Yuanyou fourth year, third day of the third month. The Shangsi Festival.
The hash marks on the wall were already full. From windowsill to bedhead, from bedhead to doorframe, crooked marks one by one, like a vine that had climbed for a long time. Eunuch Li said, if you keep drawing, the entire wall will be filled by you. I said, then fill it. He said nothing, left with his teacup. Over a thousand days and nights, over a thousand notes, over a thousand bowls of porridge. His notes from when he was nine, characters crooked like a child just learning to walk. Now he was thirteen, characters on the notes stroke by stroke, steady and sure, like his arm when drawing the bow.
Zhao Xu had no lessons today. The Empress Dowager said, the Shangsi Festival grants him one day of rest, let him rest well.
When the young eunuch came bearing word, he said Zhao Xu was waiting in the study. When I pushed open the door, he was standing by the window, back to the door. Spring sunlight leaked through the window lattice, falling on his shoulders, gilding his outline with gold. He turned around seeing me, mouth corners rising—that curve, exactly the same as three years ago in the Imperial Garden when he first ate egg-fried rice. But his face was no longer a child's face. Jawline sharp as knife-cut, cheekbones slightly protruding, nose bridge straight. His voice had changed too, no longer that thin, crisp child's voice, but deep, steady youth's voice.
"No lessons today."
"I know."
"The Empress Dowager said to rest a day."
"Then how do you plan to rest?"
He thought. "Archery. Then go to the Imperial Garden. Then—" he looked at me, "then go to the Inner Kitchen with you. What are you making today?"
"Osmanthus cakes. Red bean porridge. Steamed fish."
"Make an extra portion. I'll eat too."
"Which day don't you eat?"
He smiled. I followed him toward the practice ground. He walked ahead, steps large, coat hem swinging wide open, like a flag. I followed behind, looking at his shoulders broader than last year, suddenly remembering when I first saw him, crouching in the Imperial Garden watching ants, small bundle, coat too large, collar loosely open, revealing a thin section of neck. Now his collar was still loose, but what was revealed was no longer the thin neck—it was that particular to youth, just grown, carrying green strength of lines.
The imperial practice ground in spring was more beautiful than autumn. Ancient pagoda trees sprouted new shoots, tender green, swaying gently in the wind. In the winding water channel beside the practice ground, palace maids were performing purification rituals—Shangsi Festival old custom, washing by the river, removing filth seeking blessing. Their laughter drifted from afar, crisp and clear, like a string of bells. The vermillion wooden fences were painted with new paint, bright and shining. Weapons on the racks were polished to gleaming, flashing in sunlight. The yellow silk umbrella on the high platform was opened, bright yellow, embroidered with golden dragons, fluttering slightly in the wind.
Zhao Xu walked to the archery position, raised the bow. He no longer used the practice soft bow, but used the horn bow left by the late emperor. Bow arm was made of ox horn, wrapped with silk thread, bowstring was ox tendon, stretched very tight. When he drew full bow, his arm no longer trembled. String touching mouth corner, he squinted his eyes, aiming at the target heart, wind came, his robe corner lifted, forehead hair blown messy. Released—arrow flew out, carrying a sharp whistle, nailed to the target heart. Ten rings. He set down the bow, turned to look at me. Wind came, blowing his robe fluttering. He stood in sunlight, shadow stretched very long.
He was already taller than me. Not half a head taller, but a full head taller. When he walked over, I had to raise my head to see his eyes.
"Your turn."
I took the bow. This bow was still too heavy for me, my arm trembled when drawing. Aimed, released. Arrow flew out, nailed to seven rings.
"Regressed."
"You progressed too fast."
"Then practice more."
"You teach me."
He walked behind me. I thought he would stand beside teaching with words as usual, or occasionally reach out to support my arm. But he didn't. He directly pressed close, chest pressing against my back, arms extending from both sides, encircling me. His left hand covered my hand holding the bow, right hand grasped my hand pulling the string. His chest was very broad, pressing against my back, I felt his heartbeat—very fast, dong-dong-dong-dong, coming through clothes. His chin almost rested on top of my head, breath falling on my crown, hot, carrying that particular to youth, green scent.
"Raise hand a little higher." His voice was right beside my ear, deep, chest vibration transmitted to my back. "Shoulders relax, don't hunch."
His fingers clasped my fingers, helping me adjust bow-holding posture. His hand was very large, enveloping my entire hand. Fingertips had thin calluses, rough, grinding against my knuckles.
"When pulling string, use back strength. Don't use arm." His right hand brought me slowly pulling the string, bow arm gradually bending. His arm pressed against my arm, his wrist pressed against my wrist, his breath fell behind my ear.
"Aim."
I looked at the target heart. But my heart wasn't on the target heart. My heart was—on his heartbeat. Dong-dong-dong-dong, same speed as mine.
"Release."
His fingers brought me to release the string. Arrow flew out—dead center. Ten rings.
"Hit," he said, voice carrying smiling intent. But he didn't release his hands. Still encircling me, chest pressing against my back, chin resting on my head. Wind stopped, ancient pagoda tree leaves no longer rustled, laughter from the winding water channel also grew distant. The entire practice ground only had his heartbeat, and mine.
"A Heng."
"Mm."
"You're trembling."
"No."
"Yes." His arms tightened slightly. Not that forceful tight, but light,试探性的紧 [tentative tight], like asking a question. "You're afraid?"
"Not afraid."
"Then why trembling?"
I said nothing. He also said nothing. After a while, he released his hands, stepped back one step. I turned around to look at him. His ears were red. From ear tips all the way red to neck, like dyed by March peach blossoms. But he didn't dodge, looked at me, mouth corners raised.
"Your ears are red."
"Wind blew."
"Lying. No wind."
He paused, then smiled. "You learned me."
"Mm. Learned you."
"Why?"
"Because looks good."
His ears reddened even more. But he didn't lower his head, still looked at me. He was a full head taller than me, I raised my head to see his eyes. When he lowered his head to look at me, lash shadows fell on my forehead.
"A Heng."
"Mm."
"When you were in America, did anyone also teach you archery like this?"
"No. Americans don't teach like this."
"Then how do they teach?"
"Stand beside. Teach with words. Occasionally support the arm."
"Then which do you prefer?"
I thought. "Yours."
He smiled. Smiled until his eyes curved, like osmanthus petals. But beneath that smile, something was different. Like ice cracking a seam, water surging up from below, hot, burning.
"Then I'll always teach you like this."
"Good."
He turned around, pulled an arrow from the quiver, nocked it on the string, drew full bow, aimed at target heart. Released. Ten rings. Another one. Ten rings. The way he shot arrows was very good-looking. Not that deliberately posed good-looking, but body naturally unfolding good-looking. His shoulders were very broad, waist very straight, when arm drew full bow, back muscles would slightly tense. Wind came, his robe spreading behind him, like an eagle's wings.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"When will you return to Suzhou?"
"What?"
"You said before, when I have time, take you to Suzhou. See Maple Bridge, see Tiger Hill, see your grandmother's noodle shop." He set down the bow, turned to look at me. "I have time now."
"Where do you have time? The Grand Tutor adds lessons for you every day."
"Have time today."
"Today doesn't count."
"Then tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow you have lessons."
"The day after?"
"The day after also has lessons."
He frowned slightly. The way he frowned was exactly the same as when he was nine. Mouth slightly pouting, brow center knitted into a small knot.
"Then when will there be time?"
"When you've grown up."
"I've grown up." He looked at me, "I'm taller than you. Taller by this much."
"Growing up isn't about comparing height."
"Then what is it?"
"It's when you no longer ask this question."
He was silent a while. Hung the bow on the weapon rack, walked over, stood before me. He lowered his head, looked at me. Sunlight shone from behind him, hiding his face in shadows, only eyes were bright.
"The Empress Dowager said yesterday, it's time to select a queen for me."
I paused. "You're only thirteen."
"Thirteen is not young. When the late emperor was thirteen, he already had—" he paused, didn't finish. His ears were red again.
"Had what?"
"Nothing." He turned around, walked to the winding water channel, back to me. Flower petals floated on the water surface, pink, white, bobbing with water waves. He crouched down, reached to scoop up a petal, placed it in his palm.
"The Grand Tutor said, selecting a queen must look at family background, character, status. The Empress Dowager said, must select one who can help me. The ministers said, must select one who can stabilize the court." He stood up, turned around to look at me, "No one asked me, whether I want to select."
"Then do you want to?"
He looked at me, looked for a long time. Petal in his palm was blown away by wind, spun on the water surface, drifted far.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because—" he walked over, walked to me. He was a full head taller than me, I raised my head to see his eyes. He lowered his head, looked into my eyes. "Because I already have someone in my heart."
Wind came, ancient pagoda tree leaves sha-sha-sha-sha rustled. Petals by the winding water channel were rolled up by wind, spun in the air once, fell between us.
"Who?"
He said nothing. Looked at me. His eyes were very bright, something moving inside, like light in deep water. He extended his hand, fingers touched my cheek. Very light, like osmanthus falling on water surface. His fingertips were very hot, carrying the roughness of thin calluses.
"You know."
His voice was very light, as if afraid of being heard by wind. My face burned fiercely. But I didn't dodge. I raised my head, looked into his eyes.
"You're only thirteen."
"I know."
"You don't understand yet."
"I understand." His fingers still stopped on my cheek, not withdrawing. "I've waited four years. From the day you first made egg-fried rice for me."
"That wasn't—"
"It was." He interrupted me, "Then I didn't understand. I only knew, when you came, I was happy. When you weren't there, I missed you. The porridge you made was delicious, I wanted to drink it every day. The paintings you drew were good-looking, I wanted to see them every day. When you smiled, I also smiled. When you didn't smile, I wanted to make you smile." He paused, "Now I know. This is called liking."
My eyes grew hot. "When did you learn to say these things?"
"The Grand Tutor taught."
"The Grand Tutor taught you these?"
"No. The Grand Tutor taught the art of emperorship, the way of governing. But these words, not the Grand Tutor's. Are—" he thought, mouth corners rising, "yours. When you taught me to sing Suzhou tunes, when you taught me to draw the bow, when you sat by my sickbed watching over me, when you secretly stuffed osmanthus cakes into my sleeve. You said nothing. But I understood everything."
Wind came, another wave of petals fell on our shoulders, hair, eyelashes. He didn't move. I also didn't move.
"A Heng."
"Mm."
"You're not allowed to leave."
"I didn't say I would leave."
"You said before, when you think I've grown up, you'll tell me. Then now I tell you—I've grown up. I'm thirteen. I'm taller than you. I can shoot arrows. I can write policy essays. I can review memorials. I can—" he thought, "I can speak Suzhou dialect. You say one, I'll say it for you to hear."
"...A Heng."
"A Heng." He said, tongue flat, voice soft, like freshly cooked sugar porridge. Compared to three years ago when he first learned, sounded countless times better.
"Who taught you?"
"You. Listen to you say it every day, listened for four years, then learned."
He withdrew his hand from my cheek, pulled a note from his sleeve, handed it to me. Was today's.
I opened it. Written on it:
"Today is Shangsi Festival. Petals in the winding water channel are very beautiful. But I didn't look. I was looking at you. When you shot arrows, your arm was trembling. When you drew the bow, you pressed your lips tight. When you turned your head, your face was red. I thought you didn't notice. Actually you noticed. Your ears were also red. —Zhao Xu"
Not "Your Majesty." Was "Zhao Xu." Like four years ago, he wrote on the note "A Heng, I've been eating well. How about you?" Then his characters were crooked. Now his characters stroke by stroke, steady and sure. Like his arm when drawing the bow. Like his eyes looking at me.
"When did you write this?"
"Last night. Wrote many times. This one looks best." He pointed at the two characters "Zhao Xu" at the signature, "This 'Xu' character, I practiced for four days. The Grand Tutor said, this character is hardest to write. He said, 'Xu' means warmth. Is spring's sun. Is what makes one's heart heat up." He looked at me, "The Suzhou character you taught me, also has this meaning."
"Which one?"
"'Heng.' You said it's a fragrant herb. Grows by the river. When wind comes, the entire river is fragrant." He paused, "I smelled it. From the first day I smelled it."
I folded the note, tucked it into my sleeve. With those old notes. With that jade. With that wheat ear. Four years of notes, four years of porridge, four years of osmanthus. His "I've been eating well" from when he was nine, his "A hundred years, no changing" from when he was ten, his "I trust you" from when he was eleven, his "When I grow up, I'll give you a status" from when he was twelve, his "I was looking at you" from when he was thirteen.
"A Heng."
"Mm."
"You haven't answered me."
"What?"
"The person in your heart, is it me?"
I looked into his eyes. Thirteen-year-old eyes. Bright, hot, like April's sun. Inside was expectation, was nervousness, was unable-to-hide tension. His fingers clenched in his sleeve, knuckles white. He stood before me, a full head taller, shoulders very broad, jawline sharp. But when he asked this question, voice trembled slightly. Exactly the same as when he was nine in the Imperial Garden asking me "Will you come tomorrow too?"
"Yes."
He paused. "What?"
"It's you. From the first day it was you."
His eyes brightened. Bright like target heart, bright like April's sun, bright like moon reflected in Suzhou River. He smiled. Smiled very loudly, not that composed smile, but surging from his chest, unable-to-suppress smile. Laughter echoed above the practice ground, startling birds from the ancient pagoda trees, fluttering away.
"Then wait for me."
"Wait for what?"
"Wait for me. Wait for me to grow up. Wait for me to rule personally. Wait for me—" he took a deep breath, chest rising and falling, "wait for me to marry you."
"You're only thirteen."
"I will grow up. I will rule personally. I will—" he extended his hand, grasped my hand. His hand was very large, enveloping my entire hand. Palm very hot, thin calluses on fingertips grinding against my hand back. "I will make you my queen. Not because your family background is good, character is good, status is good. But because— you are A Heng. Is the A Heng who made egg-fried rice for me. Is the A Heng who brewed osmanthus sugar porridge for me. Is the A Heng who drew playing cards for me. Is—" he paused, voice lowering, low to only I could hear, "the one I like."
I raised my head, looked into his eyes. Thirteen-year-old eyes. Bright, hot, like April's sun. Inside no longer hesitation, no nervousness, no unable-to-hide tension. Inside was certainty, was steadiness, like his arm when drawing full bow.
"Good. I'll wait for you."
He smiled. Smiled until his eyes curved, curved into two bridges. Suzhou bridges.
That night, I tucked today's note beneath my pillow. With those old notes. With that jade. With that wheat ear. And that one he wrote—"I was looking at you." I read it four times. Each time, ears would redden. Grandmother, someone said he likes me. He said, from the first time eating egg-fried rice he liked me. He said, he waited four years. He said, let me wait for him. Wait for him to grow up, marry me. I said good. I said from the first day it was him. From the first day. From the day he asked me in the Imperial Garden "Will you come tomorrow too?" That day I knew, I wouldn't leave.
Moon outside the window. Round, bright. I closed my eyes. When he encircled me shooting arrows, heartbeat was very fast. Mine too. When he said "I already have someone in my heart," voice was trembling. Mine too. When he said "is A Heng," wind came, petals fell between us. I extended my hand, caught it. Tomorrow, still going to the practice ground. He shoots arrows, I shoot arrows. He encircles me from behind, teaching me to aim at target heart. I said, I can't see target heart. He said, you can see. I said, I can't see. He lowered his head, lips pressed against my ear, voice very light, very hot. "Then look at me. I look at you. Then you can hit."
I released. Arrow flew out. Dead center.
[End of Chapter 23]