Yuanyou first year, third day of the third month. The Shangsi Festival.
Spring plowing had just concluded; seeds in the fields were quietly pushing through the earth, and farmers were busy fertilizing the seedbeds. Outside the palace walls, it must have been lively—on this day, common people would perform purification rituals, pray for blessings, go on spring outings. Young girls would wear flowers and willow branches, laughing by the streams. But inside the palace, it was quiet. So quiet that only the sound of wind passing through corridors remained, and the occasional bird call from afar. The peach blossoms in the Imperial Garden had bloomed. Not in overwhelming clusters, but here one tree, there one tree—beside the green bamboo, behind the rockery, by the pond. Pink and tender, petals still carrying morning dew, sparkling in the sunlight like small fragments of rosy clouds scattered by the wind.
I broke off a small branch, brought it back to the Inner Kitchen, and stuck it in a water jar beside the stove. The peach branch swayed slightly in the jar, its reflection rippling on the water's surface. Eunuch Li saw it, said nothing. After a while, he brought over a bowl of freshly ground soybean milk, placing it beside the jar.
"For His Majesty?"
"Mm. His Majesty has grown thin recently."
"That's the growing spurt. All children are like this when shooting up."
"How do you know?"
"What don't I know?" He left with his tea.
I knew he spoke true. Zhao Xu was indeed in a growing spurt. Last month he reached my forehead; this month he was nearly at my eyebrows. But thin he truly was. Not the kind of thin from lack of food, but a thinness pressed from within. The kind that seeps from the bones outward, that no amount of eating can fill.
On the third day of the third month, the Shangsi Festival, the palace had no holiday. The Empress Dowager's rules never relaxed for festivals. Zhao Xu's schedule had changed again—not the previous kind of "learning characters, reciting texts, listening to the Grand Tutor's stories," but solid governance lessons. Each day before dawn he must go to Funing Hall to attend court. The Empress Dowager sat behind the curtain, ministers stood before the curtain, and he sat to the side, listening to words he barely understood, recording them sentence by sentence. Upon returning he must recite them, after reciting write reflections, after writing have the Grand Tutor revise them, after revising have the Empress Dowager review them.
When the young eunuch came for the food box, his reports had changed too.
"His Majesty listened to three ministers arguing today. One said the salt laws must change, one said they cannot, one said change or not doesn't matter. Argued for half an hour; the Empress Dowager said nothing."
"His Majesty sat behind the curtain for an hour today, not moving at all. After returning, sat before his desk for a long time, saying nothing."
"His Majesty wrote reflections until the hour of hai [9-11 PM] today. Wrote several drafts; the Grand Tutor said no good, rewrote."
I packed porridge into the lacquer box, sprinkling an extra handful of osmanthus. "Tell him, when tired, drink porridge. Sweet."
He replied: Porridge drunk. Sweet. Want to drink again tomorrow.
On the afternoon of the third day of the third month, Zhao Xu came. Not sneaking in, but led by the young eunuch—the Empress Dowager said today's lessons finished early, he could rest half an hour. When he walked into the Imperial Garden, his steps were slower than usual, shoulders drooping, as if pressed by something. But seeing me, his eyes still brightened. That brightness was exactly the same as when we first met in the Imperial Garden last spring.
"A Heng!"
"Walk slowly. Don't fall."
He walked to me, stopped.
I looked up at him—he had truly grown taller. Last month I already needed to look up; now I looked up higher. Shoulders broader too, not muscular but骨架撑开了 [skeletal frame expanding]. But thin. Chin sharper, cheekbones protruding, collar loosely open revealing a thin section of neck. He stood there like a sapling in the wind, desperately shooting upward, yet not having grown enough leaves.
"How did you come today?"
"The Empress Dowager said, today is Shangsi Festival, can rest a while." He pulled a paper from his sleeve, handed it to me, "Look."
I took it. It was a painting. Painted Funing Hall, several people standing before the hall, some in official robes, some in casual dress. In the very front stood a small figure, wearing ceremonial robes and crown, but painted very small, so small as to be nearly indistinguishable. Shrunk in the corner of the paper, squeezed nearly out of frame by those tall ministers and the Empress Dowager.
"Who is this?"
"Me." He pointed at the small figure, "These are ministers. This is the Empress Dowager. This is..."
"Where are you?"
"Beside the curtain. The Empress Dowager said, I must sit there and listen. Cannot speak, cannot move, cannot eat."
His tone was flat, as if stating something he had grown accustomed to. But that small figure he painted, shrunk in the corner, so small.
"Then what did you hear?"
"Heard them arguing. About salt laws, about taxes, about northwestern military affairs. Some said to use force against Western Xia, some said no, must negotiate peace. Argued for a long time. The Empress Dowager said, let's leave it for now, discuss another day."
When he said "discuss another day," he imitated the Empress Dowager's tone, faint, without emotion. But I saw his fingers clenching in his sleeve, knuckles slightly white.
"Then what about you? What do you think?"
He paused. "Me? I didn't think. The Empress Dowager doesn't allow thinking."
"Then think secretly."
He looked at me, lowered his head. Wind came, peach blossom petals falling on his shoulder, pink and thin. He reached to pick up the petal, placed it in his palm, looked at it a while.
"...I think, Western Xia has been fighting for so many years, the people suffer. If we can avoid fighting, we should."
His voice was very soft, as if speaking a secret he dared not let others know.
"Then does what you think match what the Empress Dowager said?"
"The Empress Dowager said nothing. She said discuss another day."
"Then wait for another day. When it comes, speak out."
He raised his head, looked at me. In those eyes were hesitation, uncertainty, and a little—very small, hidden deepest—longing.
"Can I speak?"
"Yes. You are His Majesty."
He was silent a while. The Imperial Garden was very quiet, only the sound of wind passing through peach branches. That branch stuck in the stove's water jar was probably waiting for something too.
He smiled. The kind of smile that slowly welled up from the heart—first mouth corners slightly rising, then eyes curving, finally the entire face brightening.
"Good. Then I'll wait."
The peach blossoms in the Imperial Garden were blooming perfectly. I broke off a branch, handed it to him.
"For you. On Shangsi Festival, one should wear flowers."
He took it, looked at it, stuck it behind his ear. The pink peach blossom against his face, white and tender, like freshly plucked from the branch. Wind came, petals trembling slightly, his ear reddening a bit too.
"Pretty?"
"Pretty."
He smiled. Smiled until his eyes curved, like peach blossom petals.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"Today the Grand Tutor told a story."
"What story?"
"About King Goujian of Yue, sleeping on brushwood and tasting gall. Waited ten years, finally destroyed Wu."
"What do you want to say?"
"I want to say—" he paused, took the peach blossom from behind his ear, placed it in his palm, looking at it, "I can wait. Eight years is all."
When he said this, his tone was light, as if saying "tomorrow is all." But I understood. Eight years. The Empress Dowager's regency, eight more years. He is ten this year, eighteen before he can rule personally. Eight years. Over three thousand days and nights. He must use these three thousand days and nights to wait for a day when he can have the final say.
I looked at him. He stood beneath the peach tree, the peach blossom he had worn behind his ear still pinched between his fingertips, eyes bright. His shoulders were still thin, his voice still held childish innocence, but when he said "eight years is all," there was something in his tone that reminded me of that hand holding my fingers last winter when he was ill—small, thin, but gripping tightly.
"Then wait. I'll wait with you."
He smiled. Smiled more beautifully than the peach blossoms. He carefully tucked that peach blossom into his sleeve, with those notes.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"Do you believe eight years will pass quickly?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because—" I thought, pointed at the peach blossom in his sleeve, "last year at this time, this tree hadn't bloomed. This year it bloomed. Next year it will bloom again. Blooming and blooming, eight years will pass."
He looked at that peach tree, nodded. "Then in eight years, will this tree still be here?"
"Yes."
"Will you still be here?"
"Yes."
He smiled. Smiled with complete satisfaction, as if eight years had already passed, as if he already stood on the day of personal rule.
That night, I made osmanthus sugar porridge. Added twice the usual osmanthus, cooked until rice grains nearly dissolved into the soup. The earthenware pot sat on the stove, steaming, osmanthus fragrance overflowing from the pot mouth, sweetening the entire Inner Kitchen. Eunuch Li sat at the door drinking tea, smelling the scent, saying nothing. After a while, he stood up, searched the cabinet for a small packet of new osmanthus, placed it on the stove.
"Last year's nearly used up?"
"Mm."
"This is newly harvested this year. Use it first."
I paused. "Where from?"
"Picked from the Imperial Garden. You think only you know how to pick osmanthus?"
I opened that packet of new osmanthus, smelled it. Very fragrant. Fragrant than last year's.
When the young eunuch came, he said His Majesty must review memorials tonight, might sleep very late.
"Then have him drink porridge before reviewing."
The young eunuch ran off with the pot. Half an hour later, the pot returned. Empty. One grain of rice stuck to the bottom, scraped completely clean. Beside the pot was a note, slightly larger than usual, characters written more carefully than usual:
"A Heng, today's porridge was delicious. Want to drink again tomorrow. Want to drink the day after too. Want to drink the day after that too. Want to drink always."
I folded the note, tucked it beneath my pillow. With those notes. With that jade. With Grandfather's paper. And that wheat ear, still hanging at my bedhead, golden yellow. Cut by his own hand during last spring's plowing. This year, he will plow again.
Moon outside the window. Round, bright. I closed my eyes, remembering what he said—"Eight years is all."
Eight years. Very long. But it doesn't matter. Wheat turns yellow year by year. Peach blossoms bloom year by year. He grows taller year by year. Taller than himself. Taller than me. Taller than everyone. Porridge brewed bowl by bowl. Notes accumulated one by one. Waiting for wind to come. Waiting for flowers to bloom. Waiting for him to grow up. Waiting for him to stand at the highest place, speaking out those words he wanted to say but dared not, sentence by sentence.
When that time comes, peach blossoms will still be here. I will still be here.
[End of Chapter 16]