Early June, the fourth year of Yuanyou.The day after the Empress Dowager summoned me, Zhao Xu did write a note—not to me, but to her. When the young eunuch came for the food box, he whispered:
"His Majesty sent a note to Funing Hall today. This servant didn't see what it said, but the eunuch who delivered it came back with red eyes."
I ladled porridge into the lacquered box and sprinkled an extra handful of osmanthus."What did the Empress Dowager have made today?"
"Her Highness ordered osmanthus cake from the kitchen. Said it was His Majesty's favorite when he was little."
That afternoon, Zhao Xu came to find me in the Imperial Garden.He sat under the osmanthus tree, clutching an old note—frayed at the edges, folds nearly torn. He handed it to me. I unfolded it.
On it was a line of crooked writing, like a toddler's:"Empress Dowager, I have eaten well. Have you?"
"She gave this to you?"
"Mm. Had someone send it over today." He took it back, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his sleeve. "She said she kept it for seven years. Now it's time to return it."
"Why?"
"She said—" He paused. "She said I don't need to write anymore. If I have something to say, I can say it to her face."
He lifted his head and looked at the osmanthus tree. Leaves glistened green in the wind, sunlight dappling his face.
"I went to greet her today. Spoke to her face. Said, 'Empress Dowager, I have eaten well.' She said, 'I see.' She said I've grown taller. Much taller than last year. She said—"
He fell silent, staring at his hands. They were no longer a child's hands—long fingers, defined knuckles, faint calluses on the palms. Yet when he held that note, he still looked six: afraid of being seen, yet unwilling to hide it.
"What else did she say?"
"She said—" His voice was soft. "When the late Emperor passed, she wrote a note too. Placed it in his coffin. No one else saw it. She wrote—"
"I will raise him well."
Wind stirred the osmanthus leaves, rustling softly.He sat there, broad-shouldered, back straight. Yet with his head bowed over that old note, he looked like a little boy.
"She kept her promise," I said.
He lifted his eyes to me, bright and glistening, but no tears fell.
"Mm. She did."
That afternoon, Zhao Xu did not go to the Imperial City Guard.He sat in the garden with me, going through a box of old notes—not the ones he had written me, but older ones. The Empress Dowager had sent it over: every note he had written from ages six to nine. To the late Emperor, to her, to his tutor, to no one in particular. Some were only a few characters; some filled a whole page. Some were messy, others already steady.
He flipped through them slowly. He stopped at one.
"This was for Father." He handed it to me."Father, Grand Tutor praised me today. Said my calligraphy is good."Dated the seventh year of Yuanfeng—he was eight.
"Father replied. Sent a message back: just 'Good.'" He placed it back. "Only one character. But I was happy for days."
He picked another. "This was to my tutor. Asking when class would end." He laughed. "He didn't reply. Added an extra lesson the next day."
At the very last one, he paused. Small, folded twice, neat edges. He opened it, stared for a long time, then gave it to me.
"Aheng, I have eaten well. Have you?"Eighth year of Yuanfeng. He was nine. The year we first met.
"You still kept this?"
"Mm. The Empress Dowager kept it for me." He folded it carefully and slipped it into his sleeve. "She said this one mattered most."
He did not say why, but I knew.It was the first note he ever wrote that got a reply.I had written back: I have eaten well too.He had remembered for four years.
Beneath everything lay one more note—not written by Zhao Xu.Paper yellowed and brittle, edges tattered. The writing was dignified, precise, as if carved into stone.Zhao Xu picked it up, his fingers trembling.
"What is it?"
He did not answer, just handed it to me.
It read:"I will raise him well."No greeting, no signature.It was the Empress Dowager's handwriting. I had seen it on records—strict, proper. But this was different. The final stroke drooped, as if her hand had shaken as she wrote.
Zhao Xu took it back and held it in his palm. The note was tiny, like a dried leaf.
"She never told me," he said. "She only said the late Emperor was gone, that I must study hard, obey, and—" He paused. "Grow up."
He bowed his head and pressed the note to his forehead. Moonlight fell over him; his shoulders trembled, faintly, almost invisibly.
That night, he did not return to his hall.He leaned against the osmanthus tree, holding the box, watching the moon.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"Have you ever climbed a tree?"
"Yes."
"The tallest one?"
"No. The one behind Ande Palace. Not very high."
He stood, set the box under the tree, walked to the osmanthus, and grabbed the lowest branch. With a tug of his arm, he swung himself up. The branch swayed, a few leaves drifting down. He sat astride it and looked down at me.
"Come up."
"It's too high."
"It's not. You've climbed a rock wall. This is easier."
I froze. "How do you know about rock walls?"
"You told me. Back in America, your roommate dragged you to go." He held out his hand. "Come. I'll pull you."
I took his hand. It was large, long-fingered, wrapping completely around my wrist. He lifted me, and I stepped where he had, climbing onto the branch. It wobbled, then steadied. He sat beside me, shoulder to shoulder. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, spotting his face.
"Look." He pointed into the distance.
The entire palace lay beneath us: rooftops of Funing Hall, Daqing Hall, the side halls, layered like waves. Palace lanterns glowed orange, tiny as fireflies. The garden pool shimmered under moonlight, like a broken mirror. The red palace walls had turned deep crimson in the night.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"When you were in America, did you have trees like this?"
"Yes. Many."
"What kind?"
"Big ones. Oaks, maples, some I didn't know the names of. All over campus. In autumn, the leaves turn red and yellow, thick on the ground, crunching when you step on them."
"Did you climb them?"
"No." I paused. "I always wanted to stop and look, but I was always in a hurry to class. Ran past with coffee in the morning, back with my laptop in the afternoon. Those trees stood there for decades, but I never really looked."
"Why?"
"Too busy. Too much homework. Food experiments took all day. If the data didn't work, I had to start over. Papers revised again and again, professors never satisfied." I leaned against the trunk, watching the moon. "One class was food fermentation. Final project: invent my own fermented product. I chose rice wine. Spent a month in the lab, testing sugar and alcohol content dozens of times, pages of notes. In the end, the professor said, 'Not bad.' Just two words."
"Were you happy?"
"Yes. Because I made it myself. Soaking rice, steaming, mixing yeast, fermenting—every step. It was tiring, but when I opened the jar and smelled the wine, it was all worth it."
"Like egg fried rice?"
"What?"
"When you make egg fried rice. Tired, but happy."
I paused, then laughed. "Yes. Like egg fried rice."
"So you rarely looked at trees in America?"
"Mm. Hardly ever. Dorm to classroom, classroom to lab, lab back to dorm. Tall trees lining the roads, thick shade in summer. But I never stopped to really look at one."
"What about now?"
"Now—" I looked up at the osmanthus above, leaves silver in moonlight, rustling softly. Wind carried a faint, sweet osmanthus scent. "Now I see it. Big, old, quiet. Bigger than the oak I used to hurry past."
"Which one do you like better?"
I thought. "This one."
"Why?"
"Because you're here."
He fell silent. The wind died. Leaves stilled. Moonlight fell over us. He turned to look at me, eyes bright—holding moonlight, leaf shadows, and me.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"When you were in America, did anyone ever watch trees with you like this?"
"No. Not a single person."
"What did you think about when you watched trees alone?"
"Homework. Experiments. Papers. Where to work after graduation." I paused. "Never about the tree."
"What about now?"
"Now—" I looked into his eyes. His long, curved lashes glistened in moonlight. "Now I'm thinking about you."
His ear turned red, from tip to lobe, almost translucent in the moon. But he did not look away, just smiled faintly.
"Me too. Before, I only watched this tree waiting for the biggest bloom. Now, when I look at it, I think of you."
"What do you think about?"
"How you climbed the tree like a little monkey the first time."
"You're the monkey."
He laughed softly, like wind over water. His shoulder pressed warm against mine. His hand moved from the branch, slowly toward mine. Fingers brushed, paused, then hooked my little finger.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"Did anyone ever hook your little finger like this in America?"
"No. Americans don't do that."
"What do they do?"
"They say it."
"Say what?"
"I love you."
"What does that mean?"
"It means—" I looked at him. His eyes held curiosity, longing, something bright glowing deep within. "It means… I like you."
"Did anyone ever say that to you?"
"Never."
He was quiet for a moment. Wind rose again, leaves rustling. He laced his fingers through mine, holding my whole hand tightly.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"I don't know how to say that. But I can say this—you're mine. Since the day I first ate your egg fried rice, you've been mine."
His voice was soft, as if afraid the wind would carry it away. But every word was clear, carved into stone.
"What about you?"
"What?"
"Who do you belong to?"
He looked at me. In his eyes were moonlight, leaves, the palace, the Empress Dowager, the man he could not catch, the endless cases. But the brightest thing was me.
"Yours," he said. "I'm yours."
He lowered his head. His lashes brushed my brow, tickling. His lips touched my forehead, light as osmanthus petals on water. Then my nose. Then my lips.
He was not clumsy this time.His hand cupped my face, thumb gently brushing my cheek. His lips were warm and soft, sweet as osmanthus wine. His breath fanned over mine, hot and moist. He nibbled my lower lip lightly, as if tasting something, then kissed me again—slow, careful, focused. Like the first time he drew a bow, conducted an interrogation, made egg fried rice. He learned fast. Faster than archery, faster than investigating cases, faster than cooking.
I closed my eyes.His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. His heart pounded loudly through his robes. So did mine. Wind rustled the leaves. The moon emerged from clouds, round and bright, shining on our pressed lips.
He pulled back, forehead resting against mine, breathing unsteadily.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"You taste sweet."
"What's sweet?"
"You." He kissed the corner of my mouth. "Sweeter than osmanthus wine. Sweeter than ice cheese. Sweeter than egg fried rice."
"Egg fried rice is salty."
"Still sweeter."
He laughed, eyes curving like little bridges. He pulled me into his arms, chin resting on my head. His heart thundered, then slowly calmed. The watchman's drum sounded. Second watch. He fell asleep, leaning against the trunk, still holding my hand.
I rested against his shoulder, watching the moon climb higher.The Empress Dowager had made osmanthus cake. Not too sweet. She remembered his taste. She had written a note and placed it in the late Emperor's coffin. I will raise him well. She kept her word. He had grown up. He sat in a tree and kissed a girl from America. She did not know yet. But he would tell her. To her face.
Empress Dowager, I have grown up.Empress Dowager, I found someone.Empress Dowager, she is mine.
She would smile. Not too sweet. But warm.
Wind blew again. Osmanthus scent lingered, faint and gentle. I closed my eyes.All the trees I hurried past in New York, all the late nights in the lab, all the rewritten papers, all the lonely roads—they had all led me here, to a Song osmanthus tree, held by a thirteen-year-old emperor.
He slept. I slept.We sat in the tree all night.The moon crossed the sky, stars flickered. The sweet scent of osmanthus never faded, like her cake—mild, but warm.
End of Chapter 31