Early May, the Fourth Year of Yuanyou.
After the Willow Alley incident, Zhao Xu changed. Not into a different person, but into someone deeper. He still went to the Imperial City Guard every day, flipped through dossiers, and conducted interrogations as usual. But he no longer brought files back to the Imperial Garden to read, nor did he sit in a daze under the osmanthus tree. He left all those things in the Imperial City Guard, in the study that only he could enter.
When a young eunuch came to collect the food box, he said His Majesty had been speaking very little lately."He used to ask what kind of porridge it was. Now he doesn't. I bring it in, he drinks it. After finishing, he just says 'good,' then lowers his head to read dossiers."
I sprinkled an extra handful of osmanthus into the porridge."Tell him summer is coming. I added lily bulbs to calm his mind."
The young eunuch ran off with the lacquered box. Half an hour later, it was returned. Empty. One grain of rice stuck to the bottom of the bowl, with a slip of paper pressed beside it. It read only: "Good." The writing was steady, but the final stroke of the character did not curve upward. I stared at it for a long time, then tucked the note under my pillow.
On the seventh day of the fifth lunar month, Zhao Xu suddenly came to find me. Not in the evening, but at noon. The sun blazed high. He stood at the entrance of the Inner Kitchen, wearing an old casual robe—no crimson court attire, no silver tally. His face was slightly sunburned, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"Aheng.""What's wrong?""Come somewhere with me.""Where?""Anfu Hall."
I froze. Anfu Hall. Where Consort Liu resided.A former concubine of the late Emperor Shenzong, once greatly favored during the Yuanfeng era. After the Emperor's death, she had remained in the palace with the other consorts. All these years the Empress Dowager had ruled from behind the curtain, she had kept quiet and never quarreled with anyone. But quiet people did not necessarily lack power. I had read in historical records that many of Shenzong's consorts stayed in the palace during Emperor Zhezong's reign, some even participating in factional struggles. Consort Liu was one of them.
"Now?""Now. The Empress Dowager went to offer incense at Daxiangguo Temple today. She's not in the palace."
He turned and left at once. I hurried after him.Anfu Hall lay in the western part of the palace, not close to the Inner Kitchen. We crossed several palace paths. Several eunuchs and maids bowed when they saw Zhao Xu; he did not slow down, only saying, "Rise."
Anfu Hall was not large, but it was quiet. Crabapple flowers bloomed bright red in the courtyard, carpeting the ground. The maid at the gate paled at the sight of Zhao Xu and knelt in salute.
"Your Majesty—""I've come to pay my respects to the Consort."
The maid hesitated, then stood and pushed open the door.Inside, the hall was dim, curtains drawn, with only a sliver of light seeping through the window cracks. The air smelled of sandalwood, mixed with the bitter scent of aged wood.
Consort Liu sat on the couch, holding a string of prayer beads, motionless. She wore plain clothes, her hair neatly arranged, fastened with a silver hairpin. Her face was pale, faint dark circles under her eyes. When she saw Zhao Xu, she did not stand or bow.
"Your Majesty has come," she said. Her voice was soft and flat, like stagnant water.
Zhao Xu stood at the doorway, not entering. I stood behind him, unable to see his expression.
"How has the Consort been lately?""Well. Thank Your Majesty for your concern.""I've heard that several of the Consort's attendants have gone missing recently."
Consort Liu's hand paused. The prayer beads stopped moving. She lifted her head and looked at Zhao Xu. Her eyes were dark and deep, like a dried-up well. There was something in her gaze—not fear, but something deeper. Resignation.
"What has Your Majesty discovered?"
Zhao Xu said nothing. He pulled the letter from his sleeve, unfolded it, and laid it on the low table at the door. It was short, only one line:Those belonging to Consort Liu must not live.
Consort Liu stared at the letter for a long time. The hall was silent, save for the rustle of crabapple blossoms outside in the wind. Then she smiled. The smile was faint, almost invisible.
"This letter is fake," she said.
Zhao Xu did not move. "How does the Consort know?""Because—" she paused, "whoever wants me dead would not write a letter. They would simply act."
Zhao Xu took a step forward. "Does the Consort know who wants you dead?"
Consort Liu lowered her head and twisted her prayer beads. One, two, three. Slowly.
"Your Majesty, when the late Emperor was alive, I knew nothing. He favored me, so I was cherished. When he left, I hid. I thought hiding would keep me safe." She paused. "Then someone found me. He said the late Emperor's followers could not be scattered. He said if I obeyed, I could live in peace."
"You obeyed?""I did. For four years." She lifted her head to look at him. "Whoever he told me to place in the Six Ministries, I placed. Whoever he wanted me to plant in court, I planted. He told me—" she hesitated, "he told me not to ask why. I never did."
"And now?""Now—" she lowered her head, fingers tightening around the beads until her knuckles whitened, "now he is silencing us. My people are dying one by one. The clerk in Willow Alley, my maid, those who have served me for years. When they are gone, I will be next."
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with the release of having held back for far too long.
"Consort, tell me who this person is."
Consort Liu looked at him for a long time. Then she smiled again, fainter still, almost breaking apart.
"Your Majesty cannot protect them," she said softly, like ash in the wind. "And you cannot touch that person either."
"Why?"
She did not answer. She lowered her head, placed the prayer beads on the table with a light click, then stood and walked to the window, pushing it open. Sunlight flooded in, illuminating half her face. She was pale, lips colorless, like a crabapple blossom fading away.
"Your Majesty, please return," she said. "Pretend this never happened."
"Consort—""Your Majesty." She cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp. "Go back. Study hard. Be a good emperor. Stop investigating. In the end, you will not be able to go on."
Zhao Xu stood before her for a long time, shoulders slightly hunched, as if carrying a great weight. Then he turned and walked out. I followed.
At the door, I glanced back. Consort Liu stood by the window, bathed in sunlight, her shadow long and thin on the ground, like a dying tree. Crabapple petals drifted in from outside, landing on her shoulder, bright red as blood.
After leaving Anfu Hall, Zhao Xu walked quickly. I almost had to jog to keep up. He stopped in the Imperial Garden, beneath the osmanthus tree. It had not yet bloomed, its leaves green and rustling softly in the wind.
"She won't say," he said. "She dares not.""What is she afraid of?""Afraid of that person. Afraid I cannot see this through. Afraid—" he paused, "afraid that once I find them, I will realize they are far more terrible than she imagines."
"What will you do?"
He fell silent for a long while. The wind stirred the osmanthus leaves.
"Keep investigating. Start with Chen An. Find him, and we'll know where the five hundred taels went. Know where the silver went, and we'll know who the names on the wall belonged to. Know who they are, and we'll know—" he stopped, "we'll know who it is that Consort Liu dares not name."
"But Chen An has fled. He cannot be found.""He can." He pulled a slip of paper from his sleeve—not the Willow Alley one, but a new one. An address was scrawled on it, written in haste. "Someone slipped this under the gate of the Imperial City Guard this morning. It says where Chen An is hiding."
"Who left it?""No idea. The guards said they saw no one. It was pushed through the door crack."
I took the paper and glanced at it. The ink was fresh, the paper ordinary rice paper, no signature. The strokes were firm, straight and neat, the handwriting of someone used to official documents. The same hand that had written the letter in Willow Alley.
"It's the same person," I said.He nodded. "I know.""It could be a trap.""It might be. But it might be real." He folded the paper and put it away. "Consort Liu won't speak. But someone wants us to know. That person may not want to kill us—they want to use our hands to kill others."
"Will you still go?""Yes." He looked at me. "Tomorrow, I will check it out.""I'm going with you.""No.""Why?""It's too dangerous.""You said that last time too. Then you held my hand and ran. This time, I'll hold yours."
He looked at me. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling his face. His eyes were bright, with worry, hesitation, and something else I could not name.
"Fine. We'll go together."
That night, I rummaged through the Inner Kitchen storehouse and found the osmanthus preserved from last autumn. Dried, golden, stored in a celadon jar, sealed tightly with wax. Eunuch Li said it was the last of the year. I said it was enough.
I also went to the Imperial Kitchen for a pot of newly brewed white wine—sent from Hangzhou, called Green Bamboo Leaf. A pretty name, and the wine was clear.
Back at Columbia, the Food Science department had a class called Fermentation Technology. The professor was a Scottish man who always brought a bottle of whiskey to class. He said, if you want to master food, you must first learn to drink. Those who do not drink cannot understand flavor. I got an A. For the final, we had to create a custom-infused wine. I made osmanthus wine. The professor said it was the best Eastern wine he had ever tasted. I told him it was my grandmother's recipe.
I poured the Green Bamboo Leaf into a clean white porcelain pot, added two spoonfuls of honey, and scattered a handful of dried osmanthus. The flowers sank slowly, then floated back up, golden, like tiny pieces of moon.No thermometer, no measuring cup, none of the precise instruments from the lab. But I had my hands, my eyes, my nose. Eunuch Li had taught me—touch the dough to know if it's kneaded enough, smell the porridge to know if it's done. Wine was no different.
I took a sip. Sweet on the tongue, the fragrance of osmanthus bursting open, followed by the crisp sharpness of Green Bamboo Leaf burning down my throat, then a warm afterglow rising. Delicious. Better than the version I had made at Columbia. I left it on the stove to steep for an hour. The osmanthus sank, and the wine turned pale gold, like autumn rice fields.
When Zhao Xu arrived, it was already dark. He stood at the entrance of the Inner Kitchen, wearing an old casual robe, his hair loose, unbound. His face was pale, dark circles under his eyes, lips dry as if he had not drunk water in a long time.
"Why are you here?""Couldn't sleep." He stepped inside and sat on the small stool by the stove—Eunuch Li's usual spot. As he sat, his shoulders slumped, his back curved, as if crushed under weight. The letter, Consort Liu's face, the names on the wall—all pressing down on him.
"Drink something." I set the porcelain pot before him and took a small cup. As I poured, the scent of osmanthus filled the whole kitchen.
He looked down at the wine, golden and glinting softly in the candlelight."What is this?""Osmanthus wine. I made it.""You know how to make wine?""I studied it at Columbia. There was a class in Food Science called Fermentation Technology. The professor was a Scottish man who always brought whiskey to class. He said people who don't drink can't understand flavor."
He did not fully understand, but he lifted the cup and drank. The cup was tiny; he finished it in one gulp. Then he paused, frowning, lips pressed together, as if savoring something.
"Is it good?""Good." He said. "Pour another."
I poured another. He drank it. Another. Another. By the fifth cup, his face was flushed—cheeks, ears, neck all red.
"Drink slowly.""It's good," he said. "Better than ice cheese." His tongue was slightly heavy, his voice soft, as if soaked in wine.
"Naturally. Ice cheese is a sweet. This is wine. Not the same.""What's different?""Ice cheese makes you happy. Wine lets you—" I thought, "lets you not have to be happy all the time."
He looked at me. His eyes were bright, reflecting the wine, the candle flame, and something else I could not name.
"Aheng, did you drink like this in America?""Yes. In my dorm. With Emily.""Emily?""My roommate. She studied finance. Before every exam, she'd make me drink. Said it relieved stress.""What if you got drunk?""I'd sleep. Wake up and be fine."
He thought for a moment. "Are you drunk now?""No. I've only had a few cups.""Can you teach me to drink?""You're drinking now.""Not just drinking. The… American way. Teach me."
I paused. The American way. Back at Columbia, Emily had taught me a game. She said all American college students played it. It was called Fifteen-Twenty.
"Alright. I'll teach you."
I set down the cup and held out my hands."It's called Fifteen-Twenty. We both show our hands at the same time, and guess the total number of fingers. You can guess zero, five, ten, fifteen, twenty. Whoever guesses right wins. The winner doesn't drink. The loser does."
He learned quickly.First round: he showed ten, I showed five. He guessed fifteen—correct. He won, grinning until his eyes curved like osmanthus petals.
"I won.""Yes. I drink." I lifted the cup and took a sip.
Second round: he showed five, I showed ten. He guessed ten—wrong. I guessed fifteen—right. He lost, drank.
Third round: he won again. Fourth: another win. Fifth: he finally lost. He took a big gulp, too quickly, coughing several times.
"Slow down.""I'm fine." His face turned even redder, like the flame on the stove. His eyes shone, bright with wine, light, and the moon.
"Aheng.""Mm.""Did you play games like this with others in America?""Yes. With Emily.""Did you win more or lose more?""Win more.""Why?""Because I learn fast.""Then why are you losing now?"
He looked at me, the corner of his mouth lifted. His eyes were bright, and this time I saw it clearly—triumph. The kind of 'I know why you're losing' triumph.
"Because you're letting me win," he said."No, I'm not.""You are." He reached out and took my wrist. His palm was hot, hotter than the wine. "You've shown five every single time, since the first round. You're afraid I'll lose, afraid I'll drink too much. You're letting me."
"I'm not.""You are." His fingers tightened slightly, pulling me closer. The stove flame flickered, dancing in his eyes.
"Aheng.""Mm.""Why are you so good to me?""Because you're good to me.""When did you start being good to me?""The first time you called me Aheng.""What day was that?""The seventh day of the fourth lunar month, the Eighth Year of Yuanfeng. Imperial Garden, under the osmanthus tree. You were squatting on the ground watching ants. You asked me, 'Will you come tomorrow?' I said, 'Yes.'"
He stared. "You remember it that clearly?""I remember everything. Every note, every bowl of porridge, every day." My eyes warmed—not from wine, but from those days: over a thousand nights, a thousand notes, a thousand bowls of porridge. He had grown from nine to thirteen. From too short to reach the osmanthus, to a head taller than me. From messy scribbles, to presiding over interrogations at the Imperial City Guard.
He released my wrist and touched my cheek. His fingertips were hot, carrying the warmth of wine and the scent of osmanthus.
"Aheng, your face is red.""From the wine.""Liar. You've barely drunk.""Then why?"
He said nothing, just looked at me. His eyes held the wine, the candlelight, and something more—him, me, the words unspoken. His finger slid from my cheek to my chin, lifting it gently. His face was so close I could see the light on his lashes, smell the osmanthus on his breath. His lips were thin, slightly upturned, glistening with wine.
"Aheng.""Mm.""I want to kiss you.""You're drunk.""I'm not. I'm completely sober. More sober than you." His voice was soft and steady, like when he drew a bow taut. He lowered his head, his forehead touching mine. His lashes brushed my brow, tickling. His breath fell warm on my lips, sweet with osmanthus.
"May I?"
I did not answer. I reached up, grabbed his collar, and pulled him closer.When his lips met mine, I tasted osmanthus wine—sweet, sharp, hot. His lips were soft and warm, like freshly made sweet porridge. He was clumsy, did not know how to breathe, his breath heavy on my face, like a young beast just learning to kiss. I smiled and parted my lips, nipping his lower lip lightly. He groaned softly, tightened his arm, and pulled me tightly against him.
The flame on the stove flickered and died. The Inner Kitchen darkened, only moonlight seeping through the windows, falling on us, on our pressed lips. He pulled back slightly, forehead still against mine, breathing hard.
"Aheng.""Mm.""So sweet.""The wine or me?""You." He lowered his head and kissed me again, this time on the corner of my mouth. Another on my cheek. Another on my brow. Another on my tip of my nose. His lips were hot, pausing after each kiss, as if confirming something.
"Have you ever kissed anyone else?" he asked."No.""Then how did you—""From shows. American shows. People kiss like that."
He frowned. "What are American shows?""Plays from where I'm from. For everyone to watch.""Then you can't watch them anymore.""Why?""Because if you do, you might kiss others.""I won't kiss anyone else. Only you."
His ears turned bright red, like glowing embers. He buried his face in my neck, his breath warm and tickling against my collarbone.
"Aheng.""Mm.""My head is spinning.""You drank too much.""I didn't. I'm completely sober. But my head spins.""That's what drunk is.""I'm not drunk. Drunk people don't say they're sober.""That sentence alone makes you drunk."
He fell silent, face buried in my neck, his breathing gradually deepening. His hand still held my wrist, but his grip loosened. I looked down at his face—eyes closed, lashes casting small shadows in the moonlight, a faint smile on his lips, as if dreaming. His breath smelled sweetly of osmanthus wine.
"Zhao Xu."
He did not answer. He was asleep.I gently patted his cheek; he did not wake. I helped him up from the stool and staggered toward the cot. As he fell back, he pulled me down with him. I lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat—slow, steady, thudding. His arm still circled my waist, not letting go. I shifted slightly; he frowned and held me tighter.
"Don't go.""I'm not going. Just settling down."
He said no more, but his arm remained tight. I pressed my face to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, like the tide. Moonlight slipped through the window, covering us. His fingers tangled gently in my hair, his breath warm and damp on the top of my head. My eyelids grew heavy. The warmth of the wine rose from my stomach, soft as a river.
"Zhao Xu."
He did not respond. Asleep. I closed my eyes too.
I did not know when Eunuch Li arrived. I only remembered someone pushing open the door, standing there for a long time. Then a sigh—soft, long. He took away the porcelain pot, the cups, the scattered osmanthus. He walked to the cot and pulled the quilt over us, gently, slowly. When it reached Zhao Xu's shoulder, he paused. Moonlight fell on his face, and the corner of his mouth moved—not a smile, but something lighter, like a fish gliding under ice, leaving only a faint trail. He stood, walked to the door, and closed it softly. A tiny click, like a stone dropping into water.
When I woke the next morning, Zhao Xu was gone. The quilt still smelled faintly of osmanthus wine, sweet and light. On the pillow lay a note, hastily scrawled:
"Aheng, I've gone to the Imperial City Guard. Porridge is on the stove. Egg fried rice is in the pot. I made it. Might still be salty. Eat as you like. I'll come tonight. Zhao Xu."
On the back, a smaller line:"I remember everything from last night. Every single thing. Including kissing you."
I sat on the cot holding the note, laughing for a long time. Then I got up and went to the stove. The porridge was still warm. The fried rice was golden, grains distinct. The eggs were finely scrambled, the cured pork diced more neatly than last time. I took a spoonful. Salty. But delicious. It tasted of wine, of osmanthus, of him standing flustered and clumsy at the stove, trying his best. I ate the whole bowl. One grain stuck to the bottom; I picked it up and ate it. Sweet. Not from the rice. From something else.
That night, I wrote on a slip of paper:He made really good wine. He asked if I drank like this in America. He asked why I was so good to him. He said he wanted to kiss me. He kissed me. He said I was sweet. He asked if I'd kissed anyone before. I said no. He told me not to watch those shows anymore. I said I'd only kiss him. He got drunk and held me while sleeping. Eunuch Li saw. He said nothing. Just covered us with the quilt and closed the door.
This morning, he made egg fried rice. Still salty. I ate it all.
After writing, I tucked the note under my pillow, with the old ones, the jade, the wheat stalk, the dried osmanthus. Half the pot of wine remained. I kept it. For when he came again.
The moon hung outside the window, round and bright. I closed my eyes. When he kissed me, his lips were hot. He said I was sweet. He said he'd only kiss me. He said he'd come tonight. Tonight, he would come. He'd bring fried rice again. Still salty. I'd still eat it all. Until the day it wasn't salty anymore. That day would come. But I was in no hurry. We had plenty of time.
End of Chapter 28