The twenty-second year of the Yongle era, ninth month, Beijing.
It was the third day since Zhu Zhanji went to the Embroidered Uniform Guard, and I was restless in the side room. Not worried—he said he would come back to drink tea, so he would. It was boredom. I changed the water for the Great General's jar, brushed Huang Tuan's fur twice, and watered the kumquat three times. Ruo Lan watched me from the side, and finally couldn't help saying: "Miss, if you water it again, the kumquat will drown." I put down the watering can, sat on the bed, and stared at that sprout on the windowsill. It had grown a little taller, thin and stubborn, like a needle stuck in the soil. I stared at it for a long time, but what was on my mind wasn't the kumquat.
"Ruo Lan."
"Yes."
"What do you think the Embroidered Uniform Guard's clothes look like?"
Ruo Lan was stunned. "This servant has never seen them."
"What do you think he would look like wearing them?"
Ruo Lan glanced at me, didn't answer. She was probably thinking: Miss, are you thinking about clothes? I lowered my head, flipped Huang Tuan over, and continued brushing its fur. Huang Tuan hummed in comfort. I brushed twice, then stopped.
"Ruo Lan."
"Yes."
"Do you think people change?"
Ruo Lan thought for a moment. "They do."
"Into what?"
"This servant doesn't know." She paused. "But His Highness won't change."
I looked up at her. "How do you know?"
She smiled. "Because the way His Highness looks at Miss is the same as the first day."
In the afternoon, Eunuch Li came to deliver a message, saying His Highness invited me to the front hall. I put down the kumquat pot in my hand and followed him. Along the way, I kept thinking—what did he want me for? I don't understand cases. When we reached the front hall entrance, Eunuch Li stopped. "Miss, His Highness is inside." I nodded and pushed the door open.
The hall was very dark. The windows were closed, only a few lamps were lit, the light dim and gloomy, leaking out from the lampshades, drawing circles of halos on the table. Several sheets of paper were spread out on the table, the ink still wet. There was a faint smell of pine soot in the air, and—another scent, indescribable, cold, hard, like the smell of iron left in a cool place for too long. A person stood before the table, his back to me. Black. I had never seen that garment. Not court robes, not daily wear, not armor. It was black, from head to toe, sharp as a newly sharpened blade. No patterns, no decoration, only black. The shoulder line was cut very cleanly, the waistline too, as if tailor-made—no, it was tailor-made. Every inch fit him, not too much, not too little. The lamplight fell on his back, the black cloth absorbed all the light, no reflection, no shadow, like a hole swallowing all the surrounding light.
I was stunned. Who was this? That back view was quiet, the same as usual. But different. Usually when he stood there, he was warm, like a lamp, you knew there was someone behind the lamp. Now he stood there, cold, like a sword placed on a rack, you didn't know when it would be unsheathed. My hands clenched my cuffs, very tight. Fingernails pressed several marks into the fabric. My heartbeat sounded heavy in the quiet hall.
He turned around.
My heart skipped a beat. It was him. It was Zhu Zhanji. But not the Zhu Zhanji I knew. His face was still that face—sword brows, star eyes, jawline taut. But that garment framed his whole person, like a painting put into a frame, suddenly different. The black made him look very pale, pale like the snow in the north. His brows and eyes were deeper than usual, so deep I couldn't see what he was thinking. His lips were pressed together, not from nervousness, but that kind of—he was suppressing something. He looked at me. His gaze was different from usual. Not warm, not the coldness of the battlefield, but a kind of—he was looking at a person, not looking at you. Like looking at someone who needed to be judged, categorized, put into a certain box. Like looking at a stranger.
I stood there, hands clutching my cuffs, forgot to speak. My mind was blank. Only three words were spinning: Who is he? Then, he spoke.
"What's wrong?" His voice was the same as usual. Low, steady. But saying this in these clothes, it was different. That voice came out from that black robe, like rising from a very deep place.
I opened my mouth. "You—"
"Mm?"
"You wearing this..." I got stuck. Say what? Say it looks good? Too light. Say it doesn't look good? That's a lie. Say he looks like another person? He would ask "Like who". Say "I'm not used to it"? He would probably say "Me neither". I stood there, lips moving twice, nothing came out. He looked at me, waiting. The hall was very quiet, so quiet I could hear my own breathing.
"It fits well," I said.
He glanced at me. In that look was a hint of surprise, and also something—I couldn't tell. Like being poked by something, or like a sigh of relief. He lowered his head, looking at the black robe on himself, his fingers pressing on the cuff. The black cloth wrinkled under his fingertips, then bounced back.
"Is it."
The hall fell silent for a moment. I stood at the door, he stood before the table, several steps apart. But those steps were farther than usual. Not because of the clothes, but because that garment placed him in a position I didn't recognize. I stared at him for a long time, so long that he looked up and glanced at me again.
"Seen enough?" he asked.
"No," I said. He was stunned. I was stunned too. I didn't know why I said "no". But once said, it was said. He lowered his head again, the corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but that kind of twitch when something amuses you but you hold it back.
"Is the case very tricky?" I asked. He looked up, at me. His gaze retracted a bit, from "looking at a person" back to "looking at me". In that glance, something returned. Not warmth, but a kind of—he was letting me in.
"Mm."
"What case?"
He didn't answer. He walked to the table, picked up that sheet of paper, and handed it to me. I took it, lowered my head and glanced at it. The paper was full of words, the handwriting neat, the kind copied from memorials. I didn't understand much—names, places, times, locations, and some circled words, like "colluding with the enemy", "secret letters", "the north". I only understood one sentence: "Involving border troops, far-reaching implications."
I looked up. "What do you want me to do?"
He looked at me, silent for a moment. That moment was very long, so long I thought he wouldn't answer.
"Help me watch a person."
"Watch a person?"
"Mm. Your skill in observing people is better than mine."
I was stunned. Was this praise? He had never said it like this before. In the Eastern Palace, he said "your skill in observing people is really good", meaning I observed him. Now he said "help me". It was different. I folded that sheet of paper and tucked it into my sleeve.
"Watch who?"
He didn't answer. He turned and picked up another sheet of paper from the table, handing it to me. On it was a portrait, drawn with brush and ink, the lines simple, but the brows and eyes were very clear. It was a man, in his forties, square face, short beard, very small eyes, narrowed, as if smiling, or as if calculating. I stared at that face for a while, always feeling I had seen it somewhere, but couldn't remember.
"Who is this?" I asked.
"You'll know when you see him." He took the paper back, placed it on the table, and pressed it down with a paperweight. The movement was very slow, like placing something very important. "Tomorrow, he will come to the Eastern Palace. You just watch from the side."
"Watch for what?"
"Watch who he looks at, who he doesn't look at. Watch where his eyes turn when he speaks. Watch if his fingers tremble when he drinks tea." He paused. "You can see it."
I nodded. Not because I really could see it, but because he believed I could. He gathered the papers on the table, folded them neatly, and put them into a box. The movement was very slow, the same as when he cut apples. That black robe on him wrinkled slightly with his movements, then unfolded. The shoulder line was still so clean, the waistline still so tight. I stared at his back for a while.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"This outfit of yours—" He turned around, looking at me. I originally wanted to say "when will you take it off", but what came out was: "How long have you been wearing it?"
"First time today."
"Does it fit?"
He looked down at himself. "It's alright."
"Are you used to it?"
He didn't answer. Looking at me, he suddenly smiled. Very light, very short, but the thing in that glance returned—not "looking at a person", but looking at me. His eyes curved slightly, the same as when he reached out to poke Huang Tuan's head in the Eastern Palace side room.
"Not used to it," he said.
I nodded. "That's good."
He was stunned. "Good for what?"
"It means you're still you."
The hall fell silent for a moment. He looked at me, his gaze shifting slightly. His hand hung by his side, clenched slightly, then released. Then he lowered his head and turned over the cuff of that black robe, revealing a section of white lining inside. White, the same color as the clothes he usually wore. It was very conspicuous under the dim lamplight, like earth showing through snow.
"Only the outside is black," he said.
I looked at the turned-over cuff, suddenly remembering—in the north, when he stood on that high ground, the wind blew his cloak open, and the inside was the same white. He was white in the north, white in the Eastern Palace, and inside this black robe, also white.
"I know," I said.
He didn't speak. He turned the cuff back, the black cloth falling down, covering that section of white. He stood there, dressed the same as when he came in. But I had seen it.
"What time tomorrow?" I asked.
"Afternoon."
"Okay."
I turned to leave. He called me from behind. "Song Yu'an."
"Mm."
"When you came in just now, you paused for a moment."
I stopped. My fingers clenched my cuff. "...Did I?"
"You did."
I was silent for a moment. "Because I didn't recognize you."
"Do you recognize me now?"
I turned around, looking at him. He stood before the table, black robes, sharp, brows and eyes deep. The same as just now. But I knew, inside the cuff was white. The way he looked at me was also white.
"I recognize you," I said.
He nodded. I walked out of the hall door, sunlight warming my face. I looked down at my sleeve—the inside of the cuff was also white. The same as before. I clenched my cuff, then let go, walking back. After a few steps, I looked back. The hall door was closed, I couldn't see anything. But I knew he was inside. Wearing that black robe, standing before the table, looking at those papers I couldn't understand. Inside the cuff was white.
Back in the side room, Ruo Lan was waiting at the door. "Miss, what did His Highness call you for?"
"To watch a person."
"Watch who?"
"I don't know." I sat down, picked up Huang Tuan and placed it on my lap, petting its head. "We'll know tomorrow."
Ruo Lan didn't ask again. She walked out, gently closing the door. I sat on the bed, staring at that kumquat sprout on the windowsill. It had grown a little taller, tender green, stubborn. I reached out and touched that leaf, soft, cool, alive. Tomorrow I had to help someone watch another person. I didn't know if I could see it. But he believed in me. Then I'll try.
(End of Chapter 27)