Year 12 of Yongle, September. Beijing.
The news of the expedition came suddenly, yet it felt as though everyone had known it was coming all along.
I was the last to know. That morning, I went to the kitchen to get breakfast. The chatty cooks were nowhere to be seen; only a young eunuch tending the fire squatted before the stove, tossing in firewood sporadically.
"Where is everyone?" I asked.
The eunuch looked up, his eyes darting away. "Replying to Miss, they have all gone to help. The Emperor is going on a Northern Expedition, and there is much to prepare in the Eastern Palace."
I carried my bowl of porridge back. It was scalding hot; a few drops splashed onto the back of my hand. I looked down but didn't wipe them. A red mark bloomed on my skin. I stared at it, but my mind was elsewhere—He is leaving.
All along the way, the usually quiet Eastern Palace had suddenly become bustling. The doors of the armory stood wide open; several eunuchs were inventorying bows and arrows, bundling them into crates. From the direction of the stables came the sound of hooves and shouting; someone was shoeing horses, the clang-clang audible even through two walls. Over a dozen large crates were piled at the warehouse entrance. Eunuch Li stood beside them, holding a list and checking off items one by one.
"Eunuch Li," I walked over.
He looked up, startled, then smiled. "Miss Song, have you had breakfast?"
"Yes." I paused. "What are you packing?"
"Supplies for the expedition. His Highness is accompanying the Emperor on the Northern Expedition; it will take some time to prepare." He paused, then added, "It's soon. Probably in a couple of days."
I nodded, asking no further questions. Carrying my bowl, I walked along the corridor, glanced at the red mark on my hand, and blew on it gently. Passing Zhu Zhanji's study, the door was open, and voices drifted out. I didn't stop, heading straight back to my side room.
The Great General chirped from its jar, the sound clear and bright. I squatted down to change its water and feed it, my movements identical to every other day. But my hand was heavier than usual; a few drops of water splashed out, landing on the table.
Ruolan watched from the side, whispering, "Miss, His Highness is going on an expedition."
"Mm."
"Is Miss unhappy?"
"No." I put down the water bowl and wiped my hands. "He is the Crown Prince; expeditions are common occurrences."
Ruolan didn't ask further.
Over the next few days, the Eastern Palace was like a pot of water slowly heating up.
On the surface, everything remained normal. Crickets were fed, herbs were dried. The Prince of Han still came every few days to fight crickets, laughing loudly when he won money and cursing as he left when he lost. The Third Prince hadn't come in person, but he sent another book—this time, excerpts on animal husbandry from Qimin Yaoshu, copied and bound. A note tucked inside read: "With the expedition imminent, perhaps this book can relieve boredom." I placed the book on the table, side by side with the two sets of green porcelain tools, and didn't look at it.
But everyone knew things were about to change. The kitchen began stockpiling dried rations; crates piled higher in the warehouse; horses in the stable were run daily, their hoofbeats ringing from morning till night. Eunuch Li's voice grew hoarse from repeating instructions too many times. Ruolan started preparing winter clothes for me, even though it was only September, saying, "Miss will be alone then; we must prepare early."
I didn't say, "I'm not alone." I knew what Ruolan meant.
On the evening of the fourth day, Zhu Zhanji came to the side room to see the Great General.
When he pushed the door open, I was feeding Huang Tuan. The puppy no longer needed milk; I had soaked minced meat and egg yolk in sheep's milk, mashing it into a thick paste. Huang Tuan ate messily, smearing the paste all over its face.
He sat opposite me, holding no dish today. No sliced pears, no sliced apples.
"How is the Great General?" he asked.
"Very well. Ten times better than your Second Uncle's 'Iron General'."
He smiled faintly.
"Your Second Uncle didn't come today?" I asked.
"No. Knowing I am departing for the expedition, he felt awkward coming."
"He knows how to feel awkward?"
"He said, 'I'll beat you when you return.' Probably afraid that if I lost, my mood would be affected before the expedition."
I glanced at him. "Have you ever lost?"
"I have. But not with crickets." He paused, not specifying what he had lost.
The side room fell silent for a moment. Huang Tuan finished eating, rolled onto its back at my feet, exposing its belly with all four paws in the air, its tail wagging like a windmill. He looked down for a while, then reached out to rub its belly. Huang Tuan hummed comfortably.
"Song Yu'an."
"Mm?"
"After I leave, you raise the Great General for me."
I looked up at him. His expression was calm, as if stating something ordinary.
"I've been raising it all along," I said.
"It's different. Before, you were helping me raise it. From now on—" He paused, "you raise it for me."
I heard the difference between those two words. "Helping me raise" implied he was present, and I was lending a hand. "Raising it for me" meant he would be absent, and I would be in charge. The Great General was his treasure; it had been since day one. He came every day to see it, touch it, call its name. Now he was saying: You raise it for me.
"Alright," I said.
He nodded, saying no thanks. He pulled something from his sleeve and placed it on the table. It was a key, made of bronze, not large, tied with a red string.
"Is this the warehouse key?"
"No. It's for the small storage room next to this side room. I've never used it; you can use it from now on." He paused. "There are some things inside you might need."
I picked up the key, turning it over in my hand. Bronze, heavy, the red string tied neatly—the kind of neatness that comes from practiced repetition.
"What things?"
"You'll know when you see them."
I didn't rush to look. I placed the key on the table, next to Huang Tuan's small bowl and the Great General's probe tube.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm?"
"When do you leave?"
"The day after tomorrow."
The side room fell silent for a long time. Waves of osmanthus fragrance drifted in from the window, so sweet it was almost cloying. Huang Tuan rolled over on the ground, kicked its legs at the air, and fell asleep again.
"Is everything packed?" I asked.
"Mostly."
"Anything missing?"
"Nothing." He paused. "Everything is ready."
I nodded, asking nothing more. I stood up, walked to the Great General's jar, and lifted the lid. The cricket was crawling slowly inside, its antennae trembling slightly, looking spirited.
"Before you go, call its name one more time," I said.
He walked over and squatted beside the jar. He looked at the Great General for a long time. Then he whispered softly, "Great General."
The Great General stopped, turned its antennae toward him, and let out a sharp "Ji—". The sound was clear, even brighter than usual.
He smiled. This time it was a real smile—not faint, not helpless, not restrained. It was the kind of smile that comes after setting something down.
"It recognizes you," I said.
"Mm."
"It knows you are leaving."
He froze. "How do you know?"
"Its chirp is higher than usual. Crickets only chirp like that when saying goodbye."
"Really?"
"No," I said. "I made that up. But it did sound better than usual."
He looked at me and suddenly laughed aloud, his shoulders shaking. "You, this person—"
"What about me?"
"You really know how to talk."
"Of course," I said, closing the jar and clapping my hands. "When I was studying abroad, my professor said my communication skills were the best in the class."
"Abroad?"
"Mm. A very far place."
"Farther than the Northern Expedition?"
"Ten thousand times farther than the Northern Expedition."
He looked at me, something indefinable in his gaze. He didn't press further, just nodded. "Then when you return, tell the people there for me—thank them for teaching you to be this way."
I froze. I opened my mouth to speak, but swallowed the words back. I lowered my head, pretending to organize the Great General's jar, but my fingers trembled slightly. I suddenly felt my throat tighten—not because he was leaving, but because of what he said. He thought I came from a faraway place, reachable by ship. He didn't know that what separated us wasn't an ocean, but six hundred years. But I couldn't tell him.
"I can't go back," I said, my voice very light.
"Why?"
"Because—" I paused, "because there are crickets here that need raising."
He didn't speak. He just looked at me, for a long time. Then he chuckled softly.
"Then raise them well."
"Mm."
He stood up and walked to the door. Moonlight streamed in from outside, stretching his shadow long. He suddenly stopped, without turning around.
"Song Yu'an."
"Mm?"
"That key, go take a look tomorrow."
"I know."
He left. This time, he walked very slowly, each step steady, but heavier than usual. As if he had shouldered something again.
I stood in the side room, watching his back disappear at the end of the corridor. The key remained on the table, bronze, the red string tied neatly. I picked it up and clenched it in my palm. Cold.
"Ruolan," I called.
Ruolan popped out from the corner. "Miss?"
"Do you know what's in that small storage room next door?"
Ruolan thought for a moment. "No. That room has always been locked; His Highness never allows entry. It was locked even when this servant first came to the Eastern Palace."
I looked at the key in my hand, silent for a moment. "We'll go look tomorrow."
That night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Huang Tuan curled up by my neck, a small, warm lump. I placed the key beside my pillow; the moonlight shone on the bronze, reflecting a cold yellow glow.
I remembered his words: "You raise it for me." Not "help me raise," but "raise it for me." As if he had handed something over to me. Not the Great General, but something else. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was.
I clenched the key in my palm and closed my eyes.
"They will sprout," I whispered softly.
This time, I knew I wasn't speaking to myself.
Early the next morning, I went to open that small storage room.
As the key slid into the lock, I heard a crisp "click," and the lock opened. Pushing the door, a scent of camphor wood wafted out. The room wasn't large; several shelves lined the walls, holding items arranged neatly.
I walked in and looked at them one by one.
On the first shelf were several books, all about insects and beasts—Classic of Crickets, Spectrum of Insect Physiognomy, Collection of Horse Medicine by Yuanheng—all hand-copied, with neat handwriting, each carefully covered with a book jacket. I opened one and saw annotations in the margins. The handwriting was slender—it was his. Not the neat, slender script of the Third Prince, but his own—somewhat scribbled, yet every stroke was forceful.
On the second shelf were several jars. I picked them up; they were all cricket jars. Pottery, porcelain, purple clay, various sizes, quite a few of them. I recognized one of them—the gray pottery jar I had picked up at the market when I first arrived. I thought it had been thrown away long ago. He had kept it.
On the third shelf was a red sandalwood box, small, carved with simple branching patterns. I opened the lid. Inside were no jewels, only a pile of trivial items that no one would pick up even if found on the road.
A small handful of kumquat seeds, wrapped in a handkerchief—the day I enjoyed eating them, I casually mentioned that these seeds were plump and would surely grow if buried. I had forgotten immediately, but he had collected them one by one, washed them clean, dried them, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and placed them in the box.
A crumpled piece of straw paper—that was the "rehabilitation chart" I had drawn for the Great General when I first arrived. My drawing skills were clumsy; I had drawn the majestic Great General as a hairy potato. I had lost it later, thinking the wind had blown it away. Turns out, the wind had blown it into his heart.
And a half-broken blade of cricket grass—that was the one I accidentally snapped when I first used the probe tube. The broken end had turned yellow, but it was placed neatly at the very bottom of the box.
Every single item was a trace I had left in this time and space. Things I had used, written, spat out, or thrown away, discarded carelessly, without a second thought. Every single item had been carefully preserved by him, freezing time right there, as if collecting rare treasures.
I squatted before the box, my fingers lightly touching that piece of straw paper. The paper was brittle; I dared not use force. I suddenly remembered his words: "There are some things inside you might need."
Not because the items themselves were useful. But because having these things, I knew—in this bottomless Eastern Palace, I was not enduring alone. There was someone who, in a place I couldn't see, had picked up every seed I dropped, waiting for it to sprout.
I stood in the middle of the storage room for a long time, then closed the box and hugged it to my chest.
"Ruolan," I called.
Ruolan poked her head in from the door. "Miss?"
"Move all these things to the side room."
"All of them?"
"All of them."
I walked out of the storage room. The sunlight shone on my face, somewhat blinding. I squinted, hugging the box tighter.
In the afternoon, he came again. He didn't enter, just stood at the doorway and took a glance. He saw that the Great General's jar had fresh water, that Huang Tuan's bowl was filled with food, that the two sets of green porcelain tools were placed side by side on the table—one used, one brand new. He saw me sitting at the desk, flipping through the Classic of Crickets he had left behind.
"Did you look?" he asked.
"I did." I didn't look up.
"Are they useful?"
"They are."
He nodded and turned to leave.
"Zhu Zhanji," I called out to stop him.
He stopped, but didn't turn around.
"Your crickets, I will raise them for you."
"Good."
"That pot of kumquats, I will water them for you too."
"Mm."
"And—" I paused, looking down at the red sandalwood box beside me, "don't worry about these either."
He stood at the doorway, his silhouette frozen for a long time. Moonlight shone on his back, casting a long shadow. This time, he didn't speak; he simply raised his hand slightly behind his back and waved gently.
Then he left. This time, he walked neither fast nor slow, each step steady. Just like every other day.
I sat at the desk, watching his back disappear at the end of the corridor. The key remained on the table, bronze, the red string tied neatly. I picked it up and placed it in my palm. Warm.
On the windowsill, the kumquat pot sat quietly. The soil inside was still moist; I had watered it that morning. I took the kumquat seeds from the box, buried them in the soil, and watered it once more.
I didn't know when these seeds would sprout. But I knew I would keep watering them. By the time he returns, perhaps they will have sprouted.
(End of Chapter 10)