Yuanfeng's eighth year, eleventh month. The weather had turned cold.
The osmanthus in the Imperial Garden had long since faded; my stored dried blossoms finally found their purpose. Each day when brewing porridge, I sprinkled a handful—the entire Inner Kitchen grew sweet with fragrance. Eunuch Li said, having smelled osmanthus all autumn, he now wanted to sneeze at the scent.
"That's because you've smelled too much. I store mine and use it slowly, so it never grows tiresome."
"How much did you store?"
"Three large jars."
His eyes widened. "How long will that last?"
"Until the osmanthus blooms again next year."
He shook his head and left. What he didn't know was that among those three jars, one was reserved specially for Zhao Xu to make osmanthus cakes. He liked sweet things, but couldn't eat too many. Twice a week osmanthus sugar porridge, once osmanthus cake—just right.
The first week of November, snow fell.
Not the fine kind that melts upon touching ground, but heavy snow. Overnight, the entire palace turned white. When I pushed open my window that morning, cold wind rushed in, making me shiver. The hash marks on my wall had reached the eighties—I couldn't remember exactly. Too many days, sometimes I forgot to mark them. But I never forgot Zhao Xu's notes. One every day, sometimes long, sometimes short, sometimes only a few characters—
"The Grand Tutor praised me today."
"The Empress Dowager didn't scold anyone today."
"Today's porridge was delicious. Want to drink it again tomorrow."
Each one I kept, with that jade pendant. The red string could no longer bind such a thick stack; I found another cord, tying them with two bindings.
Three days after the snow, Zhao Xu fell ill.
Not feigning illness—truly ill. When the young eunuch came for the food box, his face was pale: "Elder Sister, His Majesty didn't rise today. The imperial physician says wind-cold has entered his body, burning with fever."
My ladle clattered against the stove.
"How long has the fever lasted?"
"It began last night. His Majesty wouldn't let us speak of it, said sleep would cure it. This morning it grew hotter, so we called the physician."
I packed porridge into the lacquer box, adding an extra bowl of plain water. At the door I turned back, reaching into my robes for that packet of kudzu root powder—brought from New York, hoarded and never used. The professor had said kudzu nourishes the lungs and relieves summer heat, also useful for fever. I added a spoonful to the porridge, stirred well.
"Take me there."
The young eunuch paused. "Elder Sister, you cannot go. His Majesty's bedchamber permits no palace maids."
"Then take the porridge. Watch him finish it. Have someone tell me when he's done."
He ran off with the lacquer box. I stood in the corridor waiting. Snow continued falling, landing on my shoulders, cold and damp. I waited about half an hour before the young eunuch returned, panting: "He drank it. His Majesty said the porridge had osmanthus."
"What else did he say?"
"His Majesty said, tell Elder Sister not to worry. Sleep will cure it."
I clutched my sleeve cuffs. Burning with fever himself, and still telling me not to worry.
That evening, the young eunuch came again. Said His Majesty's fever hadn't broken, that he vomited after drinking medicine, could eat nothing.
I prepared a bowl of white porridge, adding nothing. Rice grains cooked until broken, nearly dissolved into water. After thinking, I added a pinch of dried osmanthus—not for him to eat, but for him to smell. The fragrance of osmanthus can make one remember comfortable things.
"Take it again. Watch him drink the porridge."
The young eunuch left. This time he was gone long. When he returned, his eyes were red.
"His Majesty drank it. After drinking, he said he wanted Elder Sister to come."
My heart clenched. "I cannot go. The bedchamber permits no palace maids."
"His Majesty said, he knows. He said then write a note instead."
He pulled a note from his sleeve and handed it to me. The characters were crooked, much uglier than usual, as if his hand were shaking:
"A Heng, porridge drunk. Didn't vomit. How much kudzu root powder remains?"
I replied: "Still more than half a packet. Enough for a long time."
He replied: "Then use it sparingly. When it's gone, it's gone."
I put the note away. Nine years old, ill, and still worried about my kudzu root powder running out.
The next day, Zhao Xu's fever didn't break. Nor the day after.
On the third evening, when the young eunuch came, he said His Majesty hadn't eaten all day, had asked three times "what porridge did A Heng brew today." The physician had changed the prescription, but still couldn't get the medicine down.
I stood in the corridor, clutching the food box handle. The snow had stopped, but the wind remained cold. I thought of him lying in bed, asking "what porridge did she brew today." Thought for a long time.
I knew I might be punished. But I set down the food box and told the young eunuch: "Take me there."
He looked at me, bit his lip, turned and walked. I followed behind, through corridors, through palace paths, past eunuchs and palace maids who lowered their heads and dared not look at me. When we reached the entrance to Funing Hall, the guard stopped me.
"What person?"
"Bearing porridge."
"His Majesty does not take meals here."
"I know. He is in the bedchamber."
The guard frowned. "The bedchamber permits no palace maids."
"I know." I walked around him, continuing forward. He shouted behind me; I didn't look back.
Zhao Xu's bedchamber lay behind Funing Hall, through a small door. Two young eunuchs stood at the entrance, stunned at the sight of me. I pushed open the hall doors and entered.
The hall was very dark. Curtains drawn, only a thin line of light penetrating. The air was thick with medicine, bitter and astringent. The charcoal brazier burned fiercely, hot and stifling, making breath difficult.
Zhao Xu lay in bed, covers pulled to his chin. Face turned toward the wall, only half the back of his head visible. Hair scattered across the pillow, fine and soft, damp with sweat, clinging behind his ears.
I walked over and sat by the bed.
"Zhao Xu."
He didn't move.
"Zhao Xu." I called again.
He turned over, face toward me. My heart clenched—he had grown thin. Much thinner than days before, cheekbones protruding, chin sharper, lips cracked, complexion white as paper. Eyes closed, lashes trembling slightly like butterfly wings. Brow lightly furrowed, even in sleep unable to rest peacefully.
I reached out and touched his forehead. Burning. Like a fire hidden beneath the skin.
His lashes moved, slowly opening his eyes. Seeing me, he paused.
"A Heng?" Voice hoarse, very soft, as if coming from far away. "How did you come?"
"Brought you porridge."
"You shouldn't have come. The bedchamber permits no palace maids."
"I know."
He looked at me a while, corners of his mouth moving slightly. "Then leave quickly. Don't let anyone see you."
"Not leaving. Haven't drunk the porridge yet."
I took out the porridge bowl from the food box, scooped a spoonful, blew on it, brought it to his lips. He looked at the spoon, then at me, opened his mouth and ate. One mouthful, two, three. At the fourth, he frowned slightly.
"What is it?"
"Bitter."
"Nothing bitter was put in the porridge."
"The medicine's bitterness. My mouth is full of medicine's bitterness."
I thought, then reached into my sleeve for a small cloth bundle. Inside was the last of the dried osmanthus. I pinched a few grains, sprinkled them on the porridge's surface.
"Taste again."
He lowered his head to look at the golden osmanthus fragments floating on the porridge, scooped a spoonful into his mouth. Chewed, and his brow relaxed.
"Sweet now."
"Not sweet. Fragrant. The osmanthus fragrance covers the medicine's bitterness."
He nodded, continuing to eat. Ate half a bowl, could eat no more. I set down the bowl, tucked his covers tighter.
"Sleep."
"Don't go."
"Not going."
He closed his eyes. A moment later, opened them again.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"Are you ill too? Your face is very red."
"No. It's cold outside, hot inside. Just hot."
As he said this, his expression was worried, nothing else. Nine years old, burning with fever, still worried about others. My heart ached slightly; I pulled the covers higher.
"Sleep."
He nodded, closed his eyes again. This time they didn't open.
I sat by the bed, watching him. The hall was very quiet, only occasional sparks from the charcoal brazier, a crack then silence. His breathing slowly steadied, brow still furrowed, as if uneasy even in dreams. Moonlight leaked through the curtain缝隙, a thin line falling on his face. His lashes were long, casting small shadows on his cheeks. Nose bridge straight, lips slightly dry from fever, but the contours were beautiful—not feminine beauty, but the clear handsomeness particular to youth.
A portrait of Song Zhezong hung in Grandfather's study. In the painting, he wore the imperial crown, sat upon the dragon throne, his features obscured behind pearls and jade, specific features indistinguishable. But the one lying before me now was alive. He could fall ill, could burn with fever, could be unable to eat, could frown and say "bitter." His hair was fine and soft, clinging behind his ears. His lashes could tremble. He looked smaller asleep than awake. Awake, he must recite texts, meet ministers, listen to the Empress Dowager's lectures, must pretend to be "I am the Emperor." Asleep, he was only a nine-year-old child. Thin, ill, fever unbroken, one who would nudge against a hand for warmth.
I reached out, gently brushing the hair from his forehead. When my fingers touched his skin, he moved, nudging against my palm like a small animal seeking warmth. His skin burned hot, but that nudge seemed to find something, and stopped.
I didn't withdraw my hand. He nudged twice, then stilled. I don't know if he felt my hand there, but I felt him—he was searching. Searching for the person he could see when he woke, could smell osmanthus fragrance from.
The night watch drum sounded outside. First watch.
The young eunuch peeked through the doorway, afraid to enter. I mouthed: "Stay a while longer." He withdrew.
The fire in the brazier had dimmed. I prodded it with iron tongs; it brightened again. Firelight flickered on Zhao Xu's face, bright then dark. His breath carried osmanthus fragrance, faint but present.
I leaned against the bedpost, watching him. Eyelids growing heavier. Last night brewing porridge until midnight, this morning rising before dawn, standing all day, legs weak. The hall was too warm, warm enough to make one drowsy. His breathing was light, inhale-exhale, like tides. One, one, another.
My head nodded lower and lower. Don't know when, I had collapsed against the bed edge. Face pressed against my own arm, arm beneath his covers. The covers smelled of medicine, of osmanthus, and of that faint, indescribable scent from him.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, moonlight had moved to the foot of the bed. The hall was darker, the brazier's fire only a red glow.
I raised my head, finding I had fallen asleep beside his bed. Hand still resting on the covers, somehow clasped by his. His hand was small, couldn't encompass mine, only holding two fingers. But holding tightly, as if afraid in dreams that I would run.
The night watch drum sounded outside again. Second watch.
The young eunuch peeked through the doorway again. I gently withdrew my hand from his palm. He moved, mumbling something indistinct from his mouth. Fingers grasping at empty air, finding nothing, then retreating back under the covers.
I stood, pulled the covers higher to cover his shoulders. Gathered his scattered hair on the pillow behind his ears. His ears were small, lobes thin, moonlight falling upon them, almost translucent.
I looked one last time, turned and left.
At the doorway, I looked back. He curled in the covers, a small bundle. Moonlight fell upon him like a thin layer of frost.
Returning to the Inner Kitchen, Eunuch Li stood at the entrance. He looked at me, said nothing, stepped aside. I walked in; only then did he say softly behind me: "Don't do this again next time. Not every time will someone help block for you."
I didn't look back, but nodded.
The next day, when the young eunuch came, his manner was normal, not mentioning last night's events. I don't know if no one saw, or if someone saw and didn't speak.
That evening, I wrote a few characters by lamplight—not for him, but for myself to remember:
"Porridge drunk. Fever not yet broken. But slept deeply. In dreams, don't know whose hand was grasped."
After writing, I folded the paper and tucked it beneath my pillow. With those notes. With that jade. With Grandfather's paper.
Snow continued falling outside the window. I closed my eyes, still feeling the warmth his clasp had left in my palm. Very warm. Warm like that nudge against my hand.
Grandfather, you said he died at twenty-five. I know. The characters in history books are cold; he is not. He can burn with fever, can be unable to eat, can nudge against a hand, can grasp two fingers in dreams and not let go. He is alive. So I must make him live well too.
Tomorrow, brew another pot of porridge. Add more osmanthus. Let him smell the sweetness, and he won't taste the medicine's bitterness.
[End of Chapter 9]