A young child (memories)

Spring, the eighth year of Jianxi.

The peonies in the imperial gardens had bloomed.

Four-year-old Xiao Huaijin crouched beside a flower bed, poking a half-open bud with a chubby finger. Two nursemaids followed behind him, along with a young eunuch carrying a food box. It was no grand entourage, but it was enough to make every passing palace servant stop, retreat to either side, and lower their head.

His Highness the Crown Prince.

That title carried immense weight in the inner palace of Great Liang. Not because His Majesty doted on him, but precisely the opposite-because His Majesty never mentioned him.

Everyone knew that His Majesty disliked the crown prince.

On the night the crown prince was born, Empress Xiaoyi Shen hemorrhaged. The midwives knelt all around, and the imperial physicians covered her body in acupuncture needles, but none of them could save her. His Majesty stood outside the birthing chamber the entire night. At dawn, he emerged with the swaddled infant in his arms, and the decree naming the crown prince was issued together with the empress's posthumous title.

After that, he never held the child again.

These were all things the longtime palace servants said. They lowered their voices as they spoke and glanced around, as though afraid some loose tongue might spread their words. But there were no secrets in the palace. Those words seeped like water into every crack in the walls, into everyone's ears, and finally into Xiao Huaijin's.

But he was only four. A four-year-old could not quite understand what they said. He only knew that whenever he ran over to hug his imperial father's legs, his imperial father would turn and walk away. Whenever he called, "Father," his imperial father never looked back.

Once, he chased too eagerly and fell, striking his knee against the flagstones. It hurt so much that tears swam in his eyes. Lying on the ground, he lifted his face and saw that figure in bright yellow pause.

But only for a moment.

Then it walked away.

His nursemaid picked him up and wiped his knee with her sleeve, soothing him with, "It doesn't hurt, Your Highness. It doesn't hurt." Xiao Huaijin did not cry. He only watched the direction in which that figure had disappeared and asked very quietly,

"Nanny, does Father dislike Jin'er?"

The nursemaid's hand stiffened for a moment. Then she smiled and said, how could he? His Majesty was simply too busy. His Majesty had the whole realm to govern. Xiao Huaijin nodded, lowered his head to play with his fingers, and asked no more.

He believed her.

Or rather, he chose to believe her.

Later, he began learning the rules of propriety. The grand tutor taught him to bow, recite poetry, and recognize characters, and he studied everything diligently. Because Nanny said his imperial father liked clever children. He learned the Thousand Character Classic so thoroughly that he could recite it fluently from memory. When the grand tutor praised his exceptional intelligence, he was happy all day. That evening, he made a special trip to wait outside the Hall of Mental Cultivation. When Xiao Lin emerged, he raised his voice and began reciting.

"Heaven is dark, earth is yellow; the universe is vast and primordial-"

Xiao Lin stopped and glanced at him.

That glance was indifferent, so indifferent that he might have been looking at a stranger.

"...Passable."

He said that one word, then left.

Xiao Huaijin remained where he stood, his mouth still open, the rest of the lines lodged in his throat. He stood stunned for a long time. Only when his nursemaid bent down to take his hand did he come to his senses and lift his face with a little smile.

"Nanny, Father praised me."

The nursemaid's eyes reddened. She turned her head away and pretended to sneeze.

That winter, Xiao Huaijin fell gravely ill.

His high fever subsided and rose again, rose and subsided, tormenting him over and over for half a month. The imperial physicians kept watch in the side hall, and bowl after bowl of medicine was poured down his throat. The little crown prince's face grew thinner, and even his once-plump chin became pointed. He slept in a daze, sometimes calling "Father," sometimes "Mother." When he called for his mother, his voice was soft, as though wheedling for affection. When he called for his imperial father, his voice was very quiet, as though doing it in secret, afraid to let anyone hear.

That night, when his fever was at its worst, he suddenly opened his eyes.

Before him were blurred candlelight and a person.

That person sat beside the bed in dark informal robes, without a crown, his hair loose over his shoulders. His hand rested on Xiao Huaijin's forehead, his palm large and slightly cool.

"...Father?"

Xiao Huaijin's voice was indistinct; he could not tell whether he was dreaming or awake.

That hand jerked back.

Xiao Lin stood and turned so abruptly that his sleeve swept against the medicine bowl at the head of the bed, nearly knocking it to the floor. He took two steps, then stopped again. He stood there with his back to the bed, silent for a long time.

Then he looked back.

There was too much in that glance, far more than a four-year-old could understand. But he saw his imperial father's lips move, as though he had said something.

His voice was too faint to make out.

Then his imperial father left.

The next morning, Xiao Huaijin woke, and while his nursemaid fed him porridge, he suddenly asked, "Nanny, did Father come to see me last night?"

The nursemaid's hand paused, spilling two drops of porridge onto the quilt.

"No," she said, lowering her head to wipe it away. "Your Highness was delirious with fever. You were dreaming."

Xiao Huaijin asked no more. He lowered his head and drank his porridge. After two mouthfuls, he suddenly smiled.

That smile was faint and vanished in a flash, like a flower blooming in winter, withering before anyone could see it clearly.

A few days later, the grand tutor came to give him his lesson.

The grand tutor's surname was Zhou, and his name was Zhou Rucheng. He had placed third in the imperial examinations during the late emperor's reign and had taught Xiao Lin for thirteen years. Later, when Xiao Lin ascended the throne, the other princes were all granted princely titles and fiefs and left, while he remained in the palace to continue teaching the crown prince. He was a man of few words, but whenever he mentioned His Majesty's studies, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened.

"Your Highness," he said, suddenly setting down his book midway through that day's lesson, "did Your Highness know that when His Majesty was your age, he could already recite the Analects?"

Xiao Huaijin froze for a moment, then shook his head vigorously.

Zhou Rucheng smiled and continued, "When His Majesty was little, he lived in the Cold Palace. He had neither a grand tutor nor books. He would lie on the ground and write with a twig, wiping away what he had drawn before writing again. Later, when the late emperor brought him out, on his very first day in the imperial schoolroom, he recited the Analects as far as 'The Village.'"

Xiao Huaijin listened intently. He did not know what the Cold Palace was, but he understood "Father had neither a grand tutor nor books when he was little." He lowered his head and thought for a long time, then looked up, his eyes shining.

"Grand Tutor, Jin'er wants to learn. I want to learn even better than Father."

Looking at this four-year-old child, Zhou Rucheng suddenly felt his heart ache.

He wanted to say many things. He wanted to say that His Highness did not need to be better than His Majesty, that His Majesty's expectations of His Highness had never concerned his studies, that His Majesty did not even like himself, so how could he possibly like anyone else? But he said none of it. He merely nodded, opened the book, and continued to the next line.

"To learn and practice what one has learned from time to time-is that not a pleasure?"

Xiao Huaijin repeated after him, "To learn and practice what one has learned from time to time-is that not a pleasure?"

His voice was babyish, his pronunciation not quite precise. But he recited very earnestly, as though reciting a spell, as though his imperial father would come to see him if he said it correctly.

That evening, Xiao Lin passed the imperial schoolroom.

The setting sun slanted through the west window, tinting the entire room orange. He saw that tiny figure slumped over the desk, already asleep. A brush was still clutched in his hand, the ink on its tip already dry. The paper before him was covered in crooked characters. The two largest characters read:

Father.

Xiao Lin stood outside the window for a long time.

No one knew what he was looking at. Nor did anyone know what he was thinking. His expression was no different from usual, cold and distant. But his fingers pressed against the window lattice, his knuckles whitening slightly.

Then he turned and left.

As always, he said nothing.

That night, when Xiao Huaijin woke, he found himself lying on the couch in his bedchamber, covered with a cloak. The cloak was very large, embroidered with five-clawed golden dragons. He hugged it and sniffed. It carried a faint scent of ambergris.

"Nanny! Nanny!"

He jumped down from the bed barefoot and ran outside, clutching the cloak.

"Father was here! Father was here, wasn't he!"

The nursemaid glanced at the cloak, her expression shifting. Then she bent down, smiling ten times more gently than usual.

"Yes," she said. "His Majesty saw that Your Highness was asleep and was afraid you would catch cold."

Xiao Huaijin stood in the doorway hugging the cloak, gazing toward the Hall of Mental Cultivation, his smile revealing two little canine teeth.

"I'm going to study hard!" he declared loudly, as though trying to make the person in the Hall of Mental Cultivation hear him. "Once I know everything, Father will hold me!"

The nursemaid lowered her head, pretending to straighten his collar.

She did not want the crown prince to see her reddened eyes.

In the Hall of Mental Cultivation, Xiao Lin finished reviewing the last memorial and briefly closed his eyes. Outside, the night wind rose, setting the bronze bells beneath the covered walkway jingling. He turned his head to glance out the window. In the direction of the Eastern Palace, the lights were still burning.

That child was still awake.

He sat at his desk for a long time, until the tea beside him had gone completely cold. Then he rose, walked to the hall's entrance, and stood looking toward the Eastern Palace for a quarter of an hour.

"Your Majesty," the chief eunuch Liu An ventured, approaching cautiously, "it is late. You should retire."

Xiao Lin said nothing. He watched that faint glimmer in the Eastern Palace, his gaze deep.

At last, he turned and went inside.

As always, he said nothing.