Yongle Year 22, September. Beijing.
The hall was not formal. There were no court robes, no ceremonial guards, just a round table, a few chairs, a few dishes of food, and a pot of wine. The lamps were warm, shining on everyone's faces, softening the sharp edges of the day. When I walked in, not everyone had arrived yet. Zhu Gaochi sat at the head, a memorial spread out before him, the vermilion brush resting on the inkstone. He wasn't looking at it; he just left it there, as if waiting for something. The Empress sat beside him, holding a scroll of book, also not reading. Seeing me enter, she smiled. "You're here?" Her tone was light, like asking a neighbor's child if school was out. I nodded and found a seat by the edge.
People gradually arrived. When Zhu Gaoxu entered, his strides were large, his boots thudding against the stone floor. He sat below Zhu Gaochi, picked up the wine pot on the table, poured himself a cup, and drank it in one gulp. The Third Prince followed behind him, sitting down silently, picking up his wine cup but not drinking, merely turning it in his hand. Zhu Zhanji was the last to arrive. He had changed his clothes; not the dark gray one from the day, but a moon-white one, with wide cuffs resting on the table, revealing a section of his wrist. There was no gauze on his hand. The wound had been unstitched, leaving a shallow scar running from the base of his index finger to his wrist, pinkish, the new flesh tender and softer than the surrounding skin. He sat down beside me without speaking. Just sat down, picked up the tea cup before him, took a sip, and set it down. Just like every day.
Dishes were served one by one. Braised goose feet, roasted mutton, steamed shad. The same dishes as the family banquet. But the atmosphere was different. Before, at family banquets, Zhu Di sat at the head, and no one dared to speak loudly. Now, Zhu Gaochi sat at the head, and still, no one dared to speak loudly. But that "daring not" was different. Before, it was fear. Now, it was respect. Zhu Gaochi lifted his wine cup, took a sip, and set it down. "Eat, don't be restrained," he said. The same words Zhu Di used for "don't be restrained," but the tone was different. When Zhu Di said "don't be restrained," it was a command. When Zhu Gaochi said "don't be restrained," it was an invitation. The Empress picked up her chopsticks, placed a piece of food for Zhu Gaochi, then a piece for herself. The movement was natural, as if she had done it for many years. Zhu Gaoxu began drinking, cup after cup, saying nothing. The Third Prince held his wine cup, drinking slowly, occasionally glancing up at the people at the table. Zhu Zhanji sat beside me, very quiet. As quiet as he was during the day. But the quietness of the day was the kind where—he was listening, watching, calculating. The quietness now was the kind where—he didn't want to do anything, just wanted to sit and drink a cup of tea.
I stared at him for a while. He stared at the wine cup before him, not drinking. I stared at him; he didn't notice. Or he noticed, but was too lazy to care. I stared for another while; he still ignored me. I couldn't hold back.
"Have you been talking less lately?"
The hall fell silent for a moment. Zhu Gaochi's hand holding the wine cup paused; he glanced at me. The Empress's hand picking up food also paused; the corner of her mouth twitched. Zhu Gaoxu put down his wine cup, looking at me, something in his eyes—not anger, but the understanding of "here you go again." The Third Prince set down his wine cup, leaning back in his chair, as if preparing to watch a show. Zhu Zhanji looked at me. "No," he said. Very short, very perfunctory. Like saying "the weather is nice today."
I nodded. "Yes." I paused. "And a bit boring."
Someone in the hall coughed lightly. It was the Empress. She held her wine cup, lowered her head to take a sip, the corners of her mouth upturned, unable to suppress it. Zhu Gaochi looked at her; she looked back at Zhu Gaochi. They said nothing, but it seemed they said everything. Zhu Gaoxu spoke indifferently: "The Imperial Grandson has indeed become much more steady recently." His tone was very flat, like saying "this wine is not bad." But I knew it was different. He was saying "steady," not praising steadiness. He was saying—you've changed. You've become unlike before. Before, he would respond, would laugh, would push the teapot over at the banquet, saying "drink tea." Now he sat, not speaking, not looking at people. Steady. But boring.
I thought about it. "I think he's become boring."
The air was quiet for a second. Zhu Gaochi's hand holding the wine cup paused again. This time he didn't look at me, but at Zhu Zhanji. The Empress stopped picking up food, put down her chopsticks, sitting upright, as if waiting for something. The Third Prince chuckled. Very light, very short, as if amused by something. "That won't do," he said. "If the Imperial Grandson is boring, this palace will have no meaning." When he said "Imperial Grandson," his tone was very serious. When he said "no meaning," the corner of his mouth twitched up. I almost laughed out loud. Zhu Gaoxu looked at the Third Prince; the Third Prince looked at Zhu Gaoxu. They exchanged a glance. The Third Prince lifted his wine cup, took a sip, and set it down. Zhu Gaoxu said nothing, also lifted his wine cup, took a sip, and set it down. They said nothing, but it seemed they said everything.
Just then, Zhu Gaochi spoke. "Being steady is a good thing." His voice was not loud, his tone very flat, just like when he approved memorials. But the corner of his mouth moved. "But there's no need to be too steady."
I secretly glanced at Zhu Zhanji. He sat there, the wine cup before him untouched. His fingers rested on the rim, motionless. The lamp light shone on his face, casting a small shadow from his eyelashes. His expression was very calm, just like during the day. But I knew he heard it. He heard what I said about "becoming boring," heard what Zhu Gaoxu said about "steady," heard what the Third Prince said about "no meaning," heard what Zhu Gaochi said about "no need to be too steady." He heard it all. He finally looked at me. That glance was very light, not the lightness of interrogating someone during the day, but the kind where—he was enduring, but hadn't completely held back.
"You think I'm boring?" he asked.
I nodded. "A little."
He paused. The lamp light flickered on his face; his eyelashes moved. Then he asked: "Where is it boring?"
Someone nearby suppressed a laugh. It was the Empress. She covered her mouth with a handkerchief, head lowered, her shoulders shaking slightly. Zhu Gaochi looked at her, said nothing, but the corner of his mouth also twitched up. The Third Prince lifted his wine cup, took a sip, and when he set it down, the bottom of the cup knocked against the table, emitting a light sound. Like saying: The show is here.
I thought about it, very serious. "You speak very shortly now. Like you're interrogating someone."
The hall fell silent for a moment. Zhu Gaoxu's hand holding the wine cup paused, then he took a large gulp. The Third Prince laughed out loud, unable to hold it back this time. Zhu Zhanji looked at me, his gaze shifting slightly. Not anger, not helplessness, but the kind where—he didn't expect me to say this, was poked a bit, but didn't want to admit it.
"Habit," he said. Very short, very flat. But I knew he was explaining. When he said "habit," he wasn't saying "I'm used to speaking shortly." He was saying "I'm not interrogating you, I'm just used to interrogating people." He was explaining. He didn't say "no," he said "habit." These two words were heavier than "no." When he said "habit," he was admitting it. Admitting he spoke shortly, admitting he was like interrogating someone, admitting he had changed. But he didn't want to change. He was just used to it.
I blinked. "Then are you interrogating me now?"
He didn't speak. Just looked at me. In that glance, something moved. Not anger, not helplessness, but the kind where—he was blocked by me, but didn't want to admit defeat. Like in the Eastern Palace side room, when he reached out to touch the Great General, I slapped the back of his hand, and he glared saying "you hit this Palace." The same. He couldn't do anything with me. From the first day. I suddenly wanted to laugh. Not laughing at him, but laughing at myself. I've been here so long, changed so much. From the vet who fell into the cricket jar, to the person standing in the alley waiting for him to come out. From not daring to drink tea, to daring to say he's "boring." From fearing him, to not fearing him. He was also changing. From Imperial Grandson to Crown Prince, from wearing casual clothes to wearing black robes, from cutting apples to interrogating people. But the way he couldn't do anything with me, hadn't changed. From the first day.
Before I could speak, Zhu Gaoxu spoke indifferently. "With you by the Imperial Grandson's side, it's lively." His tone was very light, like saying something unimportant. But I heard it. He said "lively," not praising liveliness. He was saying—you talk too much. You're too bold. You're too noisy by the Imperial Grandson's side. He was probing. Observing. Seeing how I would respond, seeing how Zhu Zhanji would protect.
I paused. Before I could react, Zhu Zhanji had already spoken. "Eat yours." The tone wasn't heavy. Very short, very flat. Like saying "drink tea." But everyone heard it. He protected me. Not the kind of protection where he stands up and blocks in front, but the kind where—sitting, holding a wine cup, not even turning his head, just saying "eat yours." He knew Zhu Gaoxu was probing. He didn't take the bait. He told me to "eat yours." Meaning: Her matters are none of your concern. Zhu Gaoxu looked at him; he looked at Zhu Gaoxu. Neither spoke. The hall was quiet for a moment. Then Zhu Gaoxu lifted his wine cup, took a large gulp, and set it down. He didn't say anything else. But on his face, there was no expression. Not anger, not dissatisfaction, but the kind where—he knew. Knew Zhu Zhanji would protect me, knew that at this table, I wasn't a guest, but one of them. Knew.
I lowered my head to suppress a laugh. Picked up my chopsticks, picked up a piece of osmanthus cake, and put it in my mouth. Sweet. As sweet as what the Third Prince said about "no meaning." As sweet as the Empress's shaking shoulders when suppressing a laugh. As sweet as his "eat yours." Zhu Zhanji sat beside me, watching me eat. His fingers rested on the rim of the cup, motionless. The lamp light shone on his face, his eyelashes casting a small shadow. His expression was very calm. But the corner of his mouth was slightly upturned.
"Are you eating or not?" I asked. He pushed the plate before him over. I picked up a piece and put it in. He lowered his head and took a bite. Chewed twice, stopped.
"Sweet?" I asked.
"Sweet," he said.
I laughed. He took another bite. The lamp was on the table, the light very warm. He sat beside me, eating the osmanthus cake I picked for him. There was a scar on his hand, pinkish, new flesh grown, softer than the surrounding skin. I stared at that scar for a while. In the alley, when the blade sliced past, he didn't dodge. He said there was no time. I knew it wasn't. Was it that he had no time to dodge, or didn't want to dodge? He didn't say. I didn't ask. Just picked him a piece of osmanthus cake. Sweet. He ate it.
The atmosphere in the hall relaxed. The Empress picked up her chopsticks again, placing food for Zhu Gaochi. Zhu Gaochi lifted his wine cup, took a sip, and set it down. The Third Prince leaned back in his chair, holding his wine cup, drinking slowly, as if savoring something. Zhu Gaoxu didn't speak again, lifted his wine cup, took a large gulp, and set it down. There was no expression on his face, but I knew he remembered. Remembered Zhu Zhanji protecting me, remembered I dared to say he was "boring," remembered that at this table, I wasn't a guest, but one of them.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Are you going out tomorrow?"
He looked at me, his gaze shifting slightly. "No."
"Then what will you do?"
"Read memorials."
"After reading?"
He didn't answer. Lifted his wine cup, took a sip. Set it down.
"What will you do?" I asked.
"Wait for you to make egg tarts."
I paused. Then laughed. "Okay."
He also laughed. Very light, very short. But his eyes curved a bit, just like when he poked Huang Tuan's head in the Eastern Palace side room. The hall was lively, someone was speaking, someone was laughing, someone was clinking cups. The lamp was on the table, the light very warm. He sat beside me, eating the osmanthus cake I picked for him, waiting for me to make egg tarts. The person who came back from the alley, the person who came out of that windowless room, with scars on his hands and a list in his heart. He sat here, eating sweets, waiting for tomorrow. Tomorrow he will make egg tarts. With more sugar. He said so.
(End of Chapter Thirty-Five)