The seventh year of the Former Yuan era, the fifteenth day of the eighth month.
The moon outside the workshop window had already risen. Large and round, it hung from the treetops like a bronze mirror without a single flaw.
I looked down at the mirror on my workbench, still unfinished—shattered into a dozen pieces, the largest no bigger than a palm. Moonlight streamed through the window, falling on the fragments, each reflecting a cold glint.The moon in the sky is whole. The mirror in my hand is broken.
Qingxing brought in a plate of mooncakes, placing them on the corner of the workbench. The mooncakes were round too, stacked beside the shattered mirror—an irony that felt sharp.
"Lady Lu," she said, "His Highness said he would hold a banquet today."
"Mm."
"Will Lady Lu not go?"
"I am not a close minister. What would I do there?"
Qingxing opened her mouth as if to say something, then swallowed her words. She stood for a moment, then whispered, "His Highness said to let Lady Lu wait for him."
The brush in my hand paused.
"Wait for what?"
"This servant does not know. His Highness just said that."
She left. The workshop fell silent. Moonlight poured in, casting the shadows of the broken mirror onto the workbench, piece by piece, like a cracked heart.Mid-Autumn Festival.
In Florence, this day was no different from any other. Classes, restoration, returning to the apartment. Whether the moon was round or not had nothing to do with me.
But today, I was waiting.
When this thought surfaced, I looked down at my hands—hands that had repaired artifacts for five years, hands steady enough to handle countless fragments. My fingertips were trembling slightly.
The sound of the door being pushed open. I looked up—
It was not Liu Che.
It was a maid I had never seen before. She wore pale green silk, a silk flower adorning her bun—the festive attire of the palace. Her expression was so dignified she looked as if she had stepped out of a painting.
"Lady Lu?" Her voice was light but steady.
"Yes."
"Lady Wang invites you over."Lady Wang. Liu Che's mother. The future Empress Dowager Wang.
I put down my brush and stood up, glancing at my clothes. Today I wore a half-oldquju robe; the cuffs had lacquer stains, and mineral pigment was embedded under my nails. Similar to when I went to see Ajiao last time.
"Allow me to change my clothes."
"No need," the maid said. "Lady Wang said to come just as you are."
The exact same words as last time. But the tone was completely different. When Ajiao's maid said "just as you are," it carried contempt. When this maid said it, it was merely a statement.
I said nothing more and followed her.
We crossed the corridors of the Eastern Palace, where lanterns of all sizes hung, illuminating the entire path brightly. Passing the main hall, I heard the sounds of a banquet inside—clinking cups, constant laughter.He is holding a banquet for close ministers today. So Qingxing was telling the truth.
Turning into a path I had never walked, we went deeper and deeper, becoming quieter and quieter. The sounds of the banquet faded, while the scent of osmanthus grew stronger. Finally, we stopped before a courtyard. The gate was open; inside grew several osmanthus trees, their golden flowers in full bloom, the fragrance so thick it seemed tangible. Lanterns hung under the eaves too, but far fewer than near the main hall, casting a dim yellow light.
The maid lifted the curtain. "I have brought the person."
I walked in.
Lady Wang sat at the head. Before her lay a pot of tea and two plates of mooncakes. She wore a deep purpleshenyi robe, her hair adorned only with a jade hairpin, no extra decorations. Yet, sitting there, she possessed an indescribable presence. Not the brilliant, sharp-edged aura of Ajiao, but something deeper, heavier. Like a pool of water—calm on the surface, but one never knows how deep it runs beneath.
She glanced at me. That look was light, yet my heart sank.
"Sit."
I sat opposite her. She poured me a cup of tea and pushed it over.
"Drink."
I lifted it and took a sip. It was osmanthus tea, very fragrant, but with a hint of bitterness on the palate.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked.
"I know. You are His Highness's mother."
"Mm." She took a sip of tea herself. "Che'er often goes to your place."
Not a question, but a statement.
"Yes."
"To do what?"
"Watch me repair artifacts."
"Artifacts?" She repeated the word, her gaze falling on my cuff—where a fresh lacquer stain lay. "You mean those pieces of broken copper and iron?"
"Yes."
She looked at me, her gaze calm. That calmness was more suffocating than Ajiao's sharpness.
"Why do you think he goes to your place?"
I thought for a moment. "Novelty, perhaps. His Highness is young and hasn't seen those restoration techniques."
"Novelty." She repeated it, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly—not quite a smile. "Novel things... there is always a day when one grows tired of them."
Exactly what Ajiao had said. But the tone was entirely different. Ajiao had said it as a threat. Lady Wang said it as stating a fact—a fact she herself was unwilling to face.
"You are a smart person." She put down her teacup, her finger slowly tracing the rim. "I will not beat around the bush."
She looked at me, her gaze suddenly becoming very serious.
"Che'er became Crown Prince thanks to Princess Guantao. You know this."
"I know."
"Ajiao is Princess Guantao's daughter. Che'er must marry her in the future. He relies on her to secure his position as Crown Prince, and to rely on her—to secure his throne in the future."
I said nothing. The tea on the table had cooled; most of the osmanthus fragrance had dissipated.
"Che'er has been running to your place lately, neglecting his studies. His Grand Tutor has reported this to me." Her tone was calm, but every word carried weight. "You are from a very far place and will leave sooner or later. But Che'er is different. He will be here for his entire life. He is destined to be the master of the world; he cannot have weaknesses."Weaknesses.
The word was like a needle, pricking my heart.
"I am not—"
"I know you are not." She interrupted me, her tone suddenly weary. "You do not have those intentions. But Che'er does."
I froze.
"You do not understand him," she said, her gaze falling on the osmanthus tree outside the window. "I gave birth to him. Since childhood, he has never easily been good to anyone. But if he is good to someone, it is real."
She turned to look at me.
"He is fifteen now. How deep can a fifteen-year-old's liking be? But he is the Crown Prince. His liking will affect many things. It will affect his position, his future, it will affect—"
She paused.
"It will affect whether he can be a good emperor."
I was silent for a long time. The scent of osmanthus drifted in from outside, sweet to the point of bitterness.
"Lady," I said, "I have no intention of influencing His Highness."
"I know," she said. "But you already have."
She lifted her teacup and drank some cold tea.
"For the sake of taking you horseback riding, he requested leave twice. His Grand Tutor reported this to me. Do you know what this means? He never requests leave. Never, from childhood until now."
I clenched the fabric of my sleeve.
"You are a good person," she said. "I know. You have no intention of harming him. But—you do not belong here. You will leave sooner or later. After you leave, what will become of him?"
This sentence was like a knife, slicing lightly but deeply.After you leave, what will become of him?
"Lady," I began, finding my voice somewhat hoarse, "I—"
"I am not trying to drive you away," she interrupted, her tone suddenly softer. "I just want you to understand. Che'er's path is difficult. I do not want it to be harder."
She looked at me; in her eyes were weariness, helplessness, and something I couldn't quite name—like a mother's pity for another child.
"You are smart. You should know what to do."
I lowered my head, looking at the osmanthus tea in my cup. The tea had cooled completely; the fragrance was gone, leaving only bitterness.
"Lady," I said, "I know what to do."
She looked at me for a long time.
"Good," she said. "Then I will say no more."
She lifted her teacup and took a sip. This was a signal for dismissal.
I stood up, bowed, and turned to leave.
Reaching the door, I heard her say behind me—
"Lu Xingye."
I stopped.
"Do not blame him. He is just a fifteen-year-old child."
My fingers tightened on my sleeve. Nails dug into my palm, causing a slight pain.
"I know," I said.
Then I walked out.
The scent of osmanthus was so thick in the air it tasted bitter. The lanterns under the eaves swayed gently in the wind, shattering the light across the ground. Standing at the courtyard gate, I took a deep breath.
When he said "I'm used to it," I felt sorrow for him.
When she said "He is just a fifteen-year-old child," I finally understood—How hard his life is.
Returning to the workshop, the sky was completely dark.
I did not light the lamp. Sitting in the darkness, I looked at the half-repaired bronze mirror on the workbench. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting the shadows of the fragments onto the wall, like a cracked map.After you leave, what will become of him.
This phrase circled in my mind again and again, like a dull knife grinding back and forth.
Urgent footsteps came from outside the door. Not Qingxing—Qingxing walked lightly, like a cat. These footsteps were heavy, hurried, carrying anger.
The door was pushed open violently.
Liu Che stood at the doorway, panting. He had run here; his hair crown was crooked, sweat on his forehead, the smell of wine on his robes—he had come straight from the banquet.
"You went to my mother?" he asked.
"Mm."
"What did she say to you?"
"Nothing much."
"Lu Xingye."
"Really nothing much," I said. "Just a few words."
He stood at the door, looking at me. Moonlight hit his face; I couldn't clearly see his expression, but I could feel his gaze—like a young beast staring at something in the dark.
"She told you to leave," he said. Not a question.
I did not answer.
"She told you to leave, didn't she?" His voice was hoarse, as if he had run a long way.
"Your Highness—"
"Do not leave," he interrupted.
"Your Highness, I did not say I would leave."
He said nothing. Standing at the door, his chest heaving. Moonlight illuminated his face, and I saw his eyes—very bright, as if something was burning inside. Not anger, but something else.
Suddenly, he walked in, approached me, and grasped my wrist.
"Come with me."
"Your Highness—where are we going?"
He did not answer. Pulling me, he crossed the corridors, passed the main hall—where the banquet was still ongoing. Several close ministers sat there, stunned to see the Crown Prince dragging a woman past. He did not look at them, walking straight through.
All the way to Lady Wang's courtyard.
The scent of osmanthus still lingered. The lanterns under the eaves still swayed.
He released my hand and walked in.
"Mother."
Lady Wang was still sitting inside; the tea had not been cleared away. Seeing Liu Che, and then seeing me standing at the door, her expression did not change.
"Che'er, what is wrong?"
Liu Che walked to her front and knelt.
He knelt straight down, his knees hitting the ground with a dull thud.
That dull sound was like a hammer, smashing into my chest. Standing at the door, my breath halted for an instant.
"Che'er—" Lady Wang's face changed; the teacup in her hand shook, spilling tea.
"Mother," he knelt on the ground, looking up at her, "it was I who chose to go to her. It was I who wanted to take her to Shanglin Park. It was I who requested leave. It is all my fault. It has nothing to do with her."
"Che'er, get up—"
"Mother, listen to me finish." His voice was steady, but I saw his hands resting on his knees trembling.
"I know that becoming Crown Prince relied on Princess Guantao. I know I must marry Ajiao in the future. I know how this position was obtained."
He spoke word by word.
"But my liking for someone has nothing to do with that."
Standing at the door, I gripped the doorframe, my nails digging into the wood.
"I do not know how deep a fifteen-year-old's liking can be," he said. "But I know that there has never been anyone like her."
His voice trembled on the last word.
"She asks nothing of me. She fears nothing from me. She does not treat me as the Crown Prince."
His Adam's apple bobbed.
"She simply—treats me as a person."
Lady Wang's tears fell. She did not wipe them, letting them stream down her cheeks.
"Mother," he said, his voice lowering, "in this life of mine, this may be the only time."The question from the workshop. Since birth, he knew what he had to do. He had never thought of anything else.
But now, he was speaking.
When he said "this may be the only time in this life," his voice was light, but every word seemed to be forcibly dug out from his chest.
Lady Wang looked at him, silent for a long time. Outside the window, osmanthus flowers rustled in the wind; a few petals drifted in, landing beside his kneeling knees.
Then she sighed.
A long, deep sigh, squeezed out from her chest. As if exhaling the strength of half a lifetime.
"Get up," she said, her voice hoarse.
Liu Che did not move.
"Get up," she repeated, her voice even hoarser. "The ground is cold."
He stood up. Dust clung to his knees; he did not brush it off.
Lady Wang looked at him, then at me standing at the door.
Her gaze lingered on my face for an instant. In those eyes were weariness, helplessness, and heartache—I didn't know if it was for him or for me.
"You—" She hesitated, stopping short. Finally, she just waved her hand.
"Go."
Liu Che turned, walked to me.
Moonlight hit his face; his eyes were very bright—not the burning brightness from before, but another kind. As if washed by water.
"Let's go," he said.
I followed him out of the courtyard.
The scent of osmanthus was so thick in the air it seemed unbearable. The youth walking ahead had his shadow stretched long by the moonlight. Dust still clung to his knees, his hair crown was still crooked, and the smell of wine remained on his robes.He just knelt.
A Crown Prince, kneeling before his mother, not to beg for anything, but for—Me.
Watching his back, I suddenly found my vision blurring. Not from the wind. Something surged up from my chest, blocking my throat, impossible to swallow or spit out.
The sound of his kneeling, the dull thud of knees hitting the ground—that sound still echoed in my ears.
In Florence, I repaired things alone, ate alone, bore everything alone. When sick, I was alone; when sad, I was alone; when homesick, I was alone.
No one had ever asked if I was happy. No one had said "come find me in the future." No one had said "don't bear it alone."
And certainly, no one had ever knelt down for me.Never.
I watched the back of the boy walking ahead. Fifteen years old, shoulders not yet fully broadened, yet already bearing the entire world.
He just said,this may be the only time in this life.
I raised my hand to wipe my eyes. A small patch of my sleeve became wet.
"Lu Xingye," he suddenly stopped, without turning around.
"I am here."
"Are you crying?"
"No."
"Liar."
I said nothing.
He turned around to look at me. Moonlight on his face illuminated his eyes brightly. He reached out, his fingers touching my cheek, wiping gently.
"You are crying," he said.
I did not dodge. His fingers stayed on my face, very light, as if afraid of breaking something.
Under the moonlight, thin calluses were on his fingers—worn from drawing the bow. That roughness brushed against my cheek, slightly prickly, slightly warm.
"In the future," he said, "do not be alone."
My tears fell again. This time, I did not wipe them.
He looked at me; in his eyes was something I had never seen before. Not scrutiny, not assessment, not youthful pride. It was deep, serious, like everything a fifteen-year-old could give.
"Okay," I said.
He smiled. Very faint, but very real.
Under the moonlight, the youth's smile was as clean as the Mid-Autumn moon.
Returning to the workshop, it was already very late.
Qingxing waited at the door, holding a plate of mooncakes, her eyes red.
"Lady Lu..."
"What is it?"
"This servant heard," she sniffled. "His Highness he—"
"It's fine," I said. "It's all in the past."
She nodded, put down the mooncakes, and left.
I sat at the workbench, picked up a mooncake, and took a bite. It was osmanthus filling, very sweet.
Outside the window, the moon was very round. As round as the one I saw in Florence. But the feeling was completely different.The moon there was cold. The moon here is warm.
Because here, there was a person who knelt before his mother and saidthis may be the only time in this life.
I finished the mooncake, picked up my tools, and continued repairing the bronze mirror.
One fragment, then another. Raw lacquer applied, fitted together, waiting for it to dry.
Reaching the last piece, I stopped.
Moonlight shone on the mirror's surface; the gaps between fragments were still visible, but the original form could already be discerned—a cloud-pattern bronze mirror, with intricate designs and a ring of inscriptions along the edge.
I picked up the last fragment, applied raw lacquer, aligned the position, and pressed down gently.A perfect fit.
I put down the tools and looked at the bronze mirror in my hand. The gaps remained, but the mirror was whole again.
Outside the window, the moon was also at its highest point.Whole.
I lowered my head and looked at my own face in the mirror. Moonlight shone upon it; my eyes were red.I seem to have fallen in love with him.
This thought settled in my heart, very light, like a petal of osmanthus.Soundless, yet heavy.
[End of Chapter 10]