Yuanfeng 8th year, third month, day wuxu. The new emperor ascended the throne.
I only learned the exact date later. That morning, I was woken before dawn—not by the supervising eunuch, but by drums. Not ordinary drums, but the Dengwen drum, striking one heavy beat after another from deep within the palace city, making the window lattices tremble.
The entire palace woke up.
When I sat up on my pallet, my fingers were still tracing the latest line I had drawn on the wall—forty-three lines. Forty-three days. Today was the forty-fourth. I pulled my hand back, clenched my fist, fingertips ice-cold. The pallet beside mine was already empty, the quilt folded neatly; whoever slept there had left sometime earlier. Footsteps echoed in the courtyard, faster and lighter than usual, as if people were running on cotton.
I got dressed and stepped outside. The morning dew had not yet evaporated; the bluestone slabs were slick and wet. The air still carried the lingering smoke from last night's incense burners, mixed with the crisp chill of a deep autumn morning. One breath and my lungs felt frozen. In the distance, bells were being tested—one strike, a long pause, then another—as if confirming something.
I was assigned to sweep the square outside the Zichen Hall. By the time I arrived, the sky had just begun to show a pale fish-belly white. The area in front of the hall was already packed with people. Not the usual scattered officials, but a dense crowd stretching from the hall doors all the way down to the base of the imperial steps. Crimson, azure, and green official robes were arranged strictly by rank, like an enormous piece of brocade gilded with a thin layer of morning light. Every official held his tablet upright before his chest, motionless, like a stone forest planted in the ground. No one whispered, no one glanced around; even their breathing was synchronized.
It was the first time I had seen so many Song dynasty officials. It was also the first time I truly realized—today was different.
Inner attendants moved silently among them, fly whisks resting in the crooks of their arms, footsteps quick but soundless. The sets of bells and chimes beneath the eaves were already in place. Musicians knelt on either side, hands hovering above the instruments, neither daring to strike nor to withdraw. Beads of sweat glistened on one musician's forehead in the morning light, yet he remained frozen like a statue. The air was stretched taut like a fully drawn bowstring. No one spoke, no one coughed; even the wind had stopped.
I stood in the corner, gripping my broom, palms slick with sweat. It wasn't the sweat of sweeping. It was nerves. I was nervous for Zhao Xu. The broom handle turned several times in my hand, the wood damp with moisture. I wanted to step forward, to move closer to the hall doors, even if only to catch a glimpse. But the censor's gaze sliced over like a knife. I shrank back and lowered my head, pretending to sweep. Last night's fallen leaves were wedged in the brick cracks; unable to brush them out, I squatted and picked at them with my fingers. My hands were freezing, dirt packed under my nails.
At the third quarter of the chen hour, bells and drums sounded together.
The sound did not come from one place—it surged from all directions at once: bells from the Imperial Ancestral Temple, drums from the Daqing Hall, music echoing from the watchtowers at the four corners of the palace city. The deep, distant hum of the bell set layered upon itself, while the chime stones rang out crisp and clear, like cracking ice slicing through the air. On the corner towers, drummers raised their arms; the moment the drumsticks fell, the stone slabs beneath my feet vibrated. The entire Bianjing city could hear it. No—the entire realm could hear it.
Above the imperial steps, the hall doors slowly opened.
First came the imperial carriage. A golden-dragon-adorned imperial palanquin, carried by sixteen inner attendants, moved steadily out from inside the hall and stopped at the center of the steps. The palanquin was empty—this was the ritual of "welcoming the carriage" first, before welcoming the emperor himself. Then two columns of ceremonial guards filed out. Banners fluttered, yellow silk canopies moved like shifting clouds. Axes, banners, golden melons, and battle-axes gleamed coldly in the sunlight. Every guard holding an instrument of state looked as if he had stepped out of a painting, footsteps perfectly synchronized, boot soles striking the stone with a single unified sound.
Then the officials knelt in homage.
No one gave a command; everyone lowered themselves at the same moment, like a field of wheat blown down by a single gust of wind. Crimson and azure robes pressed to the ground, tablets raised high overhead, voices roaring "Ten thousand years!" The sound burst from more than a thousand throats at once, crashed against the hall walls, bounced back, and rolled across the square several times before slowly fading. My eardrums vibrated, my heartbeat rising and falling with the sound as if pulled by an invisible force. I couldn't tell whether I was hearing it or feeling it.
I stood in the corner, my knees going weak for a moment. Not from fear. Because the sound was simply too immense. So immense that I suddenly understood—from today onward, that small child who used to squat in the Imperial Garden watching ants was no longer a child.
Zhao Xu emerged from inside the hall.
The moment I saw him, I almost didn't recognize him. He was wearing the full imperial mianfu and mian crown—black upper robe and crimson lower garment, the robe embroidered with the six insignia: sun, moon, stars, mountains, dragons, and huachong; the skirt with the four emblems: algae, fire, rice grains, fu and fu. Twelve strings of white pearls hung from the front and back of the crown, each string of nine tassels falling neatly to his brow, half-covering his face. He walked very slowly, each step twice as long as usual, as though someone had taught him: "When the Son of Heaven walks, he strides like a dragon and paces like a tiger." The tassels swayed gently with his steps, pearls and jade clicking in a delicate rain-like sound. A few drops of dew slipped from his sleeve cuffs, flashed once in the morning light, and silently shattered on the stone steps.
But he was still too small.
The shoulder seams of the robe fell below his shoulders; the cuffs had been rolled twice before his fingers could show. The crown was too large, sitting on his head like he was carrying the sky itself. With every step, the tassels swayed, and I worried they might fall off. The hem dragged along the ground, the embroidered patterns creased faintly under his feet. Every step looked as though he were walking while treading on something far larger than himself.
He did not let it fall. He did not stumble.
He reached the highest point of the imperial steps and turned around. In that instant, I saw his throat move—he was swallowing. It was a very small motion. From so far away, I don't know how I noticed it. Perhaps because I had watched him too many times: eating, swallowing congee, nervously rubbing his sleeves. Every small gesture was etched into my memory.
His face behind the tassels was unclear, but he took a deep breath. His shoulders rose, then fell. Then he stood straight.
The officials knelt once more. This time the sound was louder, more uniform, carrying a hint of weeping. Some shouted "Ten thousand years," some shouted "Your Majesty," some lay prostrate on the ground, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. An inner attendant knelt beside the steps, holding the imperial gui tablet high above his head. Zhao Xu reached out to receive it. The moment his fingers touched the tablet, they paused. The pause was brief, but I saw it—his hand was trembling. Then he grasped it firmly.
The master of ceremonies unrolled the edict and read it in a resounding voice, word by word. I couldn't fully understand the parallel prose, but I caught fragments: "The late emperor has ascended to heaven," "The crown prince ascends the throne," "A general amnesty is granted to the realm." With every sentence, the officials prostrated themselves and roared once more. They bowed three times and shouted three times.
On the final shout, Zhao Xu's hand released the gui tablet. Not suddenly—it was one finger after another slowly unfolding, as if letting go of something he had clutched for a very long time. The tablet was taken by the attendant, and his hand dropped to his side, no longer clenched.
The music rose again. Bell chimes, stone chimes, sheng pipes, xiao flutes, yu mouth organs, and chi flutes played together—the elegant court music, slow, solemn, ancient, as if passed down from the Zhou dynasty. The melody spiraled above the square, layering higher and higher, pressing down until no one dared breathe. When the wind blew, the pearls and jade on the tassels collided more urgently—ding-ding, dang-dang—like someone ringing bells in the distance. His sleeves filled with wind, billowing out, then collapsing.
I watched the small figure on the imperial steps. Dressed in black and crimson, crowned with the mian, standing at the highest point of the entire realm. The wind rose from beneath his feet, carrying the scent of incense from the ancestral temple, the echoes of officials' homage, and the weight of a thousand years. He held steady. He did not cry, did not hide, did not turn back. He stood there like a tree that had been battered by wind for too long and had finally taken root.
After the ceremony ended, the officials withdrew, and the music gradually faded. The crowd in the square dispersed like a receding tide, leaving only a few sweeping eunuchs and me. The stone slabs had been trodden clean. The last wisps of white smoke still rose from the incense burners. The air was thick with the mingled scent of candles and sandalwood, impossible to dissipate.
As I squatted to pick up a fallen dry branch, I saw a few osmanthus petals on the ground. Golden, tiny, drifted from who-knows-where. In this season, the osmanthus in the Imperial Garden had long since bloomed and fallen. Perhaps the wind had carried them from elsewhere, or perhaps they had slipped from some palace maid's sleeve. I picked up one petal and held it in my palm—thin, with a faint lingering fragrance.
The distant hall doors had already closed. Zhao Xu, surrounded by inner attendants, disappeared behind them. The hem of his robe dragged and caught on the threshold; a nearby eunuch steadied him. I saw his head tilt slightly in my direction. Across the entire square, across the banners and incense burners, across the lingering echoes of bells and drums. It was too far; I couldn't see his expression clearly. But I saw his hand move—not a wave, but a clench into a fist, then a release. As if saying—I held on.
I clutched that osmanthus petal and nodded gently toward the empty square. I knew.
That night, I made osmanthus sugar congee. I doubled the amount of osmanthus, simmering it until the rice grains nearly melted into the broth, sweet to the point of cloying. The earthenware jar sat on the stove, steaming hot, the fragrance of osmanthus spilling from the mouth and sweetening the entire Imperial Kitchen.
When the young eunuch came to collect it, he said His Majesty had eaten nothing all day.
"He has to eat," I said, handing over the jar. After thinking for a moment, I added, "Tell him that since he made it through the ascension ceremony, he shouldn't be afraid of a bowl of congee."
The young eunuch's face turned white with fright. "This… how could I dare say that…"
"Just say I said it."
He hugged the jar and ran off. After a few steps he turned back and whispered, "Sister, someone asked me whether this congee… was from the Imperial Kitchen's recipes. I said no, it was your own. That person didn't say anything more, but…"
He didn't finish, then ran off again. I stood in the corridor, watching his back disappear around the corner of the palace wall. The night wind blew in from the palace path, chilly. I pulled my sleeves tighter and swallowed the unfinished sentence.
Half a shichen later, the jar was returned—empty. The bottom still had one grain of rice stuck to it, scraped completely clean.
Beside the jar was a note, a little larger than the previous ones, the characters still crooked:
"Aheng, today's congee was too sweet. Tomorrow use less osmanthus. I let the ministers taste it; they all said it was good."
I smiled at the note. He had even thought to let the ministers taste it—he still had the presence of mind for such things. That was good.
I folded the note carefully and slipped it under my pillow, together with the previous two.
First note: Aheng, I ate properly. What about you?
Second note: Tomorrow's congee—less osmanthus.
Third note: I let the ministers taste it; they all said it was good.
Grandpa's note was there too, its edges already frayed: Yuanfeng 8th year, third month. Emperor Shenzong passed away. Ascension. Age: nine.
I lined them up neatly, lay down, and closed my eyes.
From now on, every bowl of fragrant congee would buy him more life—and more dreams. Tomorrow, I would make a bowl that wasn't quite so sweet. The day after, a bowl of Fengzhen braised pork noodles. Grandma's recipe. The taste of Suzhou. So he would know that besides osmanthus sugar congee, there were many other delicious things in this world. And many more days ahead. Many, many more.
The osmanthus fragrance outside the window had already been scattered by the wind, but I still held that one petal in my palm—thin, golden. I placed it beside my pillow, together with the notes.
Tomorrow I would draw the forty-fourth line.
[End of Chapter 3]