Hongzhi Year 17, Thirtieth Day of the Twelfth Month.
The Eastern Palace had been busy since morning.
Eunuchs carrying red silk and lanterns went in and out. The rustle of silk brushing against sleeves mixed with the crunch of footsteps on snow, echoing under the corridor. Liu Jin stood in the courtyard directing everything, his voice already hoarse, sounding like a broken gong.
I carried the medicine box toward the sleeping hall. The snow underfoot had been trampled hard and was slippery. A gust of wind blew, snow falling from the eaves, and icy droplets splashed into the back of my neck, making me shiver.
The smell of stewed meat drifted from the kitchen, mixed with the sulfur scent of burnt firecrackers, twisting into an indescribable smell in the cold air.
The whole palace was celebrating the New Year.
New Year's Eve. The palace held a banquet. The Crown Prince naturally had to attend.
I walked to the door of the sleeping hall and was blocked by two eunuchs.
"His Highness is changing clothes. The young lady should wait a moment."
I stood under the corridor and waited for nearly half an hour. My fingers froze stiff; I could barely grip the handle of the medicine box. From inside the hall came the rustling sound of fabric friction, occasionally interspersed with Liu Jin's "Your Highness, raise your hand" or "Your Highness, lower your head."
The door finally opened.
Liu Jin came out first, his face flushed red, sweat on his forehead. He stepped aside, and I saw Zhu Houzhao standing in front of a bronze mirror.
He had changed into that complex ceremonial robe.
Black Gunfu (ceremonial robe), embroidered with sun, moon, and stars, five-clawed golden dragons coiling around the shoulders and hem. The gold thread flashed in the candlelight. The Yishan crown was worn squarely on his head, fixed with gold hairpins, the pearls along the brim trembling slightly.
Too heavy.
That robe looked heavy just by looking at it.
He stood in front of the bronze mirror. Liu Jin squatted to arrange the hem, tugged it twice, then stood up to adjust the belt. He let himself be manipulated, raising his arms, lowering them, turning around, then turning back.
Expressionless.
Like a statue being dressed.
But my gaze fell on his right hand—his right hand hung by his side, hidden by the wide sleeve. His index finger was unconsciously gripping the fabric of the cuff, his knuckles slightly white.
As if gripping something, or enduring something.
He stood in front of the bronze mirror for a long time, looking at himself in the mirror wearing the Gunfu.
Then he inhaled lightly.
Very light.
So light that I, standing at the door, almost didn't hear it.
But when he inhaled, his shoulders lifted slightly—like a person taking a final breath before diving into water.
"Your Highness, it's time to change the dressing." I walked in, trying to keep my voice steady.
He turned to look at me.
There was a hint of relief in his eyes—"finally a normal person is here"—flashing by, fast like an illusion.
"Come here." he said.
I walked over, squatted down to untie the bandages on his right arm. The splint was removed, the gauze peeled away layer by layer, revealing the forearm. The fracture line felt stable already; the callus should have started growing. I could feel a thin, hard ridge.
I pressed my thumb lightly on it to confirm alignment.
He hissed.
"Pain?"
"No pain." he said. "Your hands are cold."
I looked down at my hands—fingertips red from the cold, indeed cold.
"It's cold outside." I gave a vague explanation, speeding up the dressing change, wrapping the new gauze, and re-fixing the splint.
"Can I not go?" he suddenly asked.
I looked up at him.
He looked down at me. There was no willfulness, no petulance on his face. Just a very faint weariness—like a person looking at a bowl of bitter medicine they have to drink every day, not wanting to drink it, but knowing they must.
"Your Highness," I tucked the end of the gauze into the splint gap. "Is it appropriate for you not to attend tonight's banquet?"
He didn't speak.
Silence was the answer.
Outside the hall, the sound of drums and music could be faintly heard, distant, like隔着 (through) a layer of cotton. Liu Jin rubbed his hands anxiously nearby, his lips moving, not daring to urge.
Zhu Houzhao stood up.
The hem of the ceremonial robe fell, covering his ankles. In that instant, he didn't look like a fourteen-year-old boy—the robe was too heavy, pressing his shoulders down slightly, but he straightened his spine.
Like a bamboo stalk bent but not broken.
"You follow." he said as he walked past me, his voice very low, only audible to me.
I paused, picked up the medicine box, and followed.
The New Year's Eve banquet in the Hall of Heavenly Purity was grander than I imagined.
Red candles burned high inside the hall. Gold and silver wares dazzled in the candlelight. Long tables stretched from inside the hall to outside, laden with five-colored fruits, Fu-character candles, and coin-shaped rice cakes. The Master of Ceremonies lit a long string of firecrackers at the hall door. They crackled for the time it takes to drink a cup of tea. The smell of sulfur poured in through the door cracks, mixing with the smell of alcohol, face powder, and roast meat inside.
Ministers sat according to rank. The colors of their official robes ranged from crimson to green, layer by layer, like a fading rainbow. Music was melodious. Dancers' sleeves fluttered like clouds. When their skirts spun, they brought a gust of wind, and the candle flames flickered.
Everyone was smiling.
But that smile was not the smile I saw at the Lantern Festival.
That was a "smile within the rules"—the curve of the mouth, the bend of the eyes, even the number of teeth shown, all measured by a ruler. Ministers toasted each other, saying auspicious words like "Long live the Emperor" and "Long live the Crown Prince," voices loud, expressions enthusiastic.
But their eyes were empty.
Like a group of wind-up puppets, turning their heads in unison, opening their mouths in unison, clapping in unison.
Zhu Houzhao sat in the high seat.
Gunfu proper, Yishan crown impeccable. Candlelight cast half-light and half-shadow on his face, outlining his features sharply and distantly.
He listened to the people below say "Long live the Crown Prince."
No expression.
As if not listening.
His left hand rested on the armrest, fingertips tapping lightly—not impatiently, but an unconscious movement, like a person always needing to pinch something when zoning out. His right hand was covered tightly by the wide sleeve, the splint invisible.
I stood in the corner on the side of the hall, together with other maids and eunuchs, responsible for refilling wine, changing dishes, and serving.
No one noticed me.
And no one noticed him.
Those ministers bowed their heads when kneeling, looked at his face when rising, but they weren't looking at "him," they were looking at the "Crown Prince"—that symbol representing power and the future.
They cared about whether he could inherit the throne.
Not whether his arm still hurt.
Not whether he was sleepy.
Not whether he wanted to sit in this place.
I looked at him.
I felt he wasn't unhappy.
He was—
Not here.
His body sat in that resplendent golden chair, wearing that dragon-embroidered robe, wearing that proper crown. But his soul seemed to still be at the Lantern Festival.
Left in that alley.
Left next to that rabbit sugar figurine.
The music grew louder. Dancers spun, skirts like blooming flowers. Ministers raised their cups, laughter rising wave upon wave.
Firecrackers outside crackled, the smell of sulfur thickened another layer.
Lively was truly lively.
But that liveliness was like隔着 (through) a thick layer of glass—visible, audible, but untouchable.
He sat in the center of the liveliness.
And also the furthest place.
Halfway through the banquet, there was a brief intermission. Dancers retreated to change costumes. Ministers whispered. The noise in the hall lowered slightly.
I carried the teapot forward to refill his tea.
Using the sleeve as cover, I asked in a low voice:
"Boring?"
He looked down at the teacup. Tea poured from the spout, splashing small ripples at the bottom of the cup. Tea leaves floated up, then sank.
"What do you think?" he said, voice very low, only audible to me.
I put down the teapot, stepped back half a step, and said in a low voice:
"Quite obvious."
He looked up at me.
Then he smiled.
Very light.
The corner of his mouth just twitched up slightly, eyes brightened for an instant. Not the "smile within rules" from the banquet, but a real smile, floating up from the bottom of his heart.
Like a crack appearing on an ice surface, revealing the flowing water underneath.
Only for an instant.
Then he retracted his expression, becoming that Crown Prince sitting properly in the high seat again.
But I saw that crack.
The music started again. Dancers returned, sleeves fluttering. Ministers continued to raise their cups, saying the same words, smiling the same smiles.
The liveliness continued.
He still sat there.
But I suddenly felt he wasn't as far away as before.
The banquet ended at the Hour of the Pig (9-11 PM).
Ministers filed out. Footsteps, greetings, and the creaking of sedan chairs mixed into one sound, gradually fading away. Eunuchs began to clear the remnants. Cups and plates clattered. Candle flames flickered. A burnt-out candle went out with a pop, emitting a wisp of green smoke.
Zhu Houzhao stood up from the high seat.
The robe was too heavy. His movement paused for an instant. Not hesitation—exhaustion. That kind of exhaustion seeping from the bone marrow, hollowed out by liveliness. His left hand pushed against the armrest for leverage, knuckles white.
He walked past me.
"Go."
One word.
The ending tone a bit hoarse.
I followed behind him, walking through the long corridor.
Lanterns under the corridor swayed gently in the wind. Shadows broke into pieces on the ground. Occasionally a returning palace worker glanced this way, their gaze falling on Zhu Houzhao, then quickly shifting away—not daring to look too much.
I knew. The Crown Prince leaving the seat at night was against the rules. Him leading a maid through the corridor was even more of a breach.
But he walked in front, pace neither fast nor slow. No one dared to stop him.
And no one dared to ask.
His silhouette was light and dark in the candlelight. The hem of the robe swept over the thin snow on the ground, leaving a shallow trail, like a thin river.
Walking to the entrance of the Eastern Palace, he suddenly stopped.
Didn't turn around.
Only the last lantern under the corridor was still lit. Firelight shone on his back, making the dragon pattern on the black Gunfu flicker.
"Lizi." (Little Pear)
He called me.
This was the second time he called me that.
"Fifteenth of the First Month," he said. "I'll take you out."
Wind blew through the corridor, swaying that last lantern. The firelight flickered, and his shadow on the ground flickered with it.
I looked at him.
Moonlight fell on his shoulder. The black robe looked even heavier in the night, but his posture standing there was different from the banquet—shoulders relaxed, back not so straight, like a person finally allowed to take off that invisible armor.
"Okay." I said.
He didn't turn around.
But I saw his shoulders relax a bit.
Not deflated.
But a sigh of relief.
He continued walking. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped, turned and looked at me.
Moonlight shone on his face. The gold thread on the robe had dimmed, revealing the outline of the young man underneath.
"You just said 'quite obvious'," he said, corner of his mouth slightly upturned. "Was it that obvious?"
I thought about it.
"Yes."
He smiled.
Turned around, continued walking.
I followed behind.
The moon was very round. Moonlight very bright.
The last lantern under the corridor was blown out by the wind.
Darkness surged up, but the moonlight remained. His silhouette was clear in the moonlight like a painting.
I looked down at the shadow at my feet—his shadow was stretched long by the moonlight. My shadow overlapped with his, indistinguishable where his ended and mine began.
I suddenly remembered the sentence he said at the Lantern Festival:
"That's because no one is accompanying you."
Now I want to say—
It won't be like that in the future.
But I didn't say it out loud.
Just followed behind him, step by step, walking back to the Eastern Palace.
Walking to the door of the side room, he stopped.
"Go in." he said.
I pushed open the door, turned to look at him.
He stood in the moonlight. The robe was already a bit wrinkled, the Yishan crown slightly crooked, revealing a few strands of stray hair on his forehead.
"Your Highness," I said. "That rabbit sugar figurine is still on my window sill."
He paused.
Then smiled.
This time the smile was very light, but much deeper than that crack at the banquet.
"Keep it safe," he said. "Don't let it melt."
I nodded, closed the door.
Leaning against the door panel, heart beating fast.
On the window sill, that rabbit sugar figurine was still there. Candlelight passed through the amber sugar body, casting a chubby shadow on the wall.
Like him.
I lay on the bed, staring at that shadow for a long time.
Outside the window there was wind, there was moonlight, there was the sound of the night watchman's drum from a distance.
Third watch.
He should have changed out of that robe already.
I closed my eyes.
But in front of my eyes was still the image of him sitting in the high seat—proper, expressionless, like an isolated island.
The liveliness belongs to them.
He was alone.
But when he turned back at the end, he smiled.
In that moment, he didn't seem alone anymore.
(End of Chapter 5)