The ninth day of the third month, the first year of Shaosheng.
An auspicious day chosen by the Imperial Astronomical Bureau.
Before dawn broke, the entire imperial palace stirred awake. Not the jolting, somber alertness that came with the tolling of funeral bells, but a quiet, restrained bustle, thick with the joy of an approaching grand celebration. Palace maids hurried back and forth along the winding corridors, carrying red silk ribbons, red candles, and red lanterns, their steps swifter than usual yet not a single sound of hurried footsteps echoed. Eunuchs wiped the doors and windows of Funing Hall three times over, then hung new curtains—bright crimson, embroidered with golden phoenixes—neatly in place.
I sat in the side hall of Qingshou Palace, where the Empress Dowager had once lived, clutching a silver hairpin tightly in my hand. It was a gift from him, given to me when I was fourteen, and I had never dared to wear it, treasuring it all these years. Before the Empress Dowager passed away, she had ordered me moved here from the Imperial Kitchen. She had said a queen could not be married out of a kitchen. She had arranged everything, down to the last detail.
The door pushed open gently. Eunuch Li stepped in, holding a wooden box in his hands. He wore a new robe, deep blue in color, with hidden patterns embroidered on the cuffs—robes this fine, he had never worn before in all his years in the palace.
"Nervous?" he asked softly.
"Not at all," I replied.
"Your hands are shaking," he pointed out quietly.
I looked down at my hands, and indeed, they trembled slightly. It was not fear that made them shake, but the overwhelming, long-awaited relief of a wait that had finally ended. Five full years. From the eighth year of Yuanfeng to the first year of Shaosheng, from a bowl of egg fried rice in the Imperial Garden to the final edict presented in Chongqing Hall.
Eunuch Li set the box on the table and lifted the lid. Inside lay a pair of delicate silver bracelets, polished to a soft shine, carved with tiny osmanthus blossoms. These were not the work of palace artisans, but of craftsmen from Suzhou—only Suzhou silversmiths could carve osmanthus so small, so dense, so vividly lifelike. Beside the bracelets rested a neatly folded slip of paper, its edges frayed from years of being folded and unfolded. I spread it open, and the words written on it stared back at me: "Will you come tomorrow?" The handwriting was crooked and clumsy, like that of a child just learning to walk. It was the first note he had ever written to me, when he was only nine years old. Back then, he did not know my name, nor where I came from; he only knew I would bring him egg fried rice the next day.
"Eunuch Li—" I began, my voice catching.
"Don't speak. Put them on," he said gently, turning to walk to the window and standing with his back to me. His shoulders were narrow, his back slightly hunched. He had stood guard in the Imperial Kitchen for forty years, his back bent by years of toil, his hands rough and calloused, his ears permanently red from the kitchen heat.
I slipped the silver bracelets onto my wrists, then tucked the silver hairpin into my hair. I looked at myself in the bronze mirror: a face with Suzhou features, eyes that held the softness of my hometown, adorned with Suzhou-made silver hairpin and bracelets. Here in the imperial palace of the Great Song, after five long years of waiting, while the osmanthus trees still bore no blooms, I was going to marry him.
The auspicious hour drew near. The Commissioner of Palace Affairs led the bridal palanquin, setting off from Chongqing Hall toward Qingshou Palace. The eight-man carried palanquin was crimson, painted with golden phoenixes, its top adorned with pearls, and its curtain embroidered with the Hundred Sons pattern. A female official walked ahead holding a incense burner, and palace maids followed behind carrying a precious casket. All the way, ceremonial music blared, sheng and xiao flutes playing in harmony, the sound carrying for miles.
I stepped into the palanquin, and the curtain fell, blocking out all sight of the outside world. All I could hear was the steady rhythm of the ceremonial music, beating like a slow, steady heartbeat.
The palanquin left Qingshou Palace, passed through the Imperial Garden, went by Taihe Hall, and headed toward Funing Hall. The journey was short, yet it felt endless. Every step taken brought back a year of memories. I thought of the spring of the eighth year of Yuanfeng, when he had asked me in the Imperial Garden, "What are you doing?" I thought of that bowl of egg fried rice, the crooked little notes, the Empress Dowager saying, "I raised him well." I thought of him holding my hand and running along the imperial street, of him saying beneath the osmanthus tree, "Someday I'll reach all the flowers I want." I thought of him declaring in the court hall, "I will make her my queen," and of him pulling out the Empress Dowager's final edict in Chongqing Hall.
The palanquin stopped in front of Funing Hall. The curtain was lifted, and bright sunlight flooded in, making me squint.
He stood at the hall entrance, dressed in grand wedding robes—not the full imperial ceremonial crown and robes, but the Tiantong Crown attire. A deep red gauze robe, scarlet skirt, a jade and gold belt tied around his waist, and the Tiantong Crown upon his head, set with twenty-four pearls that glinted softly in the sunlight. He had grown so tall that I had to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. Sunlight shone behind him, casting his tall shadow over me. He stood there like a sturdy tree—not the osmanthus tree in the Imperial Garden, but a tree grown in the open wilderness, weathered by wind and rain, yet rooted deep, with branches stretching far and wide.
"You've come," he said softly.
"I've come," I answered.
He held out his hand—large, with long fingers, and faint calluses on the palm. I placed my hand in his, and he curled his fingers around mine, holding tight. His palm was scorching warm, sending a tight, warm flutter through my chest.
He led me into Funing Hall.
Inside, the imperial throne was set, with a red carpet laid out before it. Court officials stood in two rows, dressed in formal court robes, holding ivory tablets, holding their breath in solemn silence. Lü Dafang stood at the front, head bowed, his expression unreadable. Behind him was Fan Chunren, followed by ministers of the six ministries and nine courts. There was no curtain, no Empress Dowager—only him, and me.
The master of ceremonies called out in a loud, clear voice: "Her Majesty the Queen, Shen, shall receive the imperial credentials and seal—"
I knelt down. The heavy empress's robe dragged on the red carpet, its deep blue brocade embroidered with a hundred and forty-eight pairs of pheasants, each outlined in golden thread, glowing like colorful clouds. The Nine Dragon and Four Phoenix Crown on my head weighed heavily on my neck, countless pearls hanging before my eyes, casting a hazy, shimmering light. He knelt down too—not to the ministers, but to heaven and earth, to the imperial ancestors, and to the late Empress Dowager.
A eunuch stepped forward holding the golden credentials and imperial seal, both engraved with official script.
The credential text, written by the Hanlin Academy in ornate parallel prose, was too elaborate for me to remember all of it. Only one line burned itself into my mind: "We, Lady Shen, of a meritorious family, with virtue surpassing all ladies of the palace, hereby invest you as Queen with golden credentials and jade seal." The Hanlin scholars had written this exactly as the Empress Dowager had wished. She had not lived to see this day, but she had planned it all perfectly.
He took the heavy golden credentials, and instead of handing them directly to the Head Palace Lady, he turned and held them out to me with both hands. I lifted my head, looking at him through the swaying pearl curtain. His hand was steady, his fingers long and slender, marked with faint calluses from years of holding writing brushes.
"Take it," he whispered.
I stretched out both hands and accepted the weight of the queen's credentials. It felt heavy in my hands, yet I did not find it burdensome—for his hand had steadied it from below for a split second. The touch was brief, and he pulled his hand away at once, but in that instant, I felt his warm, steady warmth.
"The Queen has received the credentials. All officials shall present their congratulations—"
The master of ceremonies' voice echoed through the grand hall.
All officials knelt and prostrated themselves on the ground, a vast dark sea of robes. He stood tall above them, still holding my hand tightly, his fingers pressing gently into the back of my hand. His hand trembled slightly, so faintly that it would have gone unnoticed if I had not been holding it.
"Aheng," he murmured.
"Yes," I breathed.
"Are you afraid?"
"Not at all."
"Neither am I," he said, his palm damp with sweat.
The grand wedding ceremony finally drew to a close. The officials withdrew, and the ceremonial music fell silent.
Only the two of us remained in Funing Hall. Red wedding candles burned brightly, the dragon and phoenix patterned flames flickering, casting shifting lights and shadows over the red silk draping the hall. The Head Palace Lady led us to the eastern chamber, where we removed our heavy ceremonial robes and changed into ordinary silk clothes. She then led us back, and we sat facing each other before the bed for the Hejin ceremony—the ritual of sharing nuptial wine. The Imperial Food Steward presented two wine cups; we each drank half, exchanged cups, and finished the rest. The wine was sweet and warm, burning gently from my throat down to my heart.
He helped me remove the phoenix crown. It was so heavy that my neck felt light the moment it was taken off, yet my heart felt heavy and soft. He set the crown on the table, then brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His finger brushed my ear lightly, quickly, but his palm was still warm.
"Aheng," he said.
"Yes," I replied.
"Do you know what else the Empress Dowager said to me before she passed, besides the final edict?"
"What was it?" I asked.
He pulled the silver hairpin from my hair and held it in his palm, the silver glowing softly in the candlelight.
"She said the dragon throne is bitterly cold. To sit on it, one must turn to stone, to clay, to a lonely ruler with no kin," he paused, his voice soft. "She said if there is one person who can make you feel like you are not stone when you wake at midnight—hold onto that person."
He placed the silver hairpin on the table, next to the wheat stalk and the dried osmanthus flower he had kept for years.
"Aheng," he said again.
"Yes."
"All those people outside kneel to the Son of Heaven, to the Zhao dynasty's empire. Only you," he looked straight into my eyes, "kneel to Zhao Xu."
He fell silent. A candle flame flickered, and his eyes lit up with it. He reached out and wrapped my hand in both of his.
"Aheng, do you know why the Empress Dowager chose you?"
I thought for a moment. "Because I made you egg fried rice?"
He laughed softly, a gentle sound like wind rippling over water.
"No. Because you are the only one in this palace who dares to ignore my trivial orders, yet treasures me more than your own life," he paused. "The Empress Dowager said you never feared her. She punished you, and you did not fear. She scolded you, and you did not fear. She told you to put less sugar in the food, you obeyed once, then snuck more the next time. But when she was ill, you stayed up all night cooking congee for her. When she coughed, you stood outside the door, too afraid to enter, yet unwilling to leave. She said—" his voice softened even more "—this palace has too many people who follow the rules. It does not need another one. What it needs is someone who breaks the rules, but holds fast to their heart."
He fell silent again, pressing my hand gently against his cheek. His cheek was hot, his hands warm, his heart full of warmth.
"Aheng," he said.
"Yes."
"From now on, help me. Help me remember the things I ought to remember. Help me hold onto my heart. Don't let it—" he paused, his voice quiet "—don't let it turn completely cold in this court."
"I will," I promised.
He smiled, lowering his head to rest his forehead against my hand. His forehead was warm, his eyelashes brushing lightly against my fingertips, tickling softly.
"Aheng," he whispered.
"Yes."
"I waited five years."
"I know."
"No more waiting, from now on."
The moon hung outside the window, round and bright. The osmanthus trees had not bloomed yet, but it would not be long. Wind blew over the upturned eaves of Funing Hall, rustling the branches of the bare tree. We stood side by side. From this day forward, all storms, hardships, and joys would be shared by two people.
That night, I placed the silver bracelets next to the old note, along with the jade pendant, the wheat stalk, and the dried osmanthus flower. The note still bore his childish handwriting: "Will you come tomorrow?" Written when he was nine years old.
Will you come tomorrow? I came. For five years. And I will come for a lifetime.
The moon outside was round and bright. He stood beneath the tree, tilting his head to look at the branches. I stood beside him, watching him. He said it would be soon. I heard him. I saw it too.
[End of Chapter 40]