I was woken up by a basin of cold water.
To be precise, it was a basin of cold water splashed right in my face, accompanied by a thunderous roar: "New girl! Still sleeping! What time do you think it is?!"
I jerked my eyes open. What met my gaze wasn't the fluorescent lights of Columbia University's East Asian Library, but a coarse, wrinkled eunuch's face.
My first reaction wasn't "I've time-traveled." It was—
Damn. I stayed up all night again.
"Get up, get up, get up! Today you're assigned to sweep the Imperial Garden. If you miss the time, I'll skin you alive!"
I was dragged up from the ground, shoved a broom into my hands, and pushed out the door.
I looked down at my clothes—coarse cloth, blue-gray, with sleeves worn white at the cuffs.
Then I looked around—vermilion palace walls, yellow-glazed tile roofs, white marble railings. In the distance, eunuchs and palace maids hurried by with lowered heads. No one spoke; only the rustle of footsteps filled the air.
I took a deep breath.
Alright. I've time-traveled.
It took me about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn to digest this fact.
The way I digested it was by recalling the last scene before the crossing—
August on the Columbia campus, completely empty. During summer break, the East Asian Library was nearly deserted. The air-conditioning was turned up too high, so I had thrown on two jackets. On the table lay my unfinished thesis: "A Study of Song Dynasty Court Cuisine: Taking the Period of Emperor Zhezong as an Example." Beside it sat a cup of cold coffee, with water droplets condensing on the cup's surface.
My advisor said the first draft had to be submitted before September, so I had spent the entire month of August holed up in the library.
My phone screen lit up with a chat log between me and my roommate Emily:
Emily: Ivy, you're still at school? Summer vacation is almost over.
Ivy: Library. Thesis not finished yet.
Emily: You've been in the library the whole month of August?
Ivy: Pretty much.
Emily: You're going to die in the library.
Emily: It's August in New York. You should go to the beach.
I replied with "I'll go once I finish this chapter," then reached for that tattered Song dynasty recipe book.
The pages were yellowed and the edges frayed. The moment my fingers touched the paper—
Everything went black.
When I opened my eyes again, I was here.
I stood in the Song dynasty imperial palace, clutching a broom, with only one thought left in my mind:
Emily, you were right. I really did almost die in the library. Just not the way you imagined.
"What are you standing there for? Imperial Garden! Are you going or not?!" The supervising eunuch roared again.
"Yes, yes, I'm going." I nodded reflexively, hugged the broom tightly, and ran.
After ten years in America, I had learned one thing: never talk back to people in charge.
What I hadn't learned were the rules of the Song dynasty imperial palace.
When entering the palace gate, I stepped on the threshold with one foot. Behind me came the sound of a sharp intake of breath.
"Don't step on the threshold!" A passing little palace maid whispered urgently. "You have to step over it!"
I quickly stepped over, cold sweat already breaking out on my back.
Later, I made three more mistakes—when giving way to a passing noble, I knelt half a beat too slow and got glared at by a eunuch; when carrying a basin of water, I went the wrong direction and was pushed back; and once I almost walked into a courtyard I wasn't supposed to enter and was shouted at by the guarding imperial guard.
Each time I made a mistake, my heart leaped into my throat.
In the palace, mistakes could cost you your head. That's how it always went in the dramas.
Fortunately, the supervising eunuch only scolded me a few times without any harsher punishment. Probably because I was too new—new enough that I didn't even know the rules and wasn't worth the effort to deal with severely.
The Imperial Garden was larger than I had imagined.
It was also quieter than I had imagined.
I swept fallen leaves for half a shichen (an hour), and blisters formed on my fingers. I found a corner and squatted down to rest.
The spot was perfect—behind a cluster of emerald bamboo, invisible from the outside, yet I could hear everything around me. On the ground was a nest of ants, busily carrying things back and forth.
Watching the ants, I suddenly thought of my grandfather.
Grandpa used to say: "When you're upset, watch ants. They're busy with who-knows-what. Watch them long enough, and you stop feeling annoyed."
I stared at the ants for a long time, and my heart gradually calmed down.
Alright. I've time-traveled. Now what?
First, survive. Make fewer mistakes, observe more, keep my head down and my tail between my legs.
Second, find a chance to leave the palace. Go back to Suzhou. See if I can find a way home.
My thesis wasn't finished yet. Emily had probably gone to the beach by herself. There were still vegetables I bought last week in the fridge; they'd go bad if I didn't eat them soon.
Third—
Before I could think of a third thing, I heard footsteps behind me.
Very light, as if someone was deliberately trying not to be noticed.
I didn't turn around. Anyone who's lived in New York knows: when you hear footsteps behind you, don't turn back—turning back says "I noticed you," while not turning says "I didn't see anything." Survival skill learned on the subway.
The footsteps stopped behind me.
Silence.
Then a voice spoke, soft and a little hesitant: "What are you doing?"
I turned my head.
It was a child.
Eight or nine years old, wearing a slightly worn round-collared robe made of fine fabric but in a very plain color. Thin. Very thin. His face was small, with a pointed chin that made his eyes look especially large. There were faint dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept well for a long time.
He stood beside the bamboo, watching me with a mix of wariness and curiosity. One hand unconsciously rubbed his stomach—the motion was light, but I noticed it.
Two thoughts flashed through my mind—
First, this kid is malnourished. And he has stomach issues.
Second, his clothes are bright yellow. Bright yellow. In the Song dynasty, only one person was allowed to wear bright yellow.
I didn't kneel.
It wasn't that I didn't want to; I just didn't know how. After ten years in America, my knees had forgotten how to bend. Besides, I was squatting on the ground and my legs had gone numb—I couldn't have knelt even if I tried.
"Watching ants." I pointed at the ground, my tone as casual as if I were chatting with a neighbor's kid. "What about you?"
He was stunned for a moment. He had probably never seen a palace maid like this before.
After a brief silence, he said, "Hiding from people."
I didn't ask who he was hiding from. In the palace, "hiding from people" was the norm. I shifted aside a little, making space.
"Want to join? This corner is big enough anyway."
He hesitated, then slowly squatted down. His movements were careful, as if afraid of dirtying his robe—or as if he simply didn't have much strength.
He glanced at the ants, then looked up toward the palace wall. There were faint footsteps of patrolling eunuchs in that direction.
He didn't speak, but I noticed his shoulders shrink slightly.
The two of us quietly watched the ants for the entire afternoon.
The ants busily carried food from east to west, then from west to east. I watched, mesmerized. My brain automatically started analyzing—the division of labor in this ant colony was clear, and their efficiency was high. If my thesis had been about ants instead of Song dynasty court cuisine, I could have written a paper right now: "On the Social Structure of Ants in Song Dynasty Palace Gardens."
Unfortunately, my thesis was about Song dynasty cuisine.
So what I cared about more was: how long had this kid gone without a proper meal?
After a long while, he suddenly asked, "What's your name?"
"Shen Heng."
"Which heng?"
"The heng from duheng—a kind of fragrant herb." I paused. "I'm from Suzhou."
He nodded, as if committing the information to memory.
"What about you?" I asked.
He was silent for a moment, then said, "Zhao Xu."
The broom in my hand nearly fell.
Zhao Xu.
Emperor Zhezong of Song, Zhao Xu.
The stack of papers in Grandpa's study had all been about him. Grandpa had said it his whole life—"Song Emperor Zhezong, Zhao Xu, ascended the throne at nine, died at twenty-five. What a pity. He wanted to do so many things but never had the chance."
I looked at the child squatting on the ground watching ants, Grandpa's words echoing in my head.
Thin. Very thin. Small face, pointed chin. Dark circles under his eyes. The little gesture of rubbing his stomach.
"What's wrong?" he asked, looking at me. "Your face doesn't look good."
I took a deep breath and pushed Grandpa's voice aside.
"Nothing," I said. "Will you come tomorrow?"
He paused for a second. "Yes."
"Then I'll bring you something delicious."
"What delicious thing?"
I thought for a moment. "Egg fried rice. Have you ever had it?"
He shook his head.
"Then tomorrow I'll let you try it." I paused, looking him up and down. "You're too thin."
He froze.
No one had ever told him he was thin before.
Everyone always said "His Majesty enjoys excellent health" or "The Crown Prince looks extremely well." Even though his appetite was poor, he couldn't sleep well, and he was so thin that his ribs stuck out, everyone still said "His Majesty enjoys excellent health."
I had said he was thin.
He looked down at himself and said softly, "I haven't had much appetite lately."
"If you have no appetite, you need to eat even more," I said, sounding like I was talking to a picky child. "Egg fried rice is good for stimulating appetite. My grandma said so."
"Your grandma?"
"She's from Suzhou. She ran a noodle shop. She's been cooking her whole life."
He nodded, then suddenly asked, "Will you really come tomorrow?"
"I will."
"Bring egg fried rice?"
"Bring it."
He looked at me and smiled for the first time.
It was a very small smile, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, like the first crack appearing on ice in spring.
Watching his smile, two voices fought in my head—
One rational: You should find a way back. The thesis isn't finished. Emily has probably gone to the beach alone. The vegetables in the fridge are going to spoil.
One not-so-rational: Screw the thesis. First, fatten this kid up.
I chose the second one.
That night, I figured out the location and schedule of the Imperial Kitchen.
The Imperial Kitchen was in the southeast corner of the palace city, with special passages leading to every palace. When meals were delivered, the dishes came out from the kitchen, passing through many gates before reaching each hall. I had observed that in the evening there were the fewest people; the head eunuch, Eunuch Li, would go rest for a while, leaving only two young eunuchs on duty.
Eunuch Li, in charge of the Imperial Kitchen, was a round-faced middle-aged man. Seeing I was a new little palace maid, he didn't pay much attention and only warned, "Don't touch things randomly, and don't steal food."
I nodded like a pecking chicken.
I didn't steal food. I just "borrowed" some ingredients.
The next morning, before dawn, I slipped into the Imperial Kitchen.
There was no ham, so I used diced salted pork instead. No green peas, so I used chopped green vegetables. No shrimp, so I added some dried fish floss.
My grandma used to say: "When ingredients are lacking, make up for it with heart."
The fire was already going, the wok was iron, and the oil was rapeseed oil. Relying on memory, I recreated my grandma's recipe—
The rice had to be from the day before, with distinct grains. Beat the eggs with a pinch of salt. Heat the oil, pour in the egg mixture and quickly scramble. Add the rice and stir-fry. Then add the salted pork dice, chopped greens, and fish floss. Finally, sprinkle a little chopped green onion.
When the fragrance wafted out, my nose stung.
While frying the rice, I thought: if Grandma knew I was using Song dynasty ingredients to recreate her recipe, she would probably say, "Little girl, the salted pork dice are too salty—use less next time."
And if Grandpa knew I was standing in a Song dynasty imperial kitchen frying egg fried rice for Emperor Zhezong, he would probably stay silent for a long time, then say, "Aheng, treat him well. That emperor… what a pity."
The egg fried rice was ready. I covered it with a small bowl and tucked it into my sleeve, then headed toward the Imperial Garden.
The bowl was warm against my skin through the fabric. I walked quickly, afraid the rice would get cold.
He was already there.
Squatting in the same corner as yesterday, his eyes lit up when he saw me coming.
That brightness was especially obvious, like someone striking a match in a dark room.
"You really came."
"I said I would." I squatted down and pulled the bowl out of my sleeve. "Eat it while it's hot."
He took the bowl and looked at it.
Golden rice, each grain distinct. Red diced salted pork, green chopped vegetables, and fluffy fish floss scattered on top.
He took a bite.
He froze.
Then took another bite.
Then he started eating in big mouthfuls, very quickly, as if afraid someone would snatch it away.
"Eat slowly, no one's going to fight you for it," I said.
He ignored me and kept eating. Only after swallowing the last grain of rice did he look up.
"What is this?"
"Egg fried rice."
"The Imperial Kitchen has never made it."
"Mhm. My grandma taught me."
He was silent for a while. "Your grandma must be amazing."
I smiled. "She's just an ordinary old lady. The kind who knows how to cook."
He said seriously, "Then someday I want to go to her noodle shop."
I was stunned.
I thought of Grandma's noodle shop on Shiquan Street—a tiny storefront that opened at five every morning, selling Fengzhen braised pork noodles, three-shrimp noodles, and salted egg yolk mixed rice.
Grandma standing behind the stove, her apron covered in flour, smiling and saying, "Little girl, eat it while it's hot."
My nose stung again.
"Okay," I said. "When you grow up, I'll take you there."
He nodded hard, as if making a very important promise.
Footsteps sounded in the distance. Someone was looking for the Crown Prince.
He stood up, patted the dust off his knees, and suddenly asked, "Will you come tomorrow?"
"I will."
"What will you bring?"
"What do you want to eat?"
He thought for a moment. "Osmanthus sugar congee. Can you make it?"
I smiled. "I can. When I was little and got sick, my grandma would make this. White rice porridge with brown sugar and dried osmanthus sprinkled on top."
He swallowed. "It sounds delicious."
"Of course. People from Suzhou are best at making congee."
He nodded, turned to leave. After a few steps, he looked back. "Shen Heng."
"Hm?"
"Yesterday when you were squatting there spacing out, you were muttering something… Ivy or whatever."
I froze.
In my heart, I silently added "Don't talk to yourself in the palace" to my survival rules.
"Ivy," I said. "It's my English name. In our place, besides your real name, you also get another name."
He looked curious. "What does that name mean?"
"English ivy. A plant. The kind that climbs walls and stays green all year round."
He nodded and repeated it carefully: "Ivy."
His pronunciation wasn't quite right, but very earnest.
"So should I call you Aheng or Ivy?"
"Whatever."
"Then I'll call you Aheng," he said. "Ivy is too hard to say."
He turned and walked away.
I stayed squatting in place, watching his back disappear behind the vermilion palace walls.
I looked down at the empty bowl in my hand and suddenly remembered Grandpa's words.
"Aheng, there was an emperor in the Song dynasty named Zhao Xu. He ascended the throne at nine and died at twenty-five. What a pity."
I gripped the edge of the bowl tightly.
Not this time. This time it won't be a pity.
Grandpa, your student is here. This time, I'm going to fatten him up. Let him live a little longer.
Let him do all the things he didn't have time to do.
I stood up, ready to leave. After two steps, I couldn't help turning back to look at the palace wall again.
If I suddenly disappeared, what would happen to him? Would he think the bowl of egg fried rice I made was fake? Would he squat alone in the corner again, rubbing his stomach and watching ants?
I took a deep breath and pushed the thought down.
Don't think about that yet. First, get tomorrow's osmanthus sugar congee ready.
Then I thought of Emily again.
She had probably gone to the beach alone. She had probably posted photos on her Moments with the caption "Ivy is still writing her thesis in the library, so I came by myself."
She was probably cursing: Ivy, you really would rather die than stop working on that paper?
I looked up at the Song dynasty sky and smiled silently.
Sorry, Emily. But this kid is worth it.