The twenty-second year of the Yongle era, ninth month, Beijing.
When he came out, he didn't turn back. The door closed behind him, creaking, same as when he went in. I stood in the alley, leaning against the wall, waited for a long time. Legs not numb anymore, switched legs. He said, next time squat for a long time, switch legs. I switched, but still numb. Not legs numb, but heart numb. I didn't know what happened inside. Door closed, wall thick, couldn't hear anything. But I knew he was inside. In that windowless room, light shining from above, making people's faces half bright half dark. That person sat on a chair, tied up, mouth gagged. He stood before that person, asked, waited, asked, waited. His hand wrapped in gauze, white. What would he do with that hand? Flip through the list? Identify? Go— I didn't dare think. I leaned against the wall, staring at that door. Moonlight came from the alley entrance, drawing a white line on the ground, right to my feet. I didn't step over it. He was inside, I was on this side. He said, let me wait outside. I agreed. Although I didn't like waiting, I agreed. So I waited. While waiting, I thought a lot. Thought about what he would say when he came out, thought about whether that person confessed, thought about whether the gauze on his hand loosened. Thought about whether he would come out with new wounds again, then say "no pain". I waited, thought, waited. The door opened.
He walked out, pace neither fast nor slow, same as every day. Moonlight shone on him, dark grey clothes, cuffs gathered tightly, hand wrapped in gauze, white. He looked at me. That glance was very short, short like just confirming I was still there. Then he reached out. I didn't react. He took my hand. His fingers passed through my fingers, clasped, held tight. His hand very cool. Gauze rubbed against my hand, rough, astringent. He didn't speak, just pulled my hand, walked forward. I followed him, stepping on his shadow. Hand held by him, palm against palm. His hand cool, my hand cool, but where touching, slowly warmed. Alley very narrow, walls very high, stone slabs very slippery. Same as when coming. But different. He walked beside me, not in front. His hand holding my hand. His hand had gauze, white, by me.
"Did he talk?" I asked.
"Mm."
"Who is it?"
He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, alley turned a corner, moonlight blocked by wall, darkened for a moment. His fingers tightened. Just once, quickly loosened.
"Second Prince," he said.
I was stunned. Second Prince. Zhu Gaoxu. That person who spoke loudly at the Eastern Palace banquet, that person who said "the world should be settled by force" in the northern military tent, that person who held a wine cup in the Qianqing Palace side hall, pressed down by Zhu Gaochi's "the tea is cold". He sent people? In the alley, arrow flew over, knife raised, blood dripped. Was it him? Many images flashed in my mind. At the Eastern Palace banquet, he held a wine cup, said "Nephew really made a big name for himself in the north". In the Qianqing Palace side hall, he looked at me, said "Miss is quite active in the military". In the alley, those people's knives raised, arrow flew over. Was him.
"Then isn't that—" I started.
"But not entirely." He interrupted me. Voice very even, same as before. But I knew different. When he said "yes", he was telling me the answer. When he said "but not entirely", he was telling me—the answer wasn't the answer. His fingers tightened again. I squeezed back. He looked at me. Very short glance, but his hand didn't loosen again.
"He can't do it this cleanly," he said.
Moonlight shone on his face, his profile very pale. Gauze wrapped on hand, white, touching my hand. His eyes looking forward, alley entrance had light, voices,烟火气. But his eyes weren't there. He was looking elsewhere. A place I couldn't see.
"The alley matter, time, place, route—not something Second Uncle could arrange." He paused. "He doesn't have that capability."
I walked beside him, looking at his profile. When he spoke, brows slightly furrowed, same as reading memorials. He was analyzing, judging, piecing together those names, places, times I couldn't understand. But what he pieced together, wasn't what I wanted to see. His hand very cool, but holding my hand, very steady.
"Then who?"
He didn't answer. Alley almost at end, ahead was street, wonton seller's pole, kids running, lights, laughter. When he walked in, steps still that steady. But I knew, he went in, but didn't come out of that room. That person still in his mind. That lamp still flickering before his eyes. Those words still ringing in his ears. He carried those things, walked out. Walked on street, walked under lights, walked beside me, hand holding my hand. He said nothing. But I could feel, those things were heavy. Heavy enough that his fingers sometimes tightened, like confirming something. Confirming I was still there. He didn't let go.
"Zhu Zhanji." I stopped.
He stopped too. Turned around, looked at me. Moonlight shone on his face, his expression very calm. But I saw it. Something in his eyes, pressed very deep. So deep only a bit showed from under his eyelashes. His hand didn't let go.
"What you just said 'but not entirely'—what does it mean?" I asked.
He looked at me. For a long time. So long I thought he wouldn't answer. People laughing on street, wonton seller's steam white, floating in air, like clouds in the north. Kids ran past us, laughter very bright. He stood before me, moonlight shining on him, gauze wrapped, white. His hand holding my hand.
"Our people, helping them," he said.
I froze. Our people. Embroidered Uniform Guard. He stayed in Embroidered Uniform Guard for so many days, put on that black robe, went to those places I didn't know, did those things I didn't know. He knew those people, those people knew him. He thought they were his people. Now he knew, not. Among them, some were helping the other side. Helping Second Prince, helping those hiding in the dark, helping that knife. He stood in the alley, when arrow flew over, those people knew. He walked to that door, door open, those people knew. He sat in that windowless room, light shining from above, those people knew. His everything, those people knew. But he didn't know who they were. They stood beside him, called him Your Highness, helped him do things, blocked in front of him. But they were also helping the other side. He didn't know which one. Maybe the one he trusted most. Maybe the one who brought him tea every day. Maybe the one who just stood at the door, looked at me. He didn't know. He couldn't trust anyone. Except me. His hand still holding my hand. Didn't let go.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
He didn't answer. Turned and continued walking. I followed, walked beside him. Hand still holding. Street lights very bright, wonton seller's steam white, floating in air. Kids ran past us, laughter very bright. He walked beside me, very quiet. His hand wrapped in gauze, white, touching my hand. Under lights, very conspicuous.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Are you afraid?"
He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, then said: "Afraid."
His voice very light. Not that kind of light pressing something down, but that kind of—when speaking, didn't expect to say it himself. He looked at me. That glance very short, short like just confirming I was still there. But when he looked away, eyelashes moved. His fingers tightened.
"Then you—"
"When afraid, must see more clearly," he said. He said this many times. In the northern military tent, in the Eastern Palace study, in the alley. Every time he said it, his voice very even. But this time, his voice very light. Light enough to almost be covered by wonton seller's hawking cry. I heard it. He said "see clearly", not see those people clearly. But see himself clearly. See where he stood, which way to go, who to trust, who not to trust. He was afraid. But he couldn't stop. Stop and couldn't see. His hand holding my hand, didn't let go.
"Did you see clearly?" I asked.
He didn't answer. Walked a distance, then said: "A little bit."
He walked beside me, close enough that sleeves touched. His hand holding my hand, palm against palm. His hand cool, my hand cool. But where touching, always warm.
"Then what's your next step?" I asked.
He was silent for a long time. So long I thought he wouldn't answer.
"Wait."
Again wait. Wait for cavalry in the north, wait for Official Zhao in the Eastern Palace, wait for assassins in the alley. Now wait for those people to act again. Wait for them to reveal flaws. Wait for them to walk to him themselves. But when he waited, not sitting drinking tea. He was watching. Watch those people, watch those threads, watch that net. When he saw that net clearly, he would move. I knew. He always waited. While waiting, he calculated. Calculated every step, calculated every possibility, calculated who was in the net, who was outside. He wasn't impatient. Impatient people lose. His grandfather taught him. So he waited. Even when waiting, his hands trembled, his shoulders lowered, something in his eyes pressed down. He still waited. His hand holding my hand, didn't let go.
"When you wait until then?" I asked.
He looked at me. Moonlight shone on his face, his mouth corner moved. Not a smile, but that kind of—knew the answer, but didn't want to say it, that movement. His hand tightened. I squeezed back.
"Will know," he said.
I didn't ask again. Walked beside him, stepping on my own shadow. Street lights lit one by one, casting our two shadows on the ground, very close. His hand holding my hand. His shadow longer than mine, steadier than mine. My shadow followed his, like walking, like dancing.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"You just said, 'our people' helping them."
"Mm."
"Then who can you trust in the future?"
He didn't answer. Walked a distance, suddenly stopped. He turned around, looked at me. Moonlight shone on his face, his eyes very bright. Not that brightness reflected by light, but that kind of—brightness with something inside. That thing very deep, very heavy, he pressed it for a long time. Now he didn't press. Let it out, let me see. His hand still holding my hand.
"You," he said.
One word. Very light. But very heavy. Heavy enough that I stood in place, forgot to walk. Wind blew from alley entrance, cool, carrying osmanthus sweet scent. Wonton seller's hawking cry came from distance, trailing off. Kids' laughter bounced on street a few times, scattered. I stood before him, looking at his eyes. When he said "you", voice very light, light like saying something that didn't need confirmation. Like saying "drink tea", like saying "let's go", like saying "it will sprout". He trusted me. Not because my skill in observing people better than his, not because I saw that mark, not because I could wait beside him. He trusted me. Because I was me. Because I was that person who fell out of his cricket jar, that person who hit his hand, that person whose hands trembled so much in the north that couldn't hold the medicine bottle when bandaging him. He trusted me. From the first day. Just now, he said it out. His hand still holding my hand. Didn't let go. Won't let go in the future.
"Then don't make me wait outside either," I said.
He looked at me, suddenly smiled. Very light, very short. But his eyes curved, same as when he reached out to poke Huang Tuan's head in the Eastern Palace side room. His hand tightened, then loosened. Didn't let go, just changed posture, fingers passed through my fingers again, clasped. Palm against palm. Gauze rubbed against my hand, rough, astringent. But I got used to it.
"Okay."
I smiled. He turned and continued walking. I followed, walked beside him. Hand still holding. Sleeves touching, fingers clasped. Wind blew, cool. But I wasn't cold. His hand in my hand, my hand in his hand. We walked like this, out of the alley, into the lights. His hand wrapped in gauze, white. My hand holding his hand, also white. But where touching, warm. Always.
(End of Chapter 33)