The eighth day of the fifth month, the fourth year of Yuanyou.Before dawn broke, Zhao Xu arrived.
He stood at the entrance of the Inner Kitchen, wearing a moon-white robe tied with an ink-black leather belt strung with a piece of white jade. No crimson official robe, no silver tally—he looked like an ordinary young man out on errands. Yet the moon-white fabric made him seem steeped in moonlight; his collar was slightly open, revealing a patch of sun-kissed skin below his collarbone, a shade darker than his face. His cuffs were rolled up twice, exposing his forearms, the muscle lines stretching from wrist to elbow, not bulky, but the smooth, green strength of a boy just coming into his own.
His eyes were different. The brightness was not that of a youth, but of a hunter—taut, quiet, ready to strike at any moment.
"Let's go," he said.
This time, we did not use the back gate of the Imperial City Guard. Zhao Xu led me out through a side gate of the Imperial Garden, crossed an overgrown path no one used, climbed over a low wall, and dropped into a narrow alley. The alley was tight, flanked by high walls with weeds growing along the tops. He walked ahead, I followed. His steps were light, barely making a sound.
"How do you know this path?"
"Eunuch Li taught me. He said the palace has more than gates—it has walls. Climb over, and you're outside."
I froze. Eunuch Li—the old man who sat by the Inner Kitchen every day drinking tea, never asking where I came from. He knew everything.
The address on the note was in the southern city, a lane called Tianshui Alley. It was not wide, but busier than Willow Alley. Dawn had just painted the sky, and vendors were already setting up stalls. Zhao Xu slowed his pace, looking like a young lord out for a stroll. I trailed behind, pretending to examine the roadside stalls.
Midway down the lane, he stopped and checked the plaque. Number Seventeen. The door was old, paint peeling, but the knocker shone bright, as if often touched. He knocked three times. No answer. Another three. The door creaked open a crack, and a single eye peered out. Bloodshot, as if it had not slept in days.
"Who are you looking for?"
"Chen An."
The eye behind the gap widened. The door began to slam shut. Zhao Xu planted his foot to block it, his hand already on the hilt of his dagger. The man behind the door paled at the sight of the blade, let go, and stumbled back two steps.
He was a young man, thin as a bamboo pole, wearing a filthy short shirt. His face was pale, dark circles carved deep under his eyes, lips cracked as if he had not drunk water in ages.
"Where is Chen An?"
"I—I don't know. He left three days ago. Took nothing, just left. Said someone was going to kill him, that he had to run, as far as possible."
"Did he say who wanted him dead?"
"No. He didn't dare. He was afraid—afraid if he spoke, I'd die too." The young man's voice trembled. "He said if anyone came looking for him, I should say I don't know. If I told the truth, that man would kill me too."
Zhao Xu stared at him for a long time. Then he relaxed his grip on the hilt and stepped back.
"What shoes was he wearing when he left?"
The young man blinked. "What?"
"Shoes. What was on his feet when he left?"
"I—I don't know. I was still asleep when he left."
Zhao Xu crouched and studied the floor. By the bed lay a pair of shoes, soles worn through but uppers new. He flipped one over and examined the mud: dry, but sandy—the kind only found by rivers. He walked to the bed, lifted the pillow. Underneath was a piece of paper, a rough sketch of a map along the Bian River. The great river that cut through the capital, leading to Jianghuai. He folded it and tucked it into his sleeve.
"He went to the river. Left by boat."
The young man's legs gave out; he collapsed to the ground. "I know nothing. He told me nothing."
Zhao Xu pulled a piece of broken silver from his sleeve and set it on the table. "Buy new shoes. Don't tell anyone I was here."
He turned and left. I followed. At the door, I glanced back. The young man sat on the floor, clutching the silver, head bowed.
After leaving Tianshui Alley, Zhao Xu walked quickly. I nearly jogged to keep up. He reached the Bian River and halted. The river was wide, water turbid; several boats moored at the bank, boatmen unloading goods. He stood by the water, watching the boats, the men, the waterbirds skimming the surface.
"He's gone. The trail is cold."
"Not necessarily." I crouched and studied the mud. The riverbank was wet, covered in footprints—some fresh, some old, some leading to boats, some to shore. "You said he left three days ago. His prints would be gone by now. But… he wore thick clothes. In the fifth month, anyone boarding a boat dressed like that would stick in a boatman's mind."
Zhao Xu walked to the nearest boat. The boatman, a middle-aged man with tanned skin and muscular arms, was hauling cargo.
"Brother, three days ago, did a young man in thick clothes board a boat?"
The boatman did not look up. "Hundreds get on every day. Who remembers?"
Zhao Xu placed a silver coin on the deck. The boatman glanced at it, set down his load, and raised his head.
"Thick clothes? In the fifth month?"
"Yes. Very thin, pale face, dark under the eyes."
The boatman thought. "Yeah. Before dawn three days ago, a man got on a northbound boat. Wrapped up like a rice dumpling." He paused. "Got on Old Zhou's boat. He runs the northern route, shipping porcelain."
"Where is Old Zhou's boat now?"
"Gone. Left three days ago. By now—he should be at the Yellow River estuary."
Zhao Xu's expression darkened. The Yellow River estuary. Three hundred li from the capital. Three days—too late to catch up.
"What did he carry when he boarded?"
The boatman thought. "A small bundle, but heavy. Held it tight, wouldn't let anyone touch." He lowered his voice. "I asked out of curiosity what treasure he had. He ignored me. But when he stepped on board, I caught a glimpse—letters. Lots of letters."
Zhao Xu's hand twitched. A tiny movement, but I saw it. His fingers tightened, then relaxed.
"When will Old Zhou return?"
"Return? A trip north takes at least two or three months. He won't be back until he's sold his goods and collected the money."
Zhao Xu stood by the river, staring north. Waterbirds flew past, heading farther and farther away. He stood so long I thought he would not speak.
"Let's go."
We walked back along the bank. He walked slowly, so did I. Beneath a stone bridge, he stopped, leaned against a pier, and closed his eyes. The river rushed under the bridge, as if speaking.
"Chen An fled. Consort Liu won't talk. That man—" he paused, "—is still out there."
"What will you do?"
He was silent for a long time.
"I can't catch up," he said softly, as if convincing himself. "Three hundred li, three days. I can't reach him. But I learned one thing—the letters Chen An carried are worth more than silver. That man isn't silencing people over money. He's silencing them over letters."
"What kind of letters?"
"I don't know. But letters that make a man flee to Liao… they can't be trivial."
He opened his eyes and looked at me. Shadows under the bridge fell across his face, half-light, half-dark.
"Aheng, do you think… that man could be connected to Liao?"
"You mean… colluding with Liao?"
"I don't know. But… the Vice Minister of Revenue managed grain and pay; the Hanlin Lecturer handled edicts. One controlled money, the other documents. If both worked for that man, he wanted more than silver." He paused. "He wanted wealth, power… something that reaches Liao."
I looked at him. He stood beneath the bridge, the river roaring, his voice soft but every word clear.
"What will you do?"
"Wait. Wait for Old Zhou to return. Wait for Consort Liu to make up her mind. Wait for that man to reveal himself." He paused. "Wait inside the palace. At the Imperial City Guard. In the Imperial Garden. Wait for him to make a mistake."
He turned toward the palace. I followed. After a few steps, he stopped and held out his hand—palm open, not gripping my wrist. I looked at his hand: long fingers, distinct knuckles, faint calluses. I placed my hand in his. He closed his fingers around mine. His palm was hot, but his fingertips were cold from gripping too tightly earlier.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"Do you think I'm useless?"
"Why would I?"
"I can't catch him. Can't get anyone to talk. Can't do anything."
I squeezed his hand. "You're only thirteen."
"Thirteen is not young."
"Not young, but not yet old enough." I paused. "Wait. Wait until you're older. Wait until you can leave the palace without climbing walls. Wait until you can investigate anyone you want. Wait until—when you stand before that man, he dares not run."
He said nothing. We walked a long while, nearly to the palace, before he spoke.
"Alright. I'll wait."
By the time we returned from Tianshui Alley, it was dark. The Bian River wind had blown all afternoon, and my legs had gone weak—not from tiredness, but from fear. I hadn't been afraid when chased in Willow Alley, nor when he mentioned collusion with Liao beneath the bridge. But once we reached the Inner Kitchen and the wind died, my legs refused to obey.
"What's wrong?" He turned back.
"My legs are weak."
He walked over and crouched before me, quickly, as if he had already decided. The moon-white robe glowed faintly in the dusk, the jade at his waist swaying lightly. He squatted there, the hair on his nape cut short, exposing clean, slightly tanned skin; the line of his back through the thin fabric was like a drawn bow.
"Get on."
"Why are you carrying me again?"
"You don't want to walk."
"How do you know?"
"Your posture. When your legs are weak, your right foot turns outward." He paused. "You've been walking like that since we left Tianshui Alley."
I stared. We had walked a full shichen since then. He had been watching me the entire time.
"Why didn't you say so earlier?"
"Because you wouldn't let me carry you if I did."
"Yet you still want to?"
"If you don't want to walk, I won't make you. If you don't want to speak, I won't ask. If you want to be carried, I'll carry you." His voice was steady, like the Bian River flowing under the bridge, calm and unhurried.
I climbed onto his back. He stood up, steady as ever. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my cheek pressed to his shoulder blades. They dug gently into my face, hard and thin like two small blades.
The moon rose. Not full, but a slender crescent, like an eyebrow. The scholar trees lining the Imperial Avenue bloomed white as snow, clusters hanging heavy. Wind blew, showering us in petals. A few landed in his hair, small and white like scattered silver. His moon-white robe fluttered in the wind; he walked in the moonlight like a painting.
His heartbeat thudded steadily through his back. I pressed my ear closer.
"Your heartbeat is so slow."
"Because you're on my back. When you're not, it's fast."
"Why?"
"When you're not here, I have to hurry. When you are, I don't."
I laughed and buried my face in his shoulder. His clothes smelled of soap, of Bian River wind, and a faint sweat. Not pleasant. But I did not want to lift my head.
"Aheng, can you sing?"
"What song?"
"Any song. The ones you used to sing in America."
I lifted my face and thought toward the moon. The first song that came to mind was by Cyndi Wang. Back in high school, our dorm played it nonstop. Emily said it sounded like candy. I said it sounded like eyelashes.
"I know one. It's called Curved Eyelashes."
"Curved Eyelashes? What does that mean?"
"It means… eyelashes that curve, very pretty. Like yours."
He said nothing. But I felt his ear grow hot, burning my cheek through his robe.
I cleared my throat and sang to the moon.
"My heart's pounding fast, soul almost floating away, this feeling is so rightOh~ you smile at me, eyelashes curved, eyes blinkingWords on my lips, why do they turn? Your smile like the crescent moonSweet scent fills the air, our love like cakeOne bite from you and I'm drunk, your curved eyelashes, blinking eyesShining like stars, lighting up the nightYour curved eyelashes, curved mouthLike a crescent moon hanging in the sky, curved~"
He walked slower, steps steady. The Imperial Avenue was empty but for us, petals carpeting the ground soft underfoot. My voice drifted in the open street, scattered by wind, gathered again by moonlight.
"What language is this?"
"Chinese. But it's a song. I listened to it as a child."
"When you were little?"
"Mm. Middle school. They played it at school every day."
"Is it nice?"
"Very."
"Then I'll learn it too."
"You can't. It's in Chinese."
"You teach me. Whatever you teach, I'll learn."
He walked slower still. The moon followed, shining on his eyelashes. They were long and curved, like two small fans. I lay on his back, watching the line of his face—straight nose, sharp jaw, thin lips naturally upturned. Moonlight carved his features deep, the arch of his brow like a bridge, the shadow of his lashes trembling on his cheek with every step.
"Your eyelashes are so long."
"Mm."
"Curved."
"Mm."
"Like the moon."
He fell silent. But I saw his ear redden again, from tip to lobe, almost translucent in moonlight.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"That song you just sang… Curved Eyelashes. Who was it for?"
"For someone with curved eyelashes."
"Then who am I?"
"You're the one carrying me."
"What else?"
"You're—" I whispered close to his ear, as if afraid the moon might hear, "you're Zhao Xu."
His heartbeat skipped a beat. Thump. Through robe, through back, through moonlight.
"What else?"
"You're the Emperor."
Another skip. Thump.
"What else?"
"You're—" I buried my face in his shoulder, voice muffled, "you're mine."
His heart stopped for a beat. Then it raced. Thump-thump-thump-thump, like someone knocking urgently.
"Your heart is beating so fast."
"From walking."
"Liar. It wasn't this fast when you first carried me."
"That was then."
"What about now?"
"Now—" He stopped, turned his head, his ear near my mouth, "now you're singing. To me."
"So what if I am?"
"It sounds nice. So my heart beats faster."
I laughed and nuzzled his neck, breathing in the sun-warmed scent of his skin.
"Will you sing again later?"
"I will."
"Every day?"
"Every day. Until your ears stop turning red."
"That'll take a long time."
"I don't mind. We have plenty of time."
He carried me across the Imperial Avenue, through the palace paths, to the stone road outside the Inner Kitchen. The moon followed us all the way. He crouched and set me down. My feet touched the ground, still unsteady.
"Go inside."
"Alright."
He let go. My hand fell, brushing his. He did not move. I hooked my little finger around his. Neither did he. Moonlight fell on our linked fingers, his burning red ear, my scraped ankle.
"See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
He released me and turned away. After a few steps, he looked back.
"Aheng."
"Mm?"
"I learned Curved Eyelashes. I'll sing it for you tomorrow."
He smiled, then turned and ran. The hem of his robe slapped against the stone, just like when he was nine. But his back was no longer that of a nine-year-old. Broad-shouldered, straight-waisted, he ran like wind. His moon-white robe floated like a cloud.
After a few steps, he suddenly spun around and shouted:
"Aheng! Your eyelashes are curved too! They're beautiful!"
Then he ran off, not looking back. His robe flared high like a flag.
I stood at the Inner Kitchen gate, watching his shadow disappear behind the palace wall. Moonlight shone on my own curved eyelashes. I touched them; they were hot.
That night, I wrote on a slip of paper:Went to Tianshui Alley today. Chen An fled. Took a boat north toward Liao. Can't catch him. Boatman said he carried many letters. He said he will wait. Wait in the palace. Wait for Old Zhou to return. Wait for Consort Liu to decide. Wait for that man to show himself. He said he will wait until he is older. Until he can investigate anyone. Until that man dares not run before him. My legs went weak on the way back, so he carried me. He looked beautiful in moon-white. His eyelashes are long and curved. He said he'll sing for me tomorrow. I'm waiting.
After writing, I tucked the note under my pillow, with the old ones, the jade, the wheat stalk, and the dried golden osmanthus petal. Four years. He had grown from nine to thirteen. From too short to reach the osmanthus, to a head taller than me. From messy scribbled notes, to carrying me the length of the Imperial Avenue. From listening to my English songs, to learning Curved Eyelashes. He said he would sing tomorrow. The day after. Years from now. Every year.
The crescent moon hung outside the window, thin and fine, like an eyebrow. Like his eyelashes. I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, he would come again. He would carry me again. He would sing Curved Eyelashes. When he sang, his ears would turn red. His eyelashes were long and curved. Very beautiful.
End of Chapter 29