The twenty-second year of the Yongle era, ninth month, Beijing.
His hand was trembling. Not the obvious kind, the kind that anyone could see at a glance, but the kind—you had to stare to notice, a slight tremor at the fingertips. Like a string plucked by someone, the aftershock not yet dissipated. I stared at his hand for a long time. He sat before the table, that unfinished sheet of paper spread out before him, his left hand pressing the edge of the paper, his right hand resting on the table, fingers slightly curled. He didn't notice I was watching. His attention was on the paper, brows furrowed, lips pressed together, the same as when he read memorials every day. But his right hand—index and middle fingers, trembling slightly.
"You're injured," I said.
He didn't look up. "No."
I walked over, pulling his hand toward me. He didn't dodge, but his fingers curled slightly, wanting to clench into a fist. I didn't let him. I pried his fingers open, palm facing up. There was a cut on his palm, not deep, but long, from the base of his index finger all the way to his wrist. The blood had dried, forming a dark red scab, sticking to his skin, edges curled up, revealing the tender red flesh underneath. He hadn't even looked at it, probably from the alley, when the first person charged, the knife slashed. When he turned sideways, his shoulder line pressed down, his hand lifted, but that knife still touched him. He didn't say. From the alley, walking back to the Eastern Palace, sitting down, looking at that unfinished paper. He didn't say a word.
"Doesn't it hurt?" I asked.
"No pain."
"Liar."
He didn't speak. I let go of his hand, turned to find the medicine box. The medicine box was on the top shelf of the cabinet, I had to stand on tiptoes to reach it. Lid opened, gauze, wound powder, scissors, alum water—one by one laid out. Same as in the north. But in the north, his hand didn't tremble. At least I didn't see it. I pulled his hand over, palm facing up, placed it on the table. The lamp was on the table, light very bright, shining on his hand, also shining on that cut. I used a cloth to dip warm water, gently wiping away the dried blood. When the cloth touched the wound edge, his fingers moved slightly. Very light, very fast, like being burned. He didn't pull back.
"Endure it," I said.
"Mm."
I wiped away the blood scab bit by bit, revealing the wound. Not deep, but edges uneven, slashed diagonally by the blade, skin flipped up a bit, revealing the tender red flesh underneath. When the wound powder was sprinkled on, his fingers moved again. This time not pulling back, just moving. I pressed the gauze on, wrapped a turn, then another. When my fingers touched the wound edge inside his palm, his fingers trembled again. Not the kind he couldn't suppress, but the kind—he was suppressing, but couldn't.
"Say if it hurts," I said.
"No pain."
I looked up at him. He was looking at me, gaze very even, same as usual. But there was a thin layer of sweat on his forehead, shiny under the lamplight, like tiny beads. I didn't call him out. Lowered my head, continued wrapping the gauze. When I reached the last turn, I pressed the gauze tight, fingers pausing in his palm. His hand was very cold. Same as in the north, cold.
"Done," I said.
He didn't move. Hand still resting on the table, palm facing up, gauze wrapped neatly, by me. Same as in the north. But in the north, he sat in the military tent, I squatted beside him. Now he sat before the Eastern Palace table, I stood beside him. Different. He looked down at his own hand, for a long time.
"Thank you," he said.
I was stunned. "No need." I put away the medicine box, lid closed, placed back on the top shelf. When I turned, he was still looking at his hand. Not at the wound, but at that circle of gauze. White gauze, wrapped on his hand, very conspicuous under the lamplight.
"What are you looking at?" I asked.
"You wrapped it."
"What's wrong?"
"Better than in the north."
I was stunned. Then I smiled. "Really?"
"Mm. Not too loose, not too tight."
I looked at him. He sat before the table, hand resting on the table, gauze wrapped neatly. Lamplight shone on his face, his expression very calm, same as every day. But his fingers weren't trembling anymore.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Can you—don't put your hand in front of the knife next time?"
He looked at me, suddenly smiled. Very light, very short. "I didn't put it there."
"Then how was it injured?"
"He put it there."
I glared at him. "Then why didn't you dodge?"
"I dodged." He paused. "Didn't dodge in time."
The hall fell silent for a moment. I looked at him, he looked at me. His fingers pressed on the gauze once, then released.
"Next time, dodge," I said.
He nodded. "Okay."
I stood beside him, watching him turn over that unfinished sheet of paper. The paper was full of words, same as those papers yesterday, I couldn't understand. But he could. His hand rested on the paper edge, gauze wrapped, white, very conspicuous under the lamplight. I stared at that circle of gauze for a while. Suddenly remembered—in the north, when I bandaged him, my hands kept trembling. He asked "scared?", I said "no". He didn't call me out. Now his hands were trembling, I asked "does it hurt?", he said "no pain". I didn't call him out either. We were the same. Clearly in pain, clearly afraid, but didn't say. Because if we said, the other would worry. I didn't want him to worry, he didn't want me to worry. So we both lied. But couldn't fool each other.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Actually, I know you're in pain."
He looked up, at me. Gaze shifted slightly.
"I know," he said. "You also know my 'no pain' is fake."
I was stunned. Then I smiled. "Mm."
"But you didn't say."
"You didn't either."
He looked at me, suddenly smiled. Not that gentle, restrained smile, but that kind of—poked by something, couldn't hold back, a bit helpless smile. His eyes curved slightly, same as when he reached out to poke Huang Tuan's head in the Eastern Palace side room.
"Then we're even," he said.
"Even."
He lowered his head, continued looking at that paper. I stood beside him, watching him. His hand rested on the paper edge, gauze wrapped, white. Lamp on the table, light very bright, shining on his hand, also shining on that circle of gauze. I suddenly wanted to touch it. Not touch the wound, but touch that circle of gauze. I wrapped it. Not too loose, not too tight. Better than in the north. My hand reached out, fingers touching the gauze edge. He didn't dodge. His fingers moved slightly, but didn't dodge. My fingers paused on the gauze. Soft, white, warm—not the gauze warm, but his hand warmed. Just now still cold, now warm.
"No more pain," he said. Voice very light, like stating something that didn't need confirmation.
I withdrew my hand. "That's good."
He didn't speak. Lowered his head, continued looking at that paper. I stood beside him, watching him turn that paper over, then back. His hand rested on the paper edge, gauze wrapped, white. Lamp on the table, light very bright. Hall very quiet. I stood beside him, didn't leave.
After a while, he suddenly said: "Hungry."
"I'll go make you egg tarts."
"Mm."
I turned to walk out. When I reached the door, he called me.
"Song Yu'an."
"Mm."
"More sugar."
I was stunned. Then I smiled. "Okay."
Walking out of the hall door, sunlight warmed my face. I looked down at my own hand. Fingers stained with a bit of blood, his. Already dried, leaving dark red marks between fingers. I didn't wipe it. Clenched, then released. Then walked toward the small kitchen. Egg tarts need more sugar. He said he was hungry. He said more sugar. Last time the Empress said more sugar, he said "bring it directly next time". Now he said more sugar. Not on behalf of the Empress. He wanted to eat it himself. Sweet. He liked sweet. In the north, he ate honeyed kumquats, said too sweet, then ate another. In the Eastern Palace, he ate osmanthus cake, piece after piece. In the alley, he was slashed by a knife, came back and sat for an hour, said hungry, said more sugar. I walked into the small kitchen, poured flour into the basin, added water, stirred. More skilled this time than last. Dough kneaded to just the right softness, egg mixture stirred evenly, two scoops of sugar—one more scoop than last time. Steamer lid closed, cloth covered on top, to prevent water droplets from falling in. I stood in front of the stove, waiting.
Ruo Lan poked her head in from outside. "Miss, what are you doing?"
"Egg tarts."
"For whom?"
"His Highness."
She looked at me, didn't speak. But I saw the corner of her mouth twitch up. I didn't pay attention to her. Turned around, staring at the steamer. Steam rose from the lid edge, white, soft, like clouds in the north. There were no clouds in the north. Only wind, sand, and cavalry. But the Eastern Palace had. The Eastern Palace had steamers, egg tarts, sugar. He was hungry. He liked sweet. I lifted the lid, egg tarts puffed up, tender yellow, better looking than last time. I took two, placed them on a plate, carried them out. When I reached the hall door, took a deep breath, pushed the door open.
He was still sitting before the table, looking at that paper. Hearing footsteps, he looked up.
"Done?" he asked.
"Mm." I placed the plate before him. He looked down at those two egg tarts, tender yellow, puffy, topped with a bit of osmanthus jam. He picked one up, took a bite. Chewed twice. Stopped. My heart sank. What now? Too sweet? Not sweet enough? Shouldn't have added osmanthus jam? He took another bite. This one bigger than the last. After chewing, he put the rest in his mouth, finished it. Then picked up the second one.
"How is it?" I asked.
"Sweet," he said.
"Too sweet?"
He looked at me. "Just right."
I breathed a sigh of relief. After he finished the second, his fingers paused at the edge of the saucer. I saw it. Last time was the same, after eating two, fingers paused at the saucer edge, like wanting to take another, but too embarrassed. This time I made four. Two more in the kitchen. But I didn't go get them. I stood beside him, watching him. He looked up, at me.
"More?" he asked.
I smiled. "Yes."
I turned to go to the kitchen, brought those two over too. He looked at the two egg tarts on the plate, then at me. "Did you eat?"
"No."
He picked one up, handed it to me. "One each."
I was stunned. Took it, took a bite. Sweet. Sweeter than last time. One more scoop of sugar.
"Good?" he asked.
"Good."
He lowered his head, ate his own. I stood beside him, ate mine. Hall very quiet. Lamp on the table, light very bright. He sat before the table, I stood beside him. His hand wrapped in gauze, white, I wrapped it. Better than in the north. I took a bite of egg tart, sweet. He took a bite of egg tart, also sweet.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Next time, don't put your hand in front of the knife."
He looked at me, corner of his mouth twitched. "Okay."
"Liar is a puppy."
He was stunned. Then smiled. "Okay."
I smiled too. Egg tarts finished, plate empty. He continued looking at that paper, I stood beside him. His hand rested on the paper edge, gauze wrapped, white. Lamp on the table, light very bright. Hall very quiet. I didn't leave.
(End of Chapter 30)