A Tightness in the Chest

Morning court ended a quarter of an hour later than usual. The Ministry of Revenue had argued over the autumn taxes in the hall for nearly an hour, the two vice ministers each insisting on his own account, each louder than the other. Qi Xiao sat on the throne and listened without interrupting or taking a position. When both men had finished, he turned his gaze to the minister of revenue. The minister stepped forward, accepted both memorials, and asked leave to go back and check the figures. "Submit them tomorrow," Qi Xiao said, then rose and dismissed court.

When he left Xuanzheng Hall, De'an followed behind, carrying the name tablets submitted that day. There were only five or six, all belonging to consorts in the harem. Qi Xiao glanced at them without breaking stride. De'an understood: he would not be turning over a tablet today.

Women came and went in this harem, and there were some whose names the emperor could barely remember. Among the young women selected at the beginning of the year was a Lady Su who played the pipa well. Qi Xiao had listened once and said, "Not bad." Later, the Palace of Attendant Service presented her tablet twice. Qi Xiao turned it over the first time. The second time, it sat untouched all night, and De'an quietly took it away at dawn. It was not that there was anything wrong with Lady Su. Qi Xiao had simply forgotten. When he sat in Xuanzheng Hall reviewing memorials, his mind was filled with silted waterways and the Ministry of Revenue's deficits. Those faces in the harem, those strains of pipa music, those figures who waited beneath the covered walkways for hours merely to curtsy as he passed-to him, they were like the koi that occasionally surfaced in the imperial garden pond. If he saw them, he saw them. Once he turned away, he forgot.

After lunch, Qi Xiao went to Jiaofang Hall. It was the sixteenth, and by custom, he was supposed to have the empress's gifts delivered. He could have simply sent De'an, but after he left the previous night, his nose had been filled with the fragrance of Jiaofang Hall's osmanthus. Remembering it today, he felt he ought to come in person. Xiao Luo was pruning the osmanthus tree in the courtyard. Rather than leaving it to the palace maids, she held the shears herself and stood on a little stool, cutting a wind-broken branch off at the node. The severed branch lay on the stone table beside her, its leaves still green, a string of osmanthus blossoms hanging from it, their fragrance almost pungent. When Qi Xiao entered the courtyard, Xiao Luo was just stepping down from the stool, still holding the shears. She paused slightly at the sight of him, then handed the shears to a nearby maid, straightened her sleeves, and curtsied.

"Your Majesty."

"Mm." Qi Xiao sat beside the stone table and looked at the broken branch. "The wind?"

"There was a northwesterly wind last night. Insects had already damaged this branch, so it snapped when the wind blew." Xiao Luo sat on the other side of the table and sent someone to brew tea.

When the tea arrived, Qi Xiao was looking down at the osmanthus blossoms on the broken branch. They were still blooming, tiny and yellow, clustered together. After watching them a while, he plucked a small cluster and held it beneath his nose. "The osmanthus is blooming better this year than in previous years."

"Yes. I remember Your Majesty liked the scent of osmanthus as a child, too. Back when I was still with the Yang Family, Yang Ning picked some to steep in wine and said we would open the jar in winter. I asked her what wine she had used, and she said Shaoxing rice wine. In the end, that jar was never opened. After Yang Ning left, I never made osmanthus wine again."

Qi Xiao set the blossoms on the stone table. The little flower rolled half a turn across the stone and stopped beside his teacup. Xiao Luo said no more. She knew this emperor carried too many things in his heart, some of which even he was unwilling to unearth and examine. She simply buried those things in her own heart and occasionally took them out to dwell on when she was alone. Her loneliness was sitting by the window in Jiaofang Hall, facing the bronze mirror, turning over and over an old silver hairpin Yang Ning had given her all those years ago. A tiny orchid was engraved on it. Yang Ning had said orchids were like her: understated, but their beauty endured. Yang Ning was gone, and she had worn this hairpin for half her life. The silver at its tail had been rubbed to a shine.

In the end, it was no different for her. What the women in the harem lacked was that one thing. Each had her own answer to what that thing was. Some said the emperor's favor, some said children, and some said glory for their family. But in the end, they only wanted someone who could exchange a few words with them in this secluded palace. Yet that person was too busy. His time went to the court, to memorials, to the realm. By the time any reached the harem, only a few crumbs remained. And everyone still had to fight over those crumbs. For those who won, there was Jiaofang Hall's customary visit on the fifteenth of every month. For those who lost, there was the green-tipped tablet that the Palace of Attendant Service submitted only to have it returned.

Xiao Luo never fought. What was there to fight for? The things she thought about could not be won that way. They were Yang Ning's unopened jar of osmanthus wine, the old silver hairpin polished bright before the mirror, and the way she stood alone in the courtyard every autumn when the osmanthus bloomed, looking up at the densely clustered flowers and remembering the girl in pale yellow beneath the tree all those years ago, rising on tiptoe to pick blossoms, turning to beckon her over and saying, "A Luo, come help me."

Emperor Chengwu stayed in Jiaofang Hall for the time it took to drink two cups of tea, then rose and left. Xiao Luo saw him to the entrance and watched the back of his dragon robe disappear at the end of the palace path. She stood a while longer before returning inside. As dusk fell, Qi Yu came.

He had come straight from his lessons in the imperial schoolroom, the new lecture notes the grand tutor had handed out that day still in his book bag. As he walked along the palace path, he saw Jiaofang Hall's lanterns lit in the distance and suddenly slowed. A Ping, following behind with his book bag, nearly walked into his back.

"Your Highness, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." Qi Yu stood for a moment, then turned in another direction. "Back to Yuning Hall."

A Ping froze. This was not the way back to Yuning Hall, but neither was it the way to Jiaofang Hall. It was a detour. His prince did not want to pass Jiaofang Hall's entrance. He followed with the book bag.

Back in Yuning Hall, Qi Yu set his book bag on the table and sat on the couch. Chun He brought in hot milk. He took a sip and frowned. "There's no honey today." Chun He gave a startled sound and said she had forgotten. Qi Yu said never mind and put the bowl on the table. He had drunk less than half, leaving most of it there as a skin slowly formed on top. He got up and went to the side hall to see the rabbits. The gray rabbit and the pale gray rabbit were huddled in a corner of the cage, their heads touching, fast asleep. He crouched before the cage for a while, then reached out a finger and poked the gray rabbit's ear. Its ear twitched. He withdrew his finger, stood, and returned to his bedchamber.

He barely touched dinner, either. He took one bite of ribs and two chopstickfuls of fish, though he finished his soup. As Chun He cleared the dishes, she glanced at the nearly untouched braised ribs, then at Qi Yu, who was leafing through a travelogue on the couch. She asked A Ping quietly, "What's wrong with His Highness today? Did he argue with someone?"

A Ping shook his head. "No. The imperial schoolroom was very quiet today. The grand tutor even praised His Highness's policy essay, saying it was better than his last." Chun He murmured an acknowledgment and took the dishes away.

Qi Yu leafed through a few pages, closed the travelogue, and lay back on the couch. Outside the window, the sky was completely dark. Was Father in Jiaofang Hall tonight, or in his own quarters? He did not know. All he knew was that yesterday had been the fifteenth, and Father had gone to Jiaofang Hall. A Ping had explained what going there meant: on the fifteenth of every month, the emperor visited the empress. Visiting the empress meant dining with her, then spending the night in Jiaofang Hall. Qi Yu had known this since he was little. Back then, he had not thought there was anything wrong with it. If Father was visiting Mother, then let him go. He could still play by himself in Xuanzheng Hall, feed the rabbits, or chase koi in the imperial garden with Qin Wei.

He did not dislike the empress. She treated him so well. When he had a cough last winter, she had snow pears stewed with fritillary bulbs sent over for seven days straight, bringing them to Yuning Hall herself each day and watching him drink it. How could he dislike her? Still less could he dislike Father. He took the cushion off his face, sat up, and stared into space on the couch for a while.

"A Ping."

A Ping came in from the outer room. "Your Highness."

"Tell me, Father goes to Jiaofang Hall every month because it's the custom, right?"

A Ping thought for a moment and chose his words carefully. "Yes. The fifteenth is His Majesty's way of showing the empress due honor."

"Due honor." Qi Yu repeated the words, his head lowered as he traced circles on the couch with a finger. "Then what does Father do with the empress in Jiaofang Hall?"

A Ping's face flushed crimson. "Your Highness, that..."

"What do they do?"

"They just... talk, drink tea, and then..." A Ping's voice grew quieter and quieter, the last few words caught in his throat.

"Sleep," Qi Yu finished for him.

A Ping lowered his head. "Yes."

"How?"

A Ping dropped to his knees with a thud. "Your Highness, I truly don't know, and even if I did, I wouldn't dare say. Please spare me, Your Highness." Even his voice was trembling.

Qi Yu looked at A Ping kneeling on the floor, looking as though he wished he could bury his head in a crack between the tiles, and waved a hand. "Get up. I was only asking."

In his bedchamber, Qi Yu lay back on the couch and covered his face with the travelogue. The pages smelled of ink, not a particularly pleasant smell. He took the book off his face and opened it to the page marked with a handkerchief. The plain white handkerchief was still tucked inside, the bamboo leaves at its corner pressed perfectly flat between the pages. He stroked those few bamboo leaves, then closed the book again.

The lanterns in Jiaofang Hall had gone out, too. Qi Xiao lay on his back, his breathing steady and even. Xiao Luo lay beside him, a pillow's width between them. There was no touching and no conversation; they exchanged a few words, then each lay down. Sometimes Qi Xiao asked her about affairs in the palace: whether her monthly allowance was enough, whether any insolent servants were mistreating their masters. Xiao Luo answered each question. Once she had finished, there was nothing more to say. Qi Xiao soon fell asleep, his breathing deep and slow. He still wore his inner robe, its collar neatly fastened. The quilt reached his chest, and his hands rested folded over his body. This was an emperor's sleeping posture, proper and remote, like a taut bow whose string had finally been loosened, though its body remained rigidly straight.

Xiao Luo rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. Moonlight slipped through a gap in the window paper and fell beside the pillow, giving the phoenix's tail embroidered on its cover a silvery gleam. She knew Qi Xiao had not touched her and would not. When she first entered the palace, the imperial physician had already said she could not bear children, yet the emperor had not rejected her. In those first few years, Qi Xiao had come several times. Every time, it had been a matter of routine, without an unnecessary movement or word. She lay in bed looking at the canopy, remembering when she had first entered the palace. Qi Xiao had only been on the throne a few years then. He was young and spoke little, but his eyes had still been fairly gentle. Now even his eyes were no longer gentle. Lying beside this man, breathing in the ambergris fragrance on him, there were moments when she felt that what lay beside her was not a person, but a wall. She pulled the quilt higher and closed her eyes.