The tenth day of the third month, the first year of Shaosheng.
The day after the grand wedding.
Before dawn broke, the lamps in Qingshou Palace were lit—not just one, but hundreds of them. They blazed from inside the hall all the way to the outer courtyard, illuminating the entire palace with bright light. Palace maids hurried back and forth along the corridors with hot water, towels, and incense burners, their steps light and silent, not a word spoken among them.
I sat up on the bed, my hair loose over my shoulders, uncombed. He had already risen, standing by the window with his back to me. Sunlight streamed in behind him, casting his tall shadow at my feet.
"Awake?" he asked softly.
"Yes," I replied.
"Everything is ready outside," he said.
"Yes," I murmured.
He turned around to look at me, dressed in ordinary silk robes, no crown on his head, his hair loose. He walked over and sat down beside the bed, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"Aheng," he called.
"Yes," I answered.
"I cannot stay with you today," he said.
"I know," I told him.
"Are you afraid to be alone?" he asked, his eyes bright with worry, tension, and a hint of something I could not quite name.
I looked at him and shook my head. "Not afraid."
"You're lying. Your hands are shaking," he said gently.
I glanced down at my hands, and sure enough, they trembled slightly. He took them in his, large and warm, wrapping his hands completely around mine.
"Aheng. The Empress Dowager sat here alone like this once, listening to the women kowtow and offer congratulations. No one stood behind the curtain to support her. But you are not alone. I will not be behind the curtain—I will wait for you in Funing Hall," he paused, his voice soft and steady. "Wait for you to come back and eat."
Those two words—eat—were like a calming pill. No matter how many kowtows and long lives were called outside, there would still be a bowl of warm congee waiting for me when I returned. I squeezed his hand a little tighter.
"Alright," I said.
He smiled, let go of my hands, and stood up, walking toward the door before turning back once more.
"Aheng," he called.
"Yes," I replied.
"Don't be afraid. They kneel to the queen, not to you. Sit quietly, and let them kneel," he said firmly.
He left, the hem of his robe tapping softly against the stone slabs, just as it had when he was nine years old. But his hands were now big enough to hold mine entirely, and his heart strong enough to uphold the entire realm.
Palace maids filed in to comb my hair, dress me, and place the crown on my head. The empress's ceremonial robe felt a little lighter than the day before, yet still heavy—deep blue brocade, embroidered with a hundred and forty-eight pairs of golden pheasants, each outlined in shimmering gold thread. The phoenix crown weighed down on my head, pearls hanging low, casting a hazy, shimmering light. I looked at myself in the bronze mirror: I was no longer Shen Heng. I was the Queen.
"Your Ladyship, the auspicious hour has arrived," the Head Palace Lady reminded gently from outside the curtain.
I stood up, the Nine Dragon and Four Phoenix Crown swaying slightly with my movement, letting out a faint, delicate rustle. I walked to the door and paused, glancing back. The bed was neatly made, two pillows placed side by side. The spot where he had slept the night before still held a faint warmth, but it was fading fast. He was gone, waiting for me in Funing Hall.
The main hall of Qingshou Palace was fully prepared. The imperial seat was set in the center, with a red carpet laid out before it. Hundreds of candles burned inside the hall, flooding it with bright light, and the air was thick with the scent of sandalwood mixed with floral fragrance, heavy and lingering. I stepped into the main hall and took my seat. The phoenix crown and heavy robe forced me to sit straight, no leaning, no slouching. The hall doors stood wide open, sunlight pouring in like a waterfall, lighting up the red carpet below the stone steps.
A eunuch called out in a clear, loud voice: "All imperial and official ladies, enter—"
Dressed in deep red gauze robes, wide-sleeved blouses, and flower-adorned crowns, hundreds of ladies streamed into the hall like a tide, lining up on both sides by rank. Women of the imperial clan, wives and daughters of court officials, filled the space from the hall doors to the stone steps below. Some wore elaborate makeup and jewel-encrusted headpieces, others simple and elegant attire, in shades of crimson, blue, and green, like a colorful cloud spreading across the hall. In that moment, I felt impossibly high, so high that I felt cold.
"Kowtow—"
The tide of ladies prostrated themselves, all jewels and headpieces bowed low, the hall falling completely silent. I sat there, palms sweaty, but I did not tremble. I rested my hands on my knees, clenching them tight, then relaxing, then clenching again—just as he had said. They knelt to the queen, not to me. I would sit quietly, and let them kneel.
"Rise—"
The ladies stood, then knelt again, then rose once more. Three kneels and nine kowtows, the ritual of full respect. With each bow, the jewels on their crowns tinkled softly, like gentle rain. When the ceremony ended, the ladies retreated to the sides and stood in orderly rows.
The master of ceremonies called out again: "Official ladies present congratulatory letters—"
The prime minister's wife stepped forward from the line, holding a golden letter in her hands, knelt before the hall steps, and held the letter high above her head. It bore a congratulatory message, written in elaborate parallel prose that I could not fully understand—except for the final line, which rang clear: "May the Queen, as mother of the realm, match the virtue of the earth, and bring eternal prosperity to the dynasty." Her voice was steady, neither too loud nor too soft, echoing through the hall.
A eunuch took the golden letter and placed it on the table before me. It was heavy, the characters on it neat and precise, every stroke deliberate.
The master of ceremonies called: "Official ladies, retreat—"
The ladies filed out of the hall in turn, their steps light and uniform, like a tide receding. Silence settled over the hall once more. A candle flame flickered, and my shadow swayed slightly on the wall.
I sat high on the seat, staring at the empty hall. Sunlight fell on the carpet, on the spots where the ladies had knelt, leaving deep, clear indentations. I reached out and touched the golden letter on the table; it was cold. I pulled my hand back and rested it on my knee. He was not behind the curtain. He was in Funing Hall, waiting for me, waiting for me to come back and eat.
That afternoon, Zhao Xu came to Qingshou Palace to find me. He had changed out of his court robes, wearing only a dark, simple long robe, his hair loose, no crown bound. He stood at the door, sunlight behind him, casting his shadow at my feet.
"Come. Let's go to the Imperial Garden," he said.
"Now?" I asked, surprised.
"Now. The osmanthus has not bloomed yet, but the peach blossoms have," he replied with a soft smile.
The peach blossoms in the Imperial Garden were in full bloom—not in dense, noisy clusters, but scattered here and there, beside green bamboo, behind rockeries. They were soft pink and tender, their petals still dotted with morning dew. He stood under a peach tree, tilting his head to look up, sunlight filtering through the branches and leaves, dappling his face with light and shadow.
"Aheng," he called.
"Yes," I answered.
"Look at that one," he said, pointing to the highest bloom on the branch. It was perfectly in full bloom, its petals soft pink, almost translucent in the sunlight.
"You can't reach it," I said.
"I can," he said, reaching up easily to bend the branch down. He plucked the blossom and held it in his palm—small, pink, like a tiny cloud. He tucked it gently behind my ear, his fingertips brushing my cheek softly.
"For you," he said.
"Why a peach blossom?" I asked.
"Because osmanthus is far away, we have to wait until autumn," he said, looking straight into my eyes. "Peach blossoms are here, now."
He stepped back to look at me, no heavy phoenix crown, no cold ceremonial robe, just this delicate, trembling peach blossom in my hair.
"Aheng," he said.
"Yes," I replied.
"Today is the tenth day of the third month, the first year of Shaosheng. It is our first day as husband and wife. Our first day watching peach blossoms together," he paused and smiled. "From now on, even when we are old and gray, as long as I am here, every day will be a first day."
The wind blew, and peach petals fell like rain. I touched the blossom behind my ear; it was soft, warm, alive. Compared to the cold, heavy phoenix crown, this was the only thing I wanted to wear for a lifetime.
He took my hand in his again.
"Aheng," he said.
"Yes," I answered.
"You sat there alone today. Were you afraid?" he asked.
"I was," I admitted quietly.
"What did you do?" he asked gently.
"I—" I thought for a moment. "I put my hands on my knees, clenched them tight, relaxed, then clenched them again."
He laughed softly, a light sound like wind rippling over water.
"I was afraid too," he said.
"What were you afraid of?" I asked.
"Afraid you were scared," he replied. "Afraid you were alone with no one to help you. Afraid you wouldn't tell me when you came back. Afraid—" his voice softened "—afraid you would feel that being the queen weighs more than being Shen Heng."
I said nothing, and he pressed my hand gently against his cheek. His cheek was warm, his hands warm, his heart full of warmth.
"Aheng," he said.
"Yes," I replied.
"From now on, you are still Shen Heng. Not the queen, not mother of the realm, not the virtuous match for the emperor. Just Shen Heng. The one who makes me egg fried rice. The one who writes notes for me. The one who—" he looked at me steadily "—the one who picked osmanthus for me when I couldn't reach it."
"Alright," I promised.
He smiled, squeezing my hand a little tighter.
That night, I pressed the peach blossom between the pages of my notes—small, pink, thin. I placed it with the old notes, the jade pendant, the wheat stalk, and the dried golden osmanthus flower. On one old note, his childish handwriting stared back: "Will you come tomorrow?" Written when he was nine.
Will you come tomorrow? I came. For five years. And I will come for a lifetime.
The moon outside the window was round and bright. The peach blossoms were in full bloom. He had plucked one and placed it in my hand. He said every day would be a first day from now on. The first day as queen. The first day sitting alone before the court. The first day hearing them call me mother of the realm. The first day he was not behind the curtain, waiting for me in Funing Hall, waiting for me to come back and eat.
Eat. Not queen, not mother of the realm, not virtuous match for the emperor. Just eating. Just Shen Heng. The one who picked osmanthus for him when he couldn't reach. The one who made him egg fried rice. The one who wrote him notes. The one who belonged to him.
[End of Chapter 41]