Chapter 29: Under the Weight of Silk and Snow
The snow had been falling since before dawn. Not the heavy kind that bent branches or buried pathways, but a fine, almost hesitant drift that clung to the edges of roof tiles and curled against the stone steps. I watched it from the balcony, leaning slightly on the carved railing, my hands wrapped in a silk shawl that did little to stop the cold. Somewhere below, a servant crossed the courtyard with a broom, sweeping in slow, steady arcs. The bristles made a faint rasping sound that broke the morning stillness.
I had not slept much. The events of the past days kept turning in my mind like a spindle wheel that refused to stop. Meiyan's gaze across the lacquered table still sat in my memory, sharp and deliberate. The Dowager's words about flowers and weapons lingered too.
Jiu'er appeared behind me without a sound. She was carrying a tray with a clay teapot and two small cups, steam curling in lazy spirals.
"You should be inside, Princess," she said, setting the tray down on the low table. "It is warmer by the brazier."
"I will come in soon," I replied, though I did not move. My eyes followed the servant below until he disappeared behind the wall. "Is the festival preparation still keeping the kitchens awake?"
She nodded, pouring the tea. "They have been pounding rice since midnight for the festival cakes. I heard one of the boys burned his hand on the steamer lid."
I took the cup she offered. The heat seeped into my fingers, and for a moment I simply held it there, breathing in the faint bitterness of the leaves.
The palace felt different on days like this. Busy, yes, but beneath the surface there was a certain… tautness. As though every servant, every attendant, every court lady knew the festival was not just for lanterns and music. It was a mirror. And mirrors showed winners and losers both.
---
By mid-morning, I was summoned to the Hall of Harmonious Sound. The name suggested music and laughter, but when I arrived, the air was quiet save for the occasional shuffle of a silk hem. The hall was lined with tables where servants were arranging bolts of colored fabric—scarlet, gold, pale jade—into precise folds.
A steward approached and bowed. "Princess Lianhua. The Emperor has requested that each consort contribute an arrangement for the lantern procession."
I inclined my head. "And what form should mine take?"
"That is for Your Highness to decide. The lanterns may bear symbols, verses, even personal emblems. His Majesty enjoys… variety."
That last word was spoken carefully. I could hear the meaning beneath it: variety meant competition. Each lantern would speak in a language of color and shape, a language the Emperor understood well.
I walked slowly along the tables, letting my hand trail over the fabrics. Gold was too obvious. Scarlet too bold. Pale jade… perhaps too meek. My fingers paused on a length of deep indigo silk, the color of the sky before dawn.
"This one," I said finally. "And white thread."
The steward hesitated. "White, Princess? It is more often used for…" He trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
"For mourning. Yes, I know," I said. "But on indigo, it will look like frost on midnight water."
He bowed again, still uncertain, but made a note for the attendants to begin.
---
When I returned to my chambers, the air was warm from the brazier, but the light had shifted. The snow outside had stopped, leaving the courtyard dusted and pale. I sat at my desk, brush in hand, and began to sketch a design for the lantern's pattern. Not a flower, not a bird—too many others would choose those. Instead, I drew a single stalk of bamboo, thin but unbroken, bending under a weight of snow.
Jiu'er leaned over my shoulder. "It looks… quiet," she said.
"That is the point," I murmured. "Quiet can be stronger than loud."
She smiled faintly, though I could see the worry in her eyes.
---
Later that afternoon, I walked to the Pavilion of Whispering Pines, where the court musicians practiced. I had no official reason to be there, but sometimes the most valuable moves were the ones made without invitation.
The air smelled faintly of rosin and cedar. Three musicians sat cross-legged with guqin across their laps, plucking notes that seemed to float rather than fall. One of them glanced up at me, startled, then quickly looked down again.
"Do you take requests?" I asked lightly.
The eldest of the three nodded. "If it pleases Your Highness."
I thought for a moment. "Play the 'Song of the Returning Crane.' Slowly."
The notes began, soft and deliberate, each one stretching into the space between us. I closed my eyes and listened, imagining the sound drifting across the festival night, weaving itself among the lantern light.
When the song ended, I thanked them and left without explaining why I had come. Let Meiyan wonder, if word reached her. Let her try to guess.
---
By evening, the palace was bright with lamplight, corridors glowing like strings of amber beads. I sat with Jiu'er by the brazier again, mending a tear in one of my sleeves. My stitches were uneven, but I kept at it.
"You have not eaten much today," she said quietly.
"I am not hungry."
"You will need your strength for the festival."
I tied off the thread and looked at her. "Strength is not always in the body, Jiu'er. Sometimes it is here." I touched my temple.
She sighed, but said nothing more.
---
Night fell, and I found myself back on the balcony. The snow reflected the moonlight, turning the courtyard into something almost dreamlike. In the distance, I could hear faint laughter—perhaps from Meiyan's wing.
I wrapped my shawl tighter. The cold was sharper now, biting at my fingers, but I stayed there. Sometimes, the only way to win a game was to stand still and let the others make the first wrong move.
And the festival was close. Very close.