Qi Yu lay facedown on the imperial bed, his face buried in a cotton pillow and his backside in the air. His left ankle, wrapped in thick medicated bandages, rested on a stack of soft cushions. His right foot had no sock on, leaving his toes exposed to twitch now and then. He had held this position for an entire day, from after his beating last night until well into the morning today. It was not that he did not want to change positions; he could not. The imperial physician had said that his ankle joint had only just been set and could not bear weight. As for his backside, the physician had taken one look and dared not look again. He had merely handed Chun He some ointment and told her to apply it once in the morning and once at night.
Chun He had not dared do it. De'an had applied it himself. He had served in the palace for nearly thirty years; what had he not seen? Kneeling on the footstool, he scooped up a generous dollop of ointment with a bamboo spatula and spread it evenly over the Fourth Prince's buttocks, swollen until the skin shone. His touch was very light, lighter even than when he rubbed liniment on his godson A Ping. Qi Yu still hissed in pain and buried his face a little deeper in the pillow. De'an murmured, "This servant deserves death," and made his touch lighter still.
A Ping stood beside the bed holding a pewter urinal, his expression more respectful than ever. He dared not laugh. Last night, his godfather had called him into the tea room, shut the door, and said a few things. His godfather had said, "You've served the Fourth Prince for six years. You know in your