Yongle Year 22, September. Beijing.
The room was located behind the Jinyiwei (Embroidered Uniform Guard) yamen, very secluded. As I followed Zhu Zhanji inside, several men were already standing there. They were all Jinyiwei, dressed in those black uniforms, standing straight as arrows. Seeing him enter, they lowered their heads in unison. The room wasn't large, windowless, with only a single lamp hanging from the beam. Light shone down from above, casting everyone's faces in half-light and half-shadow. The air was stuffy, carrying an indescribable smell—not mold, not dust, but the kind of smell that comes from things being locked up for too long, suffocating. I frowned. Zhu Zhanji walked ahead of me, his pace neither fast nor slow. He stopped in the middle of the room, scanning the surroundings. Those men stood there; no one spoke, no one moved, like several pillars.
"What did you find?" he asked. His voice was very flat, like asking, "Is the tea ready?"
The leader stepped forward. "Replying to Your Highness, nothing was found." He paused. "The man died three days ago. There are no external injuries on his body, no signs of poisoning. The coroner says it was a sudden illness." He kept his head down, his voice steady, like reciting a prepared document.
Zhu Zhanji said nothing. He stood there, looking at the corpse covered with a white sheet on the ground, for a long time. Then he squatted down and lifted a corner of the white sheet. I couldn't see what was underneath, only his hand—fingers long, knuckles distinct, very white under the lamplight. His fingers pressed on the corpse once, then again. Then he stood up and covered the sheet back up. He didn't speak, but I knew he didn't believe it. Not that he disbelieved the coroner, but he disbelieved this room. He stood there, looking at the surrounding walls, the lamp on the beam, the corpse on the ground. He was looking. Looking to see if those men were lying, looking for what this room was hiding, looking to see if that net had extended here. His hand hung by his side, fingers slightly curling, then relaxing.
I stood beside him, looking at that corpse covered with a white sheet. The air was stuffy; that smell was still there. I couldn't quite describe it, just felt—wrong. Not a wrongness based on intuition, but a physical reaction preceding the brain's. My stomach tightened; not from nausea, but from alertness. In the Australian lab, a professor had once said: When you feel something is wrong, don't think, just stop first. I took two steps forward and squatted down. Zhu Zhanji glanced at me, saying nothing. I leaned closer to the corpse and sniffed. There was a medicinal smell on the white sheet, very faint, as if covered by something. I frowned. Sniffed again. Still medicinal. But not the kind that heals; the kind that covers up.
"Wait," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but in the quiet room, everyone heard it.
Zhu Zhanji looked at me. "What is it?"
I didn't answer. I took two more steps forward, squatted beside the corpse, and lowered my head to sniff the white sheet. The medicinal smell was stronger. But it wasn't emanating from the corpse; it was from the sheet. Someone had soaked this cloth in something before covering it. To cover something up. I stood up, walked to the wall, and lowered my head to sniff the corner. That stuffy smell was stronger here. Not mold, not dust, but—the scent of blood. Not fresh blood, but blood that had seeped into the earth, been stifled for a long time, and started to rot. I had smelled this once before. In Australia, the lab refrigerator broke, and the animal blood samples stored inside thawed, spilling all over the floor. The professor asked me to clean it up, saying: "Smell it. Remember this scent; it will come in handy." I remembered. For three years. Now I was using it.
"There is a scent of blood here," I said.
The leader frowned. "It's naturally—here," he started to say.
"Not human," I interrupted him.
The air went quiet for a moment. Those men exchanged glances; someone looked at me, then quickly looked away. Zhu Zhanji looked at me, his gaze shifting slightly. "How do you know?" His voice was very flat; not questioning, but confirming. He was asking me—Are you sure?
I thought for a moment. In Australia, the lab had a batch of rabbits. During surgery, an accident occurred, and blood spilled everywhere. The professor asked me to clean it up, saying: "Smell it. Rabbit blood is different from human blood. Human blood has a heavy iron scent; rabbit blood is more gamey." I smelled it. Remembered it. That smell was the same as this one. Not human blood. Animal.
"Human blood has a heavier iron scent," I said. "This is a bit more gamey, like an animal." Only after I finished speaking did I realize—everyone was looking at me. Those men stood there; some looked down, some looked at me, some looked at Zhu Zhanji. Their faces were expressionless, but I could feel what they were thinking: Who is this person? On what basis does she speak here? I felt a bit uncomfortable, pulling my hands back into my sleeves. In Australia, standing in the lab, when I said "this blood is wrong," the professor believed me, my classmates believed me. Because I was a veterinarian; this was my specialty. But here, I wasn't a veterinarian. I was "someone close to His Highness." This identity, here, meant nothing.
"I used to study this," I said. My voice was smaller than I expected.
Zhu Zhanji didn't look at me. He stood there, looking at that wall, for a long time. Then he spoke.
"Pry up the floorboards," he said. His voice was very flat, as if he had planned to do this himself all along.
Those men paused. The leader stepped forward. "Your Highness, this—"
"Pry," Zhu Zhanji said. One word. The voice wasn't loud, but no one spoke again. They turned to find tools; footsteps echoed in the room a few times, then quieted down.
I stood beside him, watching him. He didn't look at me, watching that wall. The lamp shone from above, casting his shadow on the ground, very long. His expression was very calm, just like when he entered. But his fingers moved slightly inside his sleeve, just once, quickly withdrawn. He was waiting for me. Waiting for me to speak, waiting for me to say more, waiting for me to help him find those things he couldn't see. He wouldn't say "I need you," wouldn't say "You help me," wouldn't say "You are right." He would only stand there, looking at that wall, saying "Pry." Then wait for me. I took a step forward and squatted beside the pried-up floorboard. The soil was wet, black, with a strong gamey smell. I lowered my head and sniffed. Not blood. Medicine. The same medicinal smell as the white sheet covering the corpse. Someone used the same medicine to soak the sheet and sprinkle it on the soil. To cover the scent of blood. But it couldn't cover it. The scent of blood was underneath. In the deeper soil. I stood up, walked to the wall, and sniffed again. The scent of blood seeped out from here, from the cracks at the root of the wall, from under the floorboards, from those invisible places.
"Not here," I said. "Over there."
Zhu Zhanji looked at me. I didn't look at him, pointing at the root of the wall. "It's stronger over there." Those men stopped, looking in the direction I pointed. Someone hesitated, walked over, and pried up that floorboard. The soil was turned out, black, wet. The scent of blood was stronger. So strong everyone could smell it.
"Your Highness, there's something here!" someone shouted.
I looked up. In the corner of the room, where the floorboard was pried open, something was buried in the soil. Black, soft, indistinct. Someone poked it with the tip of a knife; the thing flipped over, revealing white bone inside. It was an animal. Not big, like a cat, like a dog, like—I couldn't tell. But it had blood. Its blood seeped into the soil, covered by the floorboards, covered by the white sheet, covered by the medicinal smell. But it couldn't be covered. The scent of blood remained. I smelled it. They all smelled it.
Zhu Zhanji stood up, looking at that patch of soil, for a long time. His hands were stained with mud, black, on his fingertips. He didn't wipe it. His expression was very calm, just like when he entered. But I knew he was thinking. Thinking why this animal was here, thinking why its blood was covered up, thinking if that dead man had any relation to it.
"Take it back," he said. "Find out what blood, what medicine."
Those men agreed and started cleaning up. Someone covered the sheet back up, someone pieced the floorboards back one by one, someone put that pile of black, soft things into a bag. Zhu Zhanji turned and walked out. I followed him. Reaching the door, he suddenly stopped. He didn't turn around.
"Can you still smell it?" he asked. His voice was very low, so low it was almost drowned out by footsteps. But I heard it.
I paused. Looking at him. His silhouette was at the door; the lamp shone from inside, outlining his contour with a thin golden rim. He didn't turn around, but I knew he was waiting. Waiting for my answer. He wasn't asking me "Can you still smell the blood." He was asking me—Can you still help me? The road ahead will be deeper, darker, dirtier. Those smells will be harder to smell, harder to distinguish, more unpleasant to remember. Can you still smell them out? He needed me. But he wouldn't say it. He would only stand at the door, not turning around, asking "Can you still smell it?" Then leave the decision to me.
"I can," I said.
He didn't speak. Walked out. I followed him, stepping on his shadow. The alley was narrow, walls high, stone slabs slippery. Just like every time. But it was different. His hand hung by his side, fingers still stained with mud, black. My hand hung by my side, fingers empty. But I smelled it. The scent of blood remained. Brought out from that room, sticking to clothes, sticking to hair, sticking to memory. I could smell it. He could smell it too. He just didn't say it. When he asked me "Can you still smell it?", his voice was very low. So low it was like he was afraid of being heard. That was his pride. He didn't want people to know he was relying on me. But he relied.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm."
"Your ears turned red just now."
He didn't answer. Walked a few steps, then said: "No."
I laughed. "Yes."
He didn't speak. But I saw his ears, turning a bit redder. Starting from the tips, slowly moving down. Just like every time. When he was stubborn, his ears would turn red. From the first day. When learning Wuxi dialect in the Eastern Palace Imperial Garden, when I was bandaging him in the military tent, when being teased by the Crown Princess at the banquet. Now too. He said "no," but his ears were red. He said "I was going to pry it anyway," but he asked me "Can you still smell it?" He needed me. He wouldn't say it. He would only have red ears. Then say "no." It's okay. I understood.
I walked beside him, stepping on his shadow. Moonlight shone on us, casting shadows on the ground, very close together. His hand hung by his side, fingers still stained with mud. My hand hung by my side, fingers touching his sleeve. He didn't dodge. I didn't pull back. We walked like this, out of the alley, into the lights. He needed me. I knew. He knew too. But he couldn't say it. It's okay. I understood.
(End of Chapter Thirty-Six)