Late April, the Fourth Year of Yuanyou.
Zhao Xu did not tell the Empress Dowager about what had happened in Willow Alley. He said he would wait until everything was clear. Nor did I tell him about the names written on the wall. Not that I did not want to, but I did not know how.
A Vice Minister of the Ministry of Revenue, a Lecturer of the Hanlin Academy, and one name that had been scraped away. Its strokes were few—could be "Liu," could also be "Gao."
If it was Liu, then it was someone from Consort Liu's faction. Consort Liu had been a favored concubine of the late Emperor Shenzong during the Yuanfeng era. After the Emperor's death, she had remained in the palace along with the other consorts, residing in Anfu Hall. All these years that the Empress Dowager had ruled behind the curtain, she had kept quiet and never quarreled with anyone. But quiet people did not necessarily lack power. Her followers spread across the Six Ministries and the Nine Courts, like the tangled roots of an old tree—hidden, unshakable.
If it was Gao, then it was the Empress Dowager's man.
Either way, it was a thorn that could not be pulled out. Sometimes I thought this must be the Song Dynasty's version of a godmother of the underworld—low-key on the surface, with roots tangled deep throughout the court.
When Zhao Xu returned from the Imperial City Guard, his expression was darker than in previous days. He sat on a stone bench in the Imperial Garden, clutching the register of comings and goings, flipping through it again and again.
"The silver came from the Palace Domestic Service. Chen An handled it, but he's fled. The dried scallops supposedly purchased never entered storage." He paused. "No one knows who pocketed those five hundred taels."
"What about the names on the wall? Have you looked into them?"
"I have. The Vice Minister of the Ministry of Revenue was promoted last year. The Hanlin Lecturer entered the Academy the year before." He lifted his head and looked at me. "Both are men of Consort Liu."
I froze. "And the one that was scraped off?"
"Nothing to trace. Only three knife marks remain on the wall; the name is gone." He lowered his head. "I had men question residents near Willow Alley. Some said a middle-aged man lived in that house last year, keeping to himself and rarely interacting with others. He suddenly moved out early this spring. No one knows who he was or where he went."
"What about the five hundred taels? The scallops never entered storage, so the silver must have gone somewhere."
"I checked. The purchasing records in the Imperial Kitchen were altered. The original page was torn out and replaced with a new copy." He paused. "The clerk who copied it was a scribe from the Palace Domestic Service. By the time I went for him, he was already dead. Three days ago, supposedly of sudden illness. The coroner examined him and found no external wounds. But I looked at his fingers—nails black, lips purple. Poison."
"What kind of poison?"
"No idea. Impossible to identify. The coroner called it sudden illness. The Imperial City Guard said it might have been suicide out of guilt." He lifted his gaze to me. "But I don't believe it."
I looked at him. He sat on the stone bench, shoulders slightly hunched, as if carrying a great weight. He was already thirteen, a head taller than me, dressed in crimson robes with a silver tally, presiding over interrogations at the main desk of the Imperial City Guard. Yet when he sat beneath this osmanthus tree, he was still the boy who frowned, pouted, and rubbed his cuffs.
"The name that was scraped off had very few strokes," I said.
He looked up.
"I saw it. That night in Willow Alley, when the fire lit up the wall, I saw it. The writing was scraped away, but the knife marks remained. Few strokes. A vertical hook, a horizontal hook." I paused. "It could be 'Liu' or 'Gao.' The first two strokes of both characters are the same."
He said nothing. After a long while, he spoke.
"If it's Liu, then it's the Consort's man. If it's Gao—" He did not finish. Empress Dowager Gao. His grandmother. The woman who had placed him on the throne at nine, ruled from behind the curtain, taught him to read, taught him to behave, taught him how to be emperor.
"Did you look into who the clerk associated with?"
"I did. Before he died, he was close to a maid in Consort Liu's palace. That maid also died three days ago. Thrown into a well." He paused. "Fished out of it. The coroner ruled drowning. But there were bruises on her neck—she was held down."
He stood up and closed the register.
"I'm going back to Willow Alley."
"Now?"
"Now. Once the trail goes cold, it'll be too late."
This time, we did not use the main gate. Zhao Xu changed into dark clothes, left through the back entrance of the Imperial City Guard, and took a longer, winding alley. I followed close behind, walking quickly. Night wind blew through the alley mouth, cold and sharp. He suddenly stopped, waited for me to catch up, then reached out and took my wrist. This time it was not a gentle hold—it was a tight grip, his knuckles digging into my back, slightly painful.
"Stay close to me. Don't make a sound."
Willow Alley was even darker than before. Two lanterns at the entrance had gone out, leaving only one at the far end, swaying in the wind. Zhao Xu slowed his steps, pressing against the wall. I followed him, holding my breath. When we reached Number Fifteen, he stopped and listened. Nothing. Number Sixteen—still nothing. Number Seventeen… the door was open. Not ajar. Wide open. Pitch black, like an open mouth.
Zhao Xu pulled me behind him and stepped inside first. He took out a fire strip and lit it. The writing on the wall was still there. But something new had appeared—a puddle of water on the ground, still wet. Well water. And several footprints, damp, leading deeper into the alley.
"Someone was here. Just left."
He tugged me and ran outside. At the alley mouth, he paused and looked around. The street was empty, only a few lanterns swaying in the wind. He pulled me south, running through one alley, then another. The footprints vanished at the entrance of the third alley. The ground was dry, nothing left.
"We lost them." He gasped, bending over.
I knelt down and looked at the stone slabs. One slab near the mouth was loose, its edge lifted. I reached under it and felt a small hole, inside which was a crumpled oilcloth. I pulled it out and unfolded it—a letter. It was short, only one line:
Those belonging to Consort Liu must not live.
Zhao Xu took the letter and glanced at it. His expression changed. Not with fear, but with the tight, slightly pale look of someone who had seen something they should not. He folded it and tucked it into his sleeve.
"Let's go."
As soon as he spoke, footsteps approached from the alley mouth. Not one person—many. Heavy, fast, boots striking stone, ta-ta-ta-ta. Shouts rang out: "This way! Search!"
He grabbed my hand and ran deeper into the alley. This one was narrower than the last, flanked by high walls topped with broken tiles glinting coldly in the moonlight. After a few steps, we hit a wall—a dead end. He stopped and glanced back. The footsteps drew nearer. He pushed me against the corner and stood in front. His back pressed against the wall, my face against his chest. His heart beat fast and heavy, like someone knocking at a door.
The footsteps at the entrance stopped. Voices ordered: "Search inside!"
He lowered his head, his lips brushing my ear. "Don't make a sound."
His breath was warm against my neck. Sounds of rummaging came from the alley—doors kicked open, clay pots smashed, someone cursing: "Nothing! Chase them that way!" The footsteps faded, growing distant until they were gone. But he did not move. His face was buried in my hair, his breathing gradually steadying. His fingers still wrapped around my wrist, not letting go.
"They're gone," he said. His voice was soft, as if afraid to disturb something.
He straightened and stepped back. Moonlight slipped over the wall onto his face. A thin layer of sweat glistened on his forehead, a tiny leaf stuck to his eyelashes. I reached up and plucked it away. He looked at me, motionless. My finger brushed his lashes; he blinked, and they swept lightly over my fingertip, tickling.
"Your hands are cold," he said.
"I'm scared."
"Liar. You're not afraid."
"How do you know?"
"Your heartbeat isn't fast." He paused. "My hands are shaking. Yours aren't."
I looked down at his hand. It was indeed trembling—not from fear, but from the strain of being taut for too long, finally allowed to relax. I took his hand in mine. His palm was large, his fingers long; mine could only cover half of it. But his hand was burning hot, making my chest tight.
"I'm not shaking anymore," he said.
We walked back the way we came. Near the alley mouth, he suddenly stopped and looked back at the wall. It was tall, topped with broken tiles, moonlight glinting off them like tiny blades.
"The clerk did not kill himself out of guilt. The maid did not throw herself into the well. The scraped name was not erased by choice." He turned to me. "Someone is silencing witnesses. From the clerk in Willow Alley, to Consort Liu's maid, to the vanished name. One after another."
"What now?"
"Now—" He thought for a moment. "Find Chen An. He's the only one left alive. Find him, and we'll know where the five hundred taels went. Find where the silver went, and we'll know who those names on the wall belonged to."
"But Chen An fled. He can't be found."
"He can." He pulled the slip of paper from his sleeve, on which was written the address of Number Seventeen, Willow Alley. "Chen An left this address. He came to Willow Alley to meet that middle-aged man. They knew each other. Find that man, and we find Chen An."
"That middle-aged man also fled."
"Not far." He folded the paper and put it back. "He lived in Willow Alley for a year, which means he has roots in the capital. Those with roots don't run far."
He turned toward the Imperial Palace. I followed. After a few steps, he stopped and held out his hand—not for my wrist, but with his palm open. I looked at his hand: long fingers, distinct knuckles, faint calluses on the palm. I placed my hand in his. He closed his fingers around mine.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"You saw the writing on that letter?"
"I did."
"Whose handwriting was it?"
I thought. "Not Consort Liu's. Not the Empress Dowager's. It was a man's. Sharp strokes, like someone used to writing official documents."
He nodded. "I think so too. That letter was written to Consort Liu. Telling her her people had been exposed and had to be eliminated." He paused. "The one who wrote it is the real mastermind."
"What do you plan to do?"
"Keep investigating. Look into who Consort Liu is closest to. Find out who the middle-aged man works for. Trace the five hundred taels." He squeezed my hand. "No matter who it is in the end, I will find out."
"Aren't you afraid of hurting the Empress Dowager?"
He fell silent for a moment. "I am. But—if it were one of the Empress Dowager's people, she would not order silencing like this. If the Empress Dowager wanted someone dead, she would not hide it this way." He paused. "That person is not hers. They belong to someone else. Someone more dangerous than Consort Liu."
He turned and walked toward the alley mouth. I followed. After a few steps, he stopped again and held out his hand. Palm open. Long fingers, clear knuckles, faint calluses—from drawing bows, holding brushes, flipping through dossiers. I placed my hand in his. He closed his fingers around mine. My hand was small, entirely enclosed in his. His palm burned hot, just as before, tightening my chest.
We walked through narrow alleys, long streets, and the Imperial Avenue. The moon followed us, shining down on us, on our intertwined hands. He walked slowly, and so did I. Neither of us spoke.
After a long while, I suddenly felt a pain in my ankle. Looking down, I saw the side of my shoe scraped raw, probably from running in the alley earlier. The blood had crusted, a small dark red patch stuck to my sock. I said nothing and kept walking. A few more steps, and he stopped.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
He looked down at my foot. The moonlight was bright; the small bloodstain must have been obvious. His brows furrowed. He knelt and gently touched my ankle.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Liar." He stood, turned, and backed toward me. "Get on."
"What?"
"I'll carry you. Your foot's hurt and you're still walking."
"No need. It's not far."
"Get on." He crouched a little lower, his voice firm. "You carried me once. Now it's my turn."
I froze, remembering the winter when he was nine. He had just recovered from an illness but insisted on seeing the snow in the Imperial Garden. Halfway there, he could not walk anymore, yet was too stubborn to be carried. I knelt and said: Up. He climbed onto my back, chin resting on my shoulder, muttering: "Aheng, am I heavy?"
"Not heavy. Like a cat."
"Liar. I've gained four jin."
"Four jin is still a cat."
Back then, he only reached my eyebrows, thin as a bamboo pole. Now he was a head taller, his shoulders broad enough to block out the entire moon. He crouched before me, his back wide, waiting.
I climbed on. He stood up steadily, as if carrying a bundle of firewood, a sack of rice, something that simply belonged. His back was broad, his shoulders flat; lying on him, I could feel the rise and fall of his shoulder blades. He walked slowly, his steps steady. Most lanterns along the Imperial Avenue had gone out, leaving only one in the distance, swaying in the wind. The moon was full, casting our shadow on the ground—one tall, broad figure, with a small lump on his back—that was me. I lay on his back, chin on his shoulder, just as he had done on mine when he was little.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"Am I heavy?"
"Heavy or not, you're carrying me."
He laughed. The sound rumbled in his chest, making my cheek tingle.
"When you carried me as a kid, you said I was like a cat."
"You were like a cat. Now I'm like a cat too."
"You're not a cat." He thought for a moment, his ears turning red. "You're a fox."
"A fox?"
"Mm. A fox spirit. The kind that steals people's hearts."
I reached up and pinched his ear. It was as hot as freshly cooked sweet porridge.
"Who taught you to say things like that?"
"The Grand Tutor."
"The Grand Tutor taught you to insult people?"
"The Grand Tutor taught me to be honest."
Lying on his back, I laughed until my shoulders shook. His back was wide, and shook with me.
"When you were in America, did anyone carry you like this?"
"No."
"Who did carry you, then?"
"No one. Americans don't carry people. They use cars."
"What kind of cars?"
"Four wheels, metal shells, faster than horses."
"That's no good."
"Why not?"
"Metal shells don't laugh. The person carrying you laughs."
His voice was muffled, rising from his chest with his body heat. I buried my face in his shoulder. His clothes smelled of soap, of daytime dossiers from the Imperial City Guard, and a faint sweat—from running earlier. Not pleasant. But I did not want to lift my head.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"Will you always be here?"
"I will."
"Then promise me."
"Promise what?"
"Promise you won't suddenly leave in that metal car. Promise you won't go back to America. Promise—"
"When did you get so long-winded?"
He froze. I heard his breath catch for a moment, then he laughed. Softly, like wind blowing through osmanthus blossoms.
"Will you promise or not?"
"I promise. I won't leave. I won't go back to America. I promise—" I lifted my face from his shoulder, speaking slowly toward the moon, "I promise to let Your Majesty carry me for the rest of my life. Until you can't carry me anymore."
"I can carry you. You're not heavy."
"Then carry me until we're a hundred."
"Alright. Until we're a hundred."
He walked even slower. Moonlight poured from the end of the Imperial Avenue, turning the whole street into a silver river. His shadow moved slowly across the ground, the small lump on his back lying still and steady.
"Aheng, did you watch the moon when you were in America?"
"I did. But it wasn't the same."
"How was it different?"
"There were no osmanthus trees. No Imperial Garden. No—" I thought, then buried my face in his shoulder, voice muffled, "no you."
He said nothing. But I felt his heartbeat quicken. Through his clothes, his back, the moonlight—thump, thump. Just as fast as when we were being chased in the alley.
"Your heart is beating so fast."
"From walking."
"Liar. It wasn't this fast when you first carried me."
"That was then."
"What about now?"
"Now—" He stopped, turning his head so his ear was near my mouth, "now you're talking."
"What about talking?"
"Your voice is nice. So my heart beats faster."
I pinched his ear again. This time he did not pull away; his ear turned even redder, almost translucent in the moonlight.
"When did you get so good with words?"
"The Grand Tutor taught me."
"The Grand Tutor teaches this too?"
"The Grand Tutor taught me to tell the truth to the person I like."
He lifted me slightly and continued walking. His steps were as steady as the stone slabs of the Imperial Avenue. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, round and bright, stretching our shadows long. My shadow lay within his, small, like a leaf resting on a tree.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"Can you sing that English song? The one you sang when I was little."
"The Christmas song?"
"Mm. Sing it for me."
"Now? On the Imperial Avenue?"
"Mm. No one's around anyway."
Lying on his back, facing the moon, I hummed softly.
We wish you a Merry Christmas,We wish you a Merry Christmas,We wish you a Merry Christmas,and a Happy New Year.
He hummed along for two lines, his pronunciation still off but much better than when he was little. Back then, he had mangled "Merry Christmas" into something unintelligible; now you could at least tell it was English.
"You sang it wrong."
"Where?"
"That 'we wish you'—not like that."
"Then how?"
I spoke each word slowly into his ear. His ear burned hot, making my lips tingle.
We — wish — you —
We — wish — you —
"Right."
He laughed. The sound echoed across the empty Imperial Avenue, startling a bird on a distant roof. It flapped its wings, flew across the face of the moon, and landed on another roof.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"Sing it for me every year from now on."
"Alright."
"Carry you every year."
"Alright."
"Watch the moon every year."
"Alright."
"And every year—" He thought for a moment, "I'll make you egg fried rice every year. Until it's not salty anymore."
"That'll take a long time."
"I don't mind. I have plenty of time."
He carried me across the Imperial Avenue, through the palace paths, over the stone slabs outside the Inner Kitchen. The moon followed us all the way, from the avenue to the palace walls, to the Inner Kitchen. He crouched and set me down. My feet touched the ground weakly, unsteady. I swayed, and he held my arm, not letting go.
"Go inside."
"Alright."
He let go. My hand fell, my fingertips brushing his. He did not move. I hooked my little finger around his. He still did not move. Moonlight shone on our intertwined fingers, on his bright red ears, on my scraped ankle.
"See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
He released my hand and turned to leave. After a few steps, he looked back.
"Aheng."
"Mm?"
"I learned that English song."
"Mm."
"Next year, I'll sing it for you."
He smiled. Then turned and ran. The hem of his robe flapped against the stone slabs, just like when he was nine. But this time, he stopped after a few steps and glanced back at me. Then ran again. Stopped, glanced back. Until he turned the palace wall and disappeared.
I stood at the entrance of the Inner Kitchen, watching his shadow vanish. My ankle still hurt. My palm still held the warmth of his fingers. In my ears still echoed his off-key English song. He said he would sing it for me next year. The year after. And the year after that. Every year.
End of Chapter 27