Yuanfeng 8th year, spring. This was my thirty-eighth day in the Song dynasty.
Another mark appeared on the wall. I drew one line every day, like counting time in prison. But I wasn't a prisoner—I was just a foreign student who didn't know how to get back. Thirty-eight days had passed. My thesis was probably never going to be finished. Emily had probably cursed me a hundred times already. The vegetables in the fridge had surely been thrown out long ago. I could even imagine her voice on the phone—"Ivy, where the hell did you die?"—with that typical New Yorker mix of impatience and concern.
But right now, I was squatting in the palace maids' quarters in the Song dynasty, and what filled my ears wasn't Emily's voice. It was another sound. The footsteps of eunuchs, twice as fast as usual, like dry leaves being crushed—rustle, rustle, rustle—hurrying across the palace paths. No one spoke. No one laughed. The air felt clenched tight, so tense that even breathing had to be done carefully.
Before I could head to the Imperial Kitchen, the supervising eunuch had already gathered all the palace maids in the courtyard and lined us up in two rows. He didn't explain why, just told us to stand there. The sky hadn't fully brightened yet. Wind blew in through the gaps in the palace walls, chilly and damp with the early spring moisture. I rubbed my fingers; the tips were ice-cold.
We stood for about half a shichen. Just as my legs started to go numb, the sound of bells rang out from afar.
It wasn't the usual timekeeping bells. It was a funeral bell.
One stroke after another, heavy and muffled, like someone hammering blows against my chest. With every strike, the people beside me shrank a little lower. One by one they knelt, shoulders trembling. Some wept softly, others buried their faces in their hands. Sweat filled my palms, my breathing grew short, and a nameless fear churned in my stomach. My first instinct wasn't to kneel—it was to run. Run to the Imperial Garden and see if he was there. But my legs wouldn't obey. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the ground. If I ran now, I would be seen immediately. What would happen to a palace maid who ran during the sounding of the funeral bells? I didn't dare imagine.
My knees hit the stone slabs, the pain making me suck in a sharp breath. Not long after kneeling, the news spread—His Majesty had passed away.
His Majesty. The emperor. Emperor Shenzong of Song. Zhao Xu's father.
In my mind, it wasn't "the emperor is dead." It was "where is Zhao Xu right now?" That thin, small child who would squat in the Imperial Garden watching ants—where was he now? Was anyone with him? Had he cried? Was anyone even allowed to let him cry?
The funeral bells kept ringing. I knelt among the crowd, head lowered, my mind filled with what he had said yesterday. "Father hasn't attended court for a long time." "The imperial physicians come and go every day." "Aheng, do you think Father might…" His voice had been so calm, but his hands were trembling. A nine-year-old child, even his fear had to be hidden. I clenched my sleeves, fingernails digging into my palms. I desperately wanted to rush over and find him. But I couldn't. A palace maid running around on a day like this would be taken for an assassin.
After the crowd dispersed, I hesitated for a long time before heading to the Imperial Garden anyway. The Imperial Kitchen wasn't operating today; I couldn't get any ingredients. I searched every corner of my sleeves and clothes and only found a small handful of dried osmanthus flowers left from yesterday—saved from last autumn and never willing to use. Wrapped in cloth, they had already crumbled, but the fragrance was still strong.
He was there, as expected.
Squatting in the same old spot, watching ants. His robe was the same one from yesterday, all wrinkled, with mud on the knees—he had probably knelt. No eunuchs, no guards. Just him, alone, thin and small, huddled in the corner. His shoulders were narrow, the robe hanging loosely on him like it was draped over a clothes rack. The early spring wind still carried a chill; he shrank his neck but didn't leave.
Hearing footsteps, he lifted his head. His eyes were red, but he wasn't crying. He glanced at me, then lowered his head again.
I walked over and squatted beside him. Neither of us spoke. The two of us quietly watched the ants. The ants didn't know that someone had died today; they were still busily carrying things. One large ant dragged a grain of rice but couldn't get over a tiny pebble. It flipped over, then flipped back. He reached out and gently brushed the ground with his fingers, clearing the pebble for the ant. The movement was very light, as if afraid of hurting it.
After a long time, he spoke. His voice was hoarse, like a candle flame about to go out in the wind: "Father is gone."
"Mhm."
"Mother Empress said that from today onward, I am the emperor."
I didn't know what to say. Saying "congratulations" was wrong. Saying "don't be afraid" felt too light. His hand rested on his knee, gripping the robe so tightly that his knuckles turned white. I opened my mouth, then finally took out the packet of dried osmanthus from my sleeve and handed it to him.
He looked down, took it, and held it under his nose to smell. He closed his eyes and took one breath, then another, as if trying to inhale all the fragrance and store it away.
"Osmanthus."
"Mhm. I couldn't make the congee today. Only this. Saved from last autumn, never willing to use it."
He clutched the crumbled osmanthus tightly in his palm, as if afraid the wind would blow it away. When he lowered his head, a few petals slipped through his fingers and fell beside the ants. The ants went around them and continued carrying their rice.
"Aheng."
"Mhm."
"In the future… can you still cook for me?"
I looked into his eyes. They were red, but there were no tears. A nine-year-old emperor wasn't even allowed to cry. Suddenly I thought—if I could help him forget his sadness for even one moment, just one moment, how good that would be. But I could do nothing. All I knew how to make was egg fried rice and osmanthus sugar congee.
"Yes," I said. "As long as you eat properly, I'll keep cooking for you."
He didn't speak. He lowered his head, smelled the osmanthus again, then carefully tucked the packet into his sleeve—the exact same motion as the first day when I had slipped him the egg fried rice.
Footsteps sounded in the distance. Not the quick steps of eunuchs, but the heavy, urgent sound of boots on stone slabs. Several inner attendants in dark clothes approached from the palace path. The one in front had a pale, beardless face. His gaze swept across the Imperial Garden and immediately spotted Zhao Xu squatting in the corner.
"Your Majesty," he bowed, his voice low but steady. "Her Majesty the Empress Dowager requests your return to the Funing Hall. The late emperor's coffin has not yet been laid to rest. You must keep vigil."
Zhao Xu's body stiffened. He pushed the packet of osmanthus deeper into his sleeve, stood up, and brushed the dust from his knees. After taking two steps, he turned back.
"Aheng."
"Hm?"
"Can I have osmanthus sugar congee tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Put in more osmanthus."
"Alright."
He turned and followed the attendants. After a few steps, he looked back at me again. That glance was brief, but I saw it—there was fear, panic, and something else I couldn't quite name. It was as if he had entrusted something to me.
I remained squatting in place, watching his back disappear behind the palace walls. A nine-year-old emperor, thin as a bamboo pole, his robe hanging loosely, swaying with every gust of wind. The attendants walked beside him like walls, sandwiching him in the middle.
I looked down at the nest of ants. They were still busy, unaware that someone had died today or what tomorrow would bring. That large ant had finally dragged its grain of rice past the pebble and was now wobbling toward the hole.
I suddenly remembered what Grandpa had once said—"Song Emperor Zhezong, Zhao Xu, ascended the throne at nine and died at twenty-five." Nine years old—that was now. Twenty-five years old—there were still sixteen years left. Sixteen years was enough for him to grow up, enough for him to grow old, enough for him to do all the things he hadn't had time to do.
I stood up, ready to leave. After two steps, I heard two sweeping eunuchs whispering in the distance.
"…The Empress Dowager said that since the new emperor is young, she will handle the court affairs."
"So from now on… everything will be decided by the Empress Dowager?"
"Shh! Do you want to die?!"
Their voices were quickly scattered by the wind. I clenched my sleeves and quickened my steps.
On the way back, I kept thinking about that packet of osmanthus—saved from last autumn, never willing to use it. I never expected it would be used like this.
Tomorrow I would make the congee. Put in extra osmanthus. So that when he drank it, it would taste a little sweeter. Even if it was just the sweetness of one bowl of congee.
He had promised me—he would eat properly. I had promised him—I would keep cooking for him.
So there would be congee tomorrow. And every day after that.
[End of Chapter 2]