. Back then, deadlines had seemed the most important thing in the world. Now I understood: some waits last far longer than deadlines.
One day in mid-July, a nurse from the Empress Dowager's quarters came to the Inner Kitchen. Not to check accounts—to see me specifically. When Eunuch Li delivered the message, his face was troubled: "Palace maid Shen Heng, the nurse wishes to question you. Be careful."
I set down the dough in my hands, wiped them, and followed Eunuch Li.
The nurse sat in the side chamber of the Inner Kitchen, a cup of tea before her, untouched. In her hands she flipped through a ledger—the Inner Kitchen's records of comings and goings. She raised her eyes to look at me; her gaze weighed heavy as a scale weight.
"You are Shen Heng?"
"Replying to Nurse: yes."
"His Majesty's daily food—you prepare it?"
"Yes."
"Who told you to do so?"
I thought, then said: "His Majesty himself asked me to."
The nurse's brow furrowed. She closed the ledger, tapping its cover with her fingertips. "His Majesty asked, so you obey? Which palace are you from? Who oversees you? Privately altering imperial meals—if something goes wrong, you could be charged with treason."
My palms began to sweat. But I did not lower my head.
"Replying to Nurse: this servant is a cleaning maid. No one oversees this servant in these tasks. This servant chose to do them. His Majesty has poor appetite and cannot eat the Inner Kitchen's food. What this servant prepares, His Majesty can eat a few more bites of."
The nurse looked at me without speaking. After a long while, she said: "Do you know, privately altering imperial meals—what does the law prescribe?"
I knew. I ran through Song Dynasty punishments in my mind. But what I said was: "This servant knows. But His Majesty has gained four catties eating this servant's food. Eunuch Li can testify."
Eunuch Li, standing nearby, nearly choked on his own saliva, nodding hastily: "Yes, yes, yes. These past few months, His Majesty's complexion has indeed improved considerably."
The nurse fell silent again. Then she stood and walked to me. Very close—close enough that I could see the white hairs at her temples.
"From now on, what you prepare—first send it to this palace for inspection. The first bowl each day, submit to the Chief Nurse for review."
My heart sank. The late emperor's beloved—never before had orders required such examination. This new rule—was it aimed at me, or at someone else? I could not tell.
But what I said was: "Yes. The first bowl prepared each day shall be sent to the Nurse first."
She looked at me once, then turned and left. At the doorway, she turned back: "Tomorrow morning, osmanthus sugar porridge. Use less sugar. Too sweet is not good for His Majesty."
I was stunned. After she left, Eunuch Li clutched his chest: "You scared me to death. Why weren't you afraid?"
"I was afraid. But fear was useless."
"What if she had truly punished you?"
"Then His Majesty would have no one to cook for him. He would grow thin again."
Eunuch Li looked at me and shook his head.
That night, I wrote a very long passage on a note. I looked at it for a long time, then burned it. I didn't let Zhao Xu see. Some words cannot be known by him. For example: the nurse had come to see me. For example: from now on, every bowl of food would first be "tested for poison." For example: I was actually very afraid. Afraid that one day, that bowl would be found to have some "problem," and I would never see him again.
But what I wrote on the note was another sentence:
"The Nurse says your osmanthus sugar porridge is too sweet. From tomorrow, use half a spoon less sugar."
He replied:
"Hmph. The Nurse herself doesn't like sweet things."
I smiled. Then I burned this note too.
Early August, when the young eunuch came, he brought something. Not a food box—a small cloth bundle. The cloth was bright yellow—the color reserved for imperial use. I opened it. Inside was a jade pendant. Small, plain, no pattern whatsoever, but the jade was fine quality, warm and moist, like holding a warm stone in my palm.
"His Majesty says, to give to Elder Sister."
"Why?"
Before the young eunuch could answer, a head poked out from behind the curtain of the side hall. It was Zhao Xu. He shrank behind the curtain, his voice light as autumn insects: "This was left to me by Father. Now I give it to you, to protect your safety."
I froze. This was what his late father had left him—he had worn it close for years. I knelt down to meet his eyes levelly.
"Your Majesty, this was left to you by the late emperor. This servant cannot accept."
He stepped out from behind the curtain, walked to me. He was a little taller than months before, but still thin, his chin still pointed. He took the jade pendant from my palm, stood on tiptoe, and fastened it around my neck.
"You must accept," he said, voice not loud but very serious. "I have no use keeping it. This jade can protect people. You wear it. Don't take it off."
The jade rested against my skin, warm, like someone holding my hand.
That night, I wrote on the note:
"Jade received. Very warm. Thank you."
He replied:
"You wear it. Don't take it off. When I grow up, I'll exchange it for a better one."
I read this note five times. Then I didn't burn it. I tucked it beneath my pillow with those I hadn't burned. This was the first time I hadn't obeyed him. Some words, one cannot bear to burn.
Mid-August, Zhao Xu fell ill. Not feigning illness—truly ill. Headache, fever, no appetite at all. The imperial physician said it was "summer heat entering the body," prescribed medicine bitter beyond bearing. When the young eunuch came for the food box, he said His Majesty drank the medicine and vomited, could eat nothing.
I prepared a bowl of white porridge. Rice grains cooked until broken, nearly dissolved into water. After thinking, I produced a small cloth bundle from my robes—kudzu root powder I'd brought from Columbia, never used. The professor had said kudzu nourishes the lungs and relieves summer heat, easy to digest. I mixed it into the porridge, stirred well. The porridge went into a lacquer box, topped with a thin layer of dried osmanthus—not for him to eat, but for him to smell. The fragrance of osmanthus can make one remember comfortable things.
The young eunuch took the lacquer box. Half an hour later, it returned. One grain of rice stuck to the bottom of the bowl, with a note pressed beside it. The characters were more crooked than months before, as if his hand were shaking:
"A Heng, porridge drunk. Didn't vomit. Osmanthus very fragrant. What was added to porridge? After drinking, chest not tight."
I stood in the corridor holding that note, tears falling. Not from being moved—from heartache. A nine-year-old child, sick, still writing to tell me "didn't vomit."
That night, I wrote on the note:
"Added some kudzu root powder. Brought from very far away. When you're sick in future, I'll always add it."
He replied:
"Then don't let others know. When kudzu root powder is used up, it will be gone."
I looked at this note for a long time. Then tucked it beneath my pillow, with that jade.
Late August, the osmanthus bloomed again.
I gathered a large basket, spread it across the Inner Kitchen windowsill to dry. This time I used the "vacuum low-temperature dehydration" method I'd learned at Columbia—though Song had no vacuum machine, I could simulate low-oxygen conditions with sealed pottery jars and quicklime. Eunuch Li watched my efforts, saying: "You girl, are you trying to strip the whole Imperial Garden of osmanthus?"
"Yes. Must store it. For winter use, next spring use, next summer use too."
"Why store so much?"
"To make osmanthus sugar porridge. Osmanthus cakes. Osmanthus lotus root powder. Osmanthus wine—"
"His Majesty cannot drink wine."
"The wine is for myself."
He shook his head and left. I continued drying osmanthus. Golden petals covered the entire windowsill; when sunlight hit them, the whole Inner Kitchen grew sweet.
That night, I wrote on the note:
"Osmanthus bloomed again. Gathered much, stored using new method. Enough for you to drink whole year. Twice a week, not one less."
He replied:
"Twice a week. Agreed."
I put the note away with those I hadn't burned. Already a thick stack now, the red string nearly couldn't hold them.
The last day of August, when the young eunuch came for the food box, he said something. He said it in a very low voice, eyes bright, as if sharing some magnificent secret:
"His Majesty says, wait for me. When I grow up, I'll give you a status."
My ladle fell to the kitchen floor again.
"What status?"
"His Majesty didn't say. Just said to wait."
I squatted to pick up the ladle, squatted for a long time. Not because the ladle was hard to pick up—because my face was flushed. A nine-year-old child, speaking of "status." He might not even know what "status" meant.
But what I wrote on the note was:
"Good. I'll wait."
Then I tucked this note beneath my pillow too. Didn't burn it. Couldn't bear to.
Early September, when the young eunuch came, he brought a painting. Not painted by Zhao Xu, but by an old court painter. It showed a corner of the Imperial Garden—a clump of green bamboo, a nest of ants on the ground, and two people crouching nearby—one large, one small. The large one in maid's dress, holding a broom. The small one a child, wearing round-collar robes, crouching to watch the ants.
In the painting's corner were two characters: "First Meeting."
I hung the painting on the wall by my sleeping place, looking at it each night before sleep. The maid in the painting was me; the child was him. Then he hadn't been emperor; I hadn't been any "nutritionist." Then he asked me: "Will you come tomorrow too?" I said: "Yes." And I came. Had kept coming for so long.
That night, I wrote on the note:
"Painting received. Hung on wall. Look at it every day."
He replied:
"I look at it every day too. In my mind."
I put the note away, took out the stack from beneath my pillow, counted them. Fifty-three. From March to September, fifty-three notes, fifty-three days of him eating well. No—more than fifty-three days. He ate well every day. Just some days, he didn't write notes. Some days he wrote, and I burned them. Some days he wrote, and I couldn't bear to burn.
I took out that jade he'd given me from my collar, held it in my palm. The jade was still warm, like someone holding my hand. I lightly rubbed the jade pendant, making a soft promise in the corridor to that "First Meeting" painting on the wall—through wind and rain, I would be here.
Old notes nestled with jade beneath the pillow, golden osmanthus fragrance reflecting last night's ashes. This secret grew stronger with each passing day.
Nine-year-old emperor. Thin and small. His robes still too large. Still occasionally stepping on the hems when he walked. His handwriting still crooked. But every day he wrote me notes. Every day he said "eating well." Every day he said "trust me."
He also said, wait for him. When he grew up, give me a status.
I held the jade in my palm, facing the painting on the wall, whispered softly: "Good. I'll wait."
Osmanthus fragrance from outside blew in on the wind, thick and inescapable. I retied those notes and tucked them back beneath my pillow. Grandfather's paper was there too, edges already fraying, but the characters still clear: Yuanfeng eighth year, third month, Shenzong died, ascended the throne, age nine.
Grandfather, you said he ascended at nine, died at twenty-five. But I don't believe it. He will grow up. He will live past twenty-five, live to be a doddering old man. He will become an old man, unable to walk, unable to eat. Then, I will still prepare osmanthus sugar porridge for him. Twice a week. Agreed.
Tomorrow I'll make osmanthus cakes again, using my Columbia "improved rice cake" formula—seven parts glutinous rice flour, three parts japonica rice flour, sugar halved, osmanthus doubled. Let him know, this "nutritionist" is not just talk.
Jade pressed against my chest, warm. In the painting on the wall, two people crouched in the corner of the Imperial Garden, watching ants.
That was our first meeting. Then he said: "Will you come tomorrow too?" I said: "Yes." And I came. Had kept coming for so long. Would continue to come.
[End of Chapter 7]