The seventh year of the Former Yuan era, twelfth month. The first snow of winter fell in Chang'an.
I sat by the workshop window, sewing a sock. It was red, dyed with coarse cloth; the color wasn't quite right, but under the candlelight, it looked ruddy and festive. The stitches were crooked, far less steady than when I repaired artifacts. I sewed, unpicked, unpicked, and sewed again; my fingers were pricked by the needle several times.
In the Han Dynasty, socks were called "foot clothes" zuyi), made of silk or cloth, wrapped tightly around the foot and tied with strings. But the one I was sewing was loose and large, the opening wide enough to fit a fist—exactly like the Christmas stockings in my memory, and completely unlike anyzuyi in the Han Palace.
Qingxing watched from the side, unable to hold back any longer. "Lady Lu, what is this you are sewing?"
"A sock."
"A sock?" She tilted her head. "Where is there such a big sock? Won't it fall off if worn?"
"It's not for wearing. It's for hanging."
"Hanging?" She looked even more confused.
I didn't explain, bit off the thread end. "It only counts if it's sewn by oneself."
She didn't ask further, swallowed her laughter, and pretended to look at the snow outside the window.
The sock was finished. Ugly. But I turned it over and looked at it several times, then stuffed in a few gingerbread men—baked the day before. Flour, ginger powder, honey, mixed into dough. Without an oven, I borrowed the Hu-bread stove from the small kitchen, sticking the dough cakes against the stove wall to bake slowly. I couldn't master the heat well; the first batch was burnt, black as charcoal. The second batch was better, but still crooked. The little man mold was carved from wood by myself; one eye was big, the other small, the mouth skewed to the earlobe. They came out rock hard, hurting the teeth when bitten. But the scent of ginger and honey was strong, filling the room with sweetness.
I hung the stocking by the window, waiting for nightfall.
Outside, the snow fell heavier and heavier. Chang'an rarely saw such heavy snow. Like goose feathers, flake by flake, it fell, covering the entire palace city in white. Icicles hung from the eaves, crystal clear, like rows of small lamps. Patrolling guards huddled their necks and walked by hurriedly; lanterns swayed in the snow.
I leaned against the window, watching the snow, and softly hummed a song."Last Christmas, I gave you my heart. But the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special."
My voice was light, as if afraid to disturb the snow. Halfway through the lyrics, I laughed at myself.
Last Christmas in Florence. The streets were full of lights; a huge Christmas tree stood before the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. I stood alone in the crowd, watching others hug, kiss, and exchange gifts. Returning to my apartment, I boiled a bowl of frozen dumplings for myself. Not for Winter Solstice, but for Christmas. But it was all the same. Alone.
"What are you singing?"
I was startled and turned around. Liu Che stood at the door, his shoulders covered in snow. I hadn't heard him arrive at all. He shook the snow from his shoulders and walked in; his boots crunched on the floor. Snow stuck to the soles, leaving a puddle of water on the threshold.
"N-nothing."
"Liar." He sat down beside me, leaning against the window. "A tune from a foreign land? Or a dialect from somewhere?"
"Neither. It's a song from my world."
"Sing it again."
"I won't."
"Sing."
"No—"
He looked at me, his gaze serious. "I want to hear it."
I was silent for a moment. Outside, the snow fell soundlessly. I cleared my throat and sang it softly again. My voice was slightly louder than before, but still light, as if afraid to wake something."Last Christmas, I gave you my heart. But the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special."
When I finished, he said nothing. Snow fell on the window lattice with a soft rustling sound.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
I thought for a moment, translating the meaning for him. "In the harsh winter of the old year, I gave my heart to you. At dawn the next day, your heart belonged to another. This year, to avoid tears, I will give my heart to someone special."
He was silent for a long time. The snow-light reflected on his face, outlining him clearly. His eyelashes were long; a flake of snow landed on them, unmelted.
"Last Christmas," he said, "you spent it alone?"
"Mm."
"In Italy?"
"Mm."
"Then who did you give your heart to?"
I paused. Then I laughed. "To no one. The song isn't about me."
He looked at me, clearly unconvinced, but didn't press further. His gaze fell on the red stocking hanging by the window; he reached out to touch it, then pulled back. The shape was too strange; he had probably never seen such a thing.
"What is this?"
"A Christmas stocking."
"Christmas stocking?"
"Mm. In my world, during Christmas, children hang a stocking at the head of their beds. Santa Claus climbs down the chimney at night and stuffs gifts into the stocking."
"Santa Claus?"
"He is... an old grandfather with a white beard, wearing red clothes, riding a sleigh pulled by reindeer, delivering gifts to children."
He frowned. "To trick children?"
"Yes. To trick children."
The corner of his mouth curved. He reached into the stocking and pulled out a gingerbread man. He held it in his palm to look. The gingerbread man was crooked, one eye big and one small, the mouth smiling to the earlobe. The edges were slightly burnt, the color uneven.
"What is this?"
"A gingerbread man. I baked it. Baked in the Hu-bread oven; the first batch was burnt, this is from the second."
"Can it be eaten?"
"...Could Your Highness stop asking 'can it be eaten' every time?"
He chuckled and took a bite. He chewed twice, frowning. "Hard."
"Gingerbread is supposed to be hard."
He chewed two more times, his frown easing. "Not bad." He took another bite, then suddenly stopped. "Sweet."
"Gingerbread is naturally sweet."
"No," he said, his voice muffled by the cookie in his mouth. "I mean—what you made is sweet."
I said nothing, lowering my head to pretend to look at the snow outside. My ears felt hot.
He finished one piece and took out another. This time he didn't eat it, just held it in his palm to look. "This one looks better than the previous one."
"They are from the same mold, how could they be—"
He placed the two gingerbread men side by side on the workbench. Indeed, they were different. The second one's eyes were rounder; by sheer luck, it looked more pleasing than the first.
"This one looks like me." He pointed to the second one.
"...How does it look like you?"
"The eyes look like mine."
"Your Highness's eyes aren't that big."
"Then the mouth looks like mine."
"Your Highness's mouth isn't that crooked."
He glared at me. I swallowed my laughter.
"Lu Xingye," he suddenly called my name.
"Mm."
"In your world, do you celebrate Christmas every year?"
"No."
"Then why celebrate it this year?"
I looked at him. The snow-light reflected on his face, making his eyes shine brightly.
"Because—" I paused. "Because I wanted to show you."
He said nothing.
"In my world, Christmas is a very lively festival. The streets are full of lights, trees hung with colorful balls. People exchange gifts and say 'Merry Christmas'. I used to think—that was other people's festival. It had nothing to do with me. But this year—"
I lowered my head, looking at the two gingerbread men on the workbench.
"This year, I wanted to celebrate it with Your Highness."
He was silent for a long time. Snow fell on the window lattice,sha-sha-sha.
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm."
"That song you just sang," he said, "you said you would give your heart to a special person."
"Mm."
"That person—" He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Who is it?"
The workshop was so quiet one could hear the sound of falling snow. My heart beat fast, so fast I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
"What does Your Highness think?" I said.
He looked at me. The snow-light reflected on his face; his eyes were bright, as if something was burning inside.
"Is it me?"
I did not answer. Outside, the snow fell heavier, covering the entire world in white.
He stood up from the window, walked to the door, and pushed it open a crack to look outside. At the end of the corridor, the light of lanterns swayed—patrolling guards.
"Come with me," he turned back, lowering his voice.
"Where?"
"Outside. Take the small path."
He grasped my hand and pulled me out. We didn't go through the main door but exited through the small gate behind the workshop, walking along the base of the wall. The snow was thick; stepping on it made no sound. His hand was very hot, a complete contrast to the snowy night. Reaching a corner, he suddenly stopped, pulling me to press against the wall. Lantern light swayed from the end of the corridor, getting closer. Both of us held our breath low; white mist rose before us and dispersed. His hand held mine, his palm slightly sweaty. The guards' footsteps approached, then faded.
He turned his head to look at me, the corner of his mouth curving, whispering, "Go."
He pulled me and continued running. The moment he pushed open the door, cold wind rushed in, mixed with sky-full of snowflakes. I shivered; he looked back at me, gripping my hand tighter.
"Cold?"
"It's okay."
"Liar." He smiled and pulled me running into the snow.
The snow was so heavy one could hardly see the path. He pulled me running past the corridors, past the main hall, past the lake that was full of lotus flowers in summer—now covered with a thick layer of ice. Boots crunched on the snowy ground, like crushing countless pieces of moonlight.
"Your Highness—where are we going—"
He didn't answer, just kept running. He only stopped when we reached the plum grove behind the Eastern Palace. There weren't many plum trees, but they were all in bloom. Red plums, white plums, looked like small lamps in the snowy night. He released my hand, bent down, grabbed a handful of snow, and捏 (kneaded) it into a ball.
"Your Highness—"
The snowball flew over, hitting my shoulder and scattering into a white mist. I froze. He stood three steps away, holding another snowball in his hand, the corners of his mouth curved.
"Your Highness!"
"What?" He tilted his head. "Didn't you say you wanted to celebrate Christmas? Doesn't Christmas involve playing?"
"Christmas isn't played like this—"
The second snowball flew over, hitting my arm. I glared at him. He was laughing, his eyes curved like crescent moons. The smile of a fifteen-year-old boy, without any burden, without any rules. Just smiling.
His bun had come loose while running; a few stray hairs hung before his forehead, and his collar was askew. He was unrecognizable compared to the Crown Prince who sat solemnly during the grand ceremony. He didn't care. He didn't even reach out to fix it.
I bent down, grabbed a handful of snow,捏 it into a ball, and threw it back.
He dodged agilely; the snowball flew past his ear.
"Missed."
The third snowball was already in my hand. This time it hit him squarely in the center of his chest. The snow scattered, landing on his robe like a sprinkle of salt. He looked down, then raised his head, narrowing his eyes.
"You're done for."
His speed in bending down to make snowballs was astonishing; he threw them one after another. I couldn't dodge in time and was hit several times. Snow drilled into my collar, making me shiver from the cold. I laughed and ran away; he chased behind. The two of us ran round and round in the plum grove, leaving a mess of footprints.
"Surrender—I surrender—" I squatted on the ground, panting.
He stood before me, still holding a snowball, not throwing it. "Really surrender?"
"Really."
"Then say something nice."
"Your Highness—"
"No. Call my name."
I raised my head and looked at him. He stood in the snow, shoulders covered in snow, hair covered in snow, eyelashes covered in snow. He was smiling, eyes bright, the tip of his nose frozen red. His hair crown was already askew to one side, a few strands of hair hanging down by his face. The Crown Prince in ceremonial robes, expressionless during the grand ceremony, and this boy standing in the snow with disheveled hair, were the same person. Yet not the same.
"Liu Che," I said.
He paused. Then he smiled. Deeper than before, more real.
He threw away the snowball in his hand, walked over, and squatted in front of me. "Again."
"Again?"
"Not a snowball fight. Building a snowman."
"Building a snowman?"
"You just said it. A Christmas game."
"I said snowman, not snowball fight—"
"It's about the same." He stood up and started rolling a snowball.
I stood up too and rolled one alongside him. Each of us rolled a large snowball and stacked them together. He broke two branches from a plum tree and inserted them on both sides as arms. I found two small pebbles and embedded them as eyes. He took a gingerbread man out of his sleeve—who knew when he hid it there—broke off a piece, and used it as a nose.
"Too ugly," he stepped back, tilting his head to look.
"Of course it's ugly if Your Highness built it."
"Yours is ugly too."
"How is it ugly?"
"The eyes are crooked. The nose is crooked too. No mouth."
I dug a small piece of snow from the ground,捏 it into a crescent shape, and stuck it on the snowman's face.
"Now it has a mouth."
He glanced at it. "Smiling?"
"Mm. Smiling."
"Who does it look like?"
"Like Your Highness."
He glared at me. I laughed. He laughed too. The two of us stood in the snow, smiling at a crooked snowman. Snow continued to fall, landing on our shoulders, hair, and eyelashes. It was too quiet around us; quiet enough to hear the sound of accumulated snow breaking a branchcrack, very light, very far away. And each other's breathing, slowly changing from rapid to steady.
"Lu Xingye," he suddenly called me.
"Mm."
"Are you cold?"
"Not cold."
"Liar. You are shivering."
Indeed, I was shivering. But I didn't want to go back. I didn't want tonight to end.
He walked over and stood in front of me. Half a head taller than me, he looked down. Snow fell on his eyelashes; he didn't blink.
"Give me your hand."
I extended my hand. He held it in his palm, rubbed it, and breathed a puff of warm air onto it. White mist dispersed between us, warming for a moment, then vanishing.
"Still cold?"
"Not anymore."
He didn't let go of my hand. Holding it, fingers interlaced.
"Do you know how to dance?" he asked.
"No."
"I'll teach you."
He broke a branch from a plum tree. Not a willow branch, but a plum branch. Slender, with a few unbloomed buds. He held it like holding a sword.
He handed the plum branch to me; I took it. From behind, he held my hand, guiding me to slowly raise my arm. His chest pressed against my back; his breath was hot by my ear.
"Follow me."
He led me, moving slowly on the snow. There was no music, only the sound of falling snow and the crunching of two people stepping on snow. One step, two steps, three steps. Turn around, then turn back.
"What dance is this?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said. "Just dancing randomly."
"Your Highness doesn't know how to dance?"
"I do. The Grand Tutor taught me. TheBayi dance performed at the grand ceremony. Too slow, not good-looking."
"What about this one?"
"This one—" He thought for a moment. "Good-looking."
His hand held mine; the plum branch swayed between us, snow rustling off the buds. Moonlight pierced through the clouds, illuminating the entire plum grove like daytime. Snow-light reflected on his face; his outline was sharply defined. Forehead, nose bridge, jawline—every line seemed drawn. His eyes were bright, brighter than the moonlight. Snow remained on his eyelashes, unmelted; his lips were slightly red from the cold.
"Your Highness," my voice was very light.
"Mm."
"You look very good today."
He paused. Then he smiled. Not the kind of smile from before, but a deeper one, with a hint of embarrassment. The roots of his ears turned red, especially obvious in the snow-light. He turned his head away, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"Nonsense."
"Really."
He said nothing. His grip on my hand tightened slightly.
We continued dancing. In the snow, under the moonlight, beneath a tree full of red plums. No music, no audience, only two people, a plum branch, and sky-full of snow. His hand slid from holding mine to my wrist, then to the back of my hand, finally interlacing fingers again.
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm."
"That Christmas you mentioned," he said, "will we celebrate it next year?"
"Yes."
"And the year after?"
"Yes."
"Every year?"
I raised my head and looked at him. Snow fell on his eyelashes; he didn't blink.
"Every year," I said.
He stopped. Standing in front of me, moonlight fell on his face. He reached out and brushed the snow from my hair. His fingers touched my cheek, cool for a moment, then warm.
"Lu Xingye," his voice was very low.
"I am here."
"I want to—"
He didn't finish. He lowered his head; his lips touched my forehead. Very light, like a snowflake landing on skin. My breath halted for an instant. He pulled back slightly, looking at me. His eyes were bright, as if stars were inside.
Last Christmas—" he said, his pronunciation wildly off, his voice very low, "that special person. Is you."
Not a question. A statement. My tears fell. Silently, streaming down my cheeks. He saw them and wiped one away with his thumb.
"You're crying."
"No."
"Liar."
I laughed, tears still hanging on my face.
He looked at me, his gaze moving from my eyes to my nose, then to my lips. His breathing became heavier; white mist rose between us and dispersed. His Adam's apple bobbed. He lowered his head.
His lips touched mine.
Very light. As light as the kiss on the forehead. Like a snowflake landing on a petal. His lips were cool, carrying the taste of snow and the sweetness of gingerbread. His hand still held mine, fingers interlaced. Our noses touched, both icy cold. But the breath exhaled was scorching hot, intertwining, indistinguishable whose was whose.
He pulled back slightly, looking at me. His eyes were bright, as if something was burning inside. The tip of his nose was red, his lips too. His fingers trembled slightly; I didn't know if it was from cold or something else. He lowered his eyes, his eyelashes trembling, as if afraid to look at me. After a moment, he raised them.
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm."
"Your heartbeat is very fast." He held my hand, his thumb resting on my pulse.
"Mm."
"This time it's not from drinking wine."
"No."
He smiled. Lowered his head, forehead pressing against mine. Our breaths intertwined; white mist rose between us and dispersed.
"Me too," he said. Voice very low, as if afraid to disturb this snow.
Snow continued to fall. Landing on our shoulders, hair, and clasped hands. The plum branch lay on the snow; the snow on the buds had not scattered.
Returning to the workshop, it was already very late. Qingxing must have left at some point; only the red stocking remained in the workshop, still hanging by the window, stuffed full of the remaining gingerbread men. The candle had gone out; snow-light from outside streamed in, casting the shadow of the red stocking on the wall, swaying.
No Santa Claus climbed down the chimney. But the stocking was still full.
Chang'an's twelfth month had never been this warm.
[End of Chapter 13]