Chapter 35 She Also Ate Well
Autumn, the sixth year of Yuanyou.
The Empress Dowager's cough had grown worse. No longer occasional light sounds, but wrenching fits she could not hold back.Every time Zhao Xu came to greet her, he waited outside the door until the coughing stopped before knocking.She knew. He knew. Neither spoke.
His notebook was already half-filled.From spring of the fifth year to autumn of the sixth, nearly two years of entries:what she ate, how long she slept, how many times she coughed.Every line clear and neat.
Tucked inside was a note not written by him, but by her—dated the eighth year of Yuanfeng:His Majesty ate well today. Half a bowl of congee, one piece of osmanthus cake.
It was the first note she ever kept. The paper had yellowed, edges frayed. He had mended it clumsily with paste, but it remained.
On the twelfth day of the ninth month, Zhao Xu went to see her.She sat on the couch, memorials spread before her. Her face was pale, lips colorless, dark circles heavy under her eyes.When she saw him, she smiled.
"You're here."
"I'm here."
He sat beside her and watched her review documents. She wrote slowly, carefully, as if afraid to err.Midway, her hand paused. She set down her brush, lifted her teacup, and took a sip.
Then the coughing came.Not the soft, muffled kind, but a violent heave from her chest. She hunched over, one hand braced on the couch, the other covering her mouth. Her shoulders shook with each gasp. The teacup lid clinked rapidly against the cup.
It lasted a long time—long enough that Zhao Xu's hands clenched and unclenched on his knees over and over.
When it finally passed, she lowered her handkerchief, folded it quickly, and tucked it into her sleeve.But he saw it.A patch of red, blooming on the fabric like a flower sinking into water.
She looked up at him. He looked back.Neither spoke.She smiled first.
"Dry autumn. Irritates the throat."
Zhao Xu nodded. "Have the physician check again."
"He already has. Nothing serious."
She pulled the memorials back and continued writing. Her hand did not tremble. Her characters remained straight and proper.He sat quietly, fingers slightly curled in his lap.
That afternoon, Zhao Xu did not come to the garden.He went to the Imperial City Guard—not to read old files, but to review memorials.The Empress Dowager had sent twice as many as usual.
He spread them on his desk and read each one, not in the old way: read → think → ask her.Now it was: read → decide → issue.
His hand was steady. Vermilion brush fell neatly, just like hers.
First: disaster in Huainan, drought-killed crops.He approved a thirty-percent tax reduction, ordered relief grain in three separated batches, with independent escorts to prevent embezzlement, and threatened strict punishment for neglect.
Second: Ministry of Revenue requested large-denomination coins to fund border armies.He recalled his father's notes: Coinage is the nation's blood. Too much breeds chaos; trust matters more than quantity.He rejected it, ordering cuts to redundant troops instead.
Third: impeachment of a Vice Minister over bribery accusations.Evidence was weak and contradictory. He sent it back for re-investigation—no wrongful blame, no willful indulgence.
Eleventh: urgent border report.Xia raiders had struck again, looting villages, killing civilians.Past responses had been cautious: drive them away, wait, hold back.This time, he did not wait.He reviewed troop numbers, horses, grain, training schedules.His father had written: The Xia are petty and fickle. Without showing might, they will not fear.
Zhao Xu's brush moved firmly:Xia raids continue. If they cross again, attack without waiting for orders. Supplies to be dispatched at once. Cowardice punished by military law.
By the time he finished the seventeenth memorial, night had fully fallen.He stacked them neatly: approved, rejected, held.Stepped outside. The wind was cold.He looked toward Funing Hall. Doors closed, curtain drawn, light still glowing inside.
He walked to the Imperial Garden.Osmanthus bloomed fully, golden clusters glowing under the moon. Petals drifted down, settling on his shoulders, knees, hands.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"I reviewed seventeen memorials today. Huainan drought, coinage, impeachment, Xia border reports. All decided."
"Did you judge well?"
"I won't know for years. But I had to decide now. No waiting. No delaying. No asking her." He paused. "She coughed blood today. On her handkerchief. She thought I didn't see. Hid it fast. But I saw.When she wrote, her hand didn't shake. Characters still neat. She didn't want me to notice. So I pretended not to.She didn't want me to worry. So I pretended not to."
He stared at his hands, dusted with tiny golden flowers.
"Her hand didn't shake," he repeated softly. "She can still write. She's still holding on."
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"How much longer can she hold on?"
I did not answer. Neither did he.More petals fell. He cupped one in his palm.
"However long it is, I will hold on too. She holds on, I hold on. She writes, I write. She pretends everything is fine, I pretend too.I pretend she can hold on much longer."
That night, a plate of osmanthus cake arrived.Not from the imperial kitchens—made by her own hands.Pieces unevenly cut, petals scattered haphazardly. But the scent was warm and familiar.
Under the plate lay a note.
His Majesty ate well today: one bowl congee, egg fried rice, two cakes, mung bean soup.
On the back, in fainter, gentler characters, as if afraid the brush might break the paper:
Empress Dowager also ate well today: half a bowl congee, one cake. Not too sweet today.
Zhao Xu stared a long time.He folded it and placed it in his notebook, next to the yellowed Yuanfeng note.One old, one new.One for his childhood, one for her now.
Osmanthus kept falling, covering his closed notebook.He caught one more petal, light as her neat characters, light as the hidden blood, light as that faint line: today not too sweet.
That night, I wrote on my slip:
He reviewed seventeen memorials.Drought, coinage, impeachment, border raids.He said: must decide now. No waiting. No asking.
She coughed blood.She thought he didn't see.He saw.She didn't ask. He didn't say.
She said: not too sweet today.He wrote it down.
His hand was steady when he ruled.Steady when he caught osmanthus.
He pretends she can hold on longer.She pretends too.We all pretend.
Moon outside.Osmanthus in bloom.Seventeen decisions.One flower caught.One notebook closed.
Pretending the day when her writing fades completely is still very, very far away.
End of Chapter 35