Yuanfeng's eighth year, ninth month. The weather had finally cooled.
Zhao Xu's schedule had gained new content. The Grand Tutor said he possessed "adequate natural talent but insufficient foundation," so an additional hour of Classics and History was added each day. When the young eunuch came for the food box, he said His Majesty had been returning in silence these past few days, sitting at his desk in a daze for long stretches.
I slipped an extra osmanthus cake into the box. "Tell him to eat a piece."
When the box returned that afternoon, the note read:
"Cake eaten. But not as sweet as your osmanthus sugar porridge."
I smiled. Wrote back: "Of course. Different fields for different expertise. My main profession is porridge; cakes are my side business."
He replied: "What is your main profession?"
I thought, then wrote on the note: "My main profession is making you happy."
It felt a bit mushy after writing it, but I didn't change it. Anyway, he was nine—he wouldn't understand.
One day in mid-September, the young eunuch came looking troubled. "Elder Sister, His Majesty was punished by the Grand Tutor today."
"Why?"
"The Grand Tutor said His Majesty's mind wandered while reciting. Asked what he was thinking about, His Majesty said he was thinking of someone. The Grand Tutor asked who, but His Majesty didn't say."
The dough nearly slipped from my hands.
"Then what?"
"Then the Grand Tutor punished His Majesty to copy texts. Ten times. His Majesty is still copying now."
I packed osmanthus cakes into the box, adding two extra pieces. On the note: "Don't think of me while reciting. If you think of me, think of osmanthus sugar porridge instead. I'll make it for you next week."
He replied: "How many days until next week?"
I calculated: "Four days."
He replied: "Four days is too long."
I looked at the note, thought, and wrote: "Then tomorrow. I'll make it tomorrow. But you must promise me something."
"What?"
"Finish copying the ten times today. No slacking. When you're done, besides osmanthus sugar porridge tomorrow, there'll be something good."
"What good thing?"
"A secret. You'll only know when you're done."
That night, when the young eunuch brought the box, he said His Majesty had copied until the hour of hai [9-11 PM]. The young eunuch said, after writing the final character, His Majesty murmured "something good tomorrow," and he saw the corner of His Majesty's mouth turn upward.
I put the note away, planning that "something good" in my mind.
The next day, I arrived at the Inner Kitchen an hour early. Besides preparing osmanthus sugar porridge, I made something else—playing cards.
Not the leaf games of Song Dynasty, but American-style cards. At Columbia, before final exams, my roommate Emily would pull me into a game called "Twenty Questions" to relieve stress. She said: "Sue, you're quick-witted, perfect for this." I played a few times and found it truly useful—at least better than staring blankly at textbooks.
I drew fifty-two cards on the back of notes. No suits, no numbers, only patterns—sun, moon, stars, flowers, birds, fish. Each one different. Drew for a full hour until my hand ached.
The notes weren't large enough for fifty-two; I could only fit sixteen. I cut them into small squares, drawing them one by one. When I finished the last one, Eunuch Li poked his head in for a look: "What is this thing?"
"A game."
"What game?"
"A game to teach His Majesty."
He shook his head and left. Since the incident with the nurse, he had grown accustomed to my peculiar ways.
That afternoon, when the box returned, there was an extra note inside. Characters written rapidly, more careless than usual:
"Cards received. How to play?"
I wrote on the note:
"Tomorrow afternoon, Imperial Garden. I'll teach you. But you must finish your lessons first."
He replied:
"Good. I'll work faster."
The next afternoon, I arrived early at the Imperial Garden. The old place—behind the green bamboo, beside the ant nest. I spread the cards on the ground, arranging them one by one. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the bamboo leaves, falling on the cards in dappled patches.
I waited about a quarter-hour before Zhao Xu came. He ran over, breathing heavily, mud on the hem of his robes. Two guards followed far behind, left trailing by a dozen paces.
He stood before me, hands on knees, catching his breath. Sunlight struck his face directly, and for the first time I looked at him carefully—clear brows, straight nose, still carrying a child's innocence, but his bone structure had already formed. The Song Zhezong in the portraits in Grandfather's study must have looked like this. Not the composed imperial bearing captured by court painters, but alive, breathing, beads of sweat still clinging to his forehead.
"I finished my lessons," he said, eyes bright.
"All of them?"
"All. The Grand Tutor praised me today."
"Praised you for what?"
"Praised me for writing faster than last month."
I suppressed a smile. "Fast isn't necessarily good. Writing well is skill."
"The characters are well-written too." He pulled a paper from his sleeve and unfolded it for me to see. It was a copied passage from the Analects, the handwriting much neater than last month, each stroke steady and sure.
"Not bad," I said. "Better than last month."
He smiled. That smile was the same as when he first ate egg-fried rice—corners of his mouth turning up, eyes narrowing into slits. But whether from the sunlight or something else, I felt he looked much better than before—not the kind of handsome that made one's heart race, but the kind that made you think "this child will grow up to be very good-looking."
"Come, I'll teach you the game." I pointed at the cards on the ground. "This is called Twenty Questions."
"Twenty Questions? What does that mean?"
"It means—I think of a person or thing in my mind. You ask me questions, and I can only answer 'yes' or 'no.' If you ask twenty questions and guess what I'm thinking, you win."
He thought. "Can I ask anything?"
"Anything. But you can't ask 'what is it' directly. Only 'is it,' 'can it,' 'does it' types of questions."
He squatted down, looking at the pile of cards. "You think of something first."
I thought, choosing "Grandmother" in my mind. Couldn't say it—he wouldn't guess it.
"Ready. Begin asking."
He thought for a long time, then asked: "Is it a person?"
"Yes."
"Is it someone in the palace?"
"No."
"Is it... someone I know?"
I paused. "No."
"Is it someone you know?"
"Yes."
"Is it male or female?" He frowned after asking, "Wait, does that count as one question?"
"It counts. That's the fifth question."
He bit his lip. "Is it female?"
"Yes."
"Is it your family member?"
"...Yes."
"Is it your grandmother?"
I froze. "How did you know?"
He smiled. "Every time you say 'grandmother,' your eyes narrow like this." He squinted to imitate me.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "That counts?"
"It counts as observation. The Grand Tutor said, 'Observe expressions and colors to know men's hearts.'"
I squatted on the ground, looking at him, suddenly realizing this child had learned more than just writing. There was a calmness in his brows beyond his years—not the kind pressed out by rules, but something in his bones. This was probably what Grandfather meant by "vigorous heroic spirit."
"Again," I said. "This time you think, I guess."
He thought, then said: "Ready."
"Is it a person?"
"Yes."
"Is it someone in the palace?"
"Yes."
"Is it... the Grand Tutor?"
"No."
"Is it someone by the Empress Dowager's side?"
He hesitated. "No."
"Is it a palace maid?"
"...Yes."
"Is it the young eunuch who brings your food?"
"No."
"Is it... Eunuch Li?"
"No."
I guessed fifteen questions without success. Five remaining.
"Is it someone you know?"
"Yes."
"Is it someone you see every day?"
"Yes."
"Is it someone... besides me, that you see every day?"
"No."
I paused. Someone seen every day, besides me... no. That meant—someone seen every day, including me?
"Is it me?" I asked.
He didn't speak. His ears turned red.
I squatted on the ground, watching his ears turn from pink to crimson. Probably embarrassed at having his thoughts guessed. Nine-year-old children cannot hide their hearts.
"You guessed in seventeen questions," he said, voice very small.
"...So I win?"
"Mm. You won."
He picked up a card from the ground and pressed it into my hand. It was the one with the sun drawn on it.
"For you. This is your prize."
I put the card away, tucking it into my sleeve with those notes.
"Again," I said. "This time something different."
"What?"
"You draw, I guess."
"How?"
"You draw something, I guess what you drew."
He thought, then drew a circle on the ground. The circle was crooked, like a rice ball stepped on by someone.
"The moon?" I guessed.
"No."
"The sun?"
"No."
"A pancake?"
"No."
"...A bowl?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"An egg," he said. "The egg from egg-fried rice."
I laughed. Laughed until I couldn't squat anymore, sitting on the ground.
"The egg you drew is too round."
"It's not round. It's oval." He pointed seriously, "Look, flatter here, bulging there. That's how eggs are."
I looked where he pointed—it was indeed somewhat elliptical. This child's observational skills were good.
"Again," he said.
This time he drew a rectangle with a lid on top.
"The food box?"
"Yes!" He was delighted. "You guessed right."
He continued drawing. Drew a tree with clusters of something on it.
"Osmanthus tree?"
"Yes."
Drew a person holding a broom.
"Me?"
"Yes."
He drew a piece of paper with some characters on it. The characters were too small to read.
"A note?"
"Yes," he said. "Guess what it says?"
"What does it say?"
"You guess."
I thought. "'Eat well'?"
"No."
"'See you tomorrow'?"
"No."
"Then what?"
He picked up a twig from the ground and wrote in the dirt:
"Thank you for playing with me."
I looked at the characters he wrote, stroke by stroke, neat and orderly. More careful than when he copied the Analects. Sunlight fell on his lowered brows, his lashes casting small shadows on his cheeks. I suddenly wondered, in a few years when he truly grew up, what manner of appearance he would have. Probably the four characters "heavenly talent and outstanding appearance" in the history books could not capture this kind of beauty.
"You're welcome," I said. "When you want to play later, send word. I'll accompany you."
He nodded. Then pulled a note from his sleeve and handed it to me.
"Today's."
I opened it. It read:
"Today was very happy. Can we play tomorrow too?"
I put the note away with that sun card.
"Yes. Come after finishing lessons tomorrow."
"Good." He stood, dusting his knees. Took two steps, then turned back.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"Before... did you also play with others like this?"
I thought. "Before in New York, before final exams, my roommate would pull me into games. Called 'Twenty Questions.' She said it helped us relax."
"Where is New York?"
"Very far away. Takes a very, very long time by boat."
"Farther than Suzhou?"
"Ten thousand times farther than Suzhou."
He thought. "Then will you go back?"
He asked casually, as if asking "will it rain tomorrow." But I paused at that question. Many late nights, staring at the hash marks on the wall, I had thought about this. If one day I could go back—the thesis still unfinished, Emily still waiting, Grandmother's noodle shop still on Shiquan Street—would I leave?
I was silent for a while.
"A Heng?" He called again.
"The last time you asked if I came from very far away," I said. "Do you remember?"
He nodded. "I remember. You said you came from a thousand years later."
"Do you believe it?"
He thought. "I believe it. Whatever you say, I believe."
I took a deep breath. "A thousand years later, there's a place called New York. I studied there. Studied... how to cook. How to make people eat healthily. My grandmother runs a noodle shop in Suzhou; my grandfather teaches history. He studied the Song Dynasty his whole life, studied... you."
"Me?"
"Mm. On the shelves in his study, there's a whole row of books about you. He said you were a good emperor, but your life was too short."
Zhao Xu squatted down to meet my eyes levelly.
"My grandfather also said," my voice trembled slightly, "that you ascended at nine, died at twenty-five." I looked at him, so thin, so small. "So when I came and saw you like this, I thought—no. I have to make you live longer. I have to make you eat your fill, make you happy, make sure they don't anger you to death."
He didn't speak. Just looked at me.
"That's why I make egg-fried rice, why I brew osmanthus sugar porridge, why I write those notes. Not because I'm a palace maid, not because I can cook. But because—" I paused, "because my grandfather studied you his whole life, and I knew your name since I was small. To me, you're not an emperor. You're Zhao Xu. The child who lost his father at nine. The child who crouched in the Imperial Garden watching ants. The child who said 'afraid, but no one to tell.'"
Wind came, a few osmanthus petals falling between us.
He reached out, picked up one petal, placed it in his palm.
"A Heng."
"Mm."
"That New York you spoke of—does it have osmanthus?"
I paused. "No. There's no osmanthus there."
"Then don't you miss osmanthus?"
"...Yes. Very much."
He held out the petal in his hand to me. "Then don't go back. Here there is osmanthus. Here there is me."
I looked at that osmanthus petal in his hand—golden, tiny, lying in his palm. His fingers had grown a bit longer than months before, the joints still slender, but already showing the clear outline of youth.
I took it, held it to my nose. Very fragrant.
"Good," I said. "I won't go back."
He smiled. That smile was even bigger than the egg-fried rice day, eyes narrowing into slits, corners of his mouth rising high. Sunlight fell on his face, and in that moment I suddenly understood why Grandfather had hung his portrait in his study for so many years—not because he was a good emperor, but because he was good-looking. And the him in the paintings didn't have this smile.
"Then it's agreed." He extended his hand, little finger raised.
I looked at his little finger, smiled. Extended my hand, hooked his.
"Pinky promise, a hundred years, no changing."
"A hundred years, no changing." He repeated, "How long is a hundred years?"
"Very, very long. Long enough for osmanthus trees to die and new ones to grow. Long enough for you to become an old man, unable to walk, unable to eat."
"What about you?"
"I'll become an old woman too. Brewing osmanthus sugar porridge for you. Twice a week."
"Can't it be more?"
"No. Too much sugar is bad."
He frowned slightly, but quickly smiled again.
"Then you must live until then."
"I'll try."
"Not try. You must."
I looked into his eyes. Nine-year-old emperor, standing beneath the osmanthus tree, saying "you must live until then." So serious, as if this were like reciting or copying texts—something that cannot be broken.
"Good," I said. "I must."
He stood from the ground, dusting his knees. Took two steps, turned back again.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"That name of yours, Ivy. What does it mean?"
"Ivy. A kind of plant. Climbs on walls, stays green all four seasons."
"Then you'll be called Ivy from now on," he said. "I'll call you Ivy. This way, you call me Zhao Xu, I call you A Heng. I call you Ivy, you call me Zhao Xu. These are our two names. Others don't know."
I paused, then smiled.
"Good. Then you call me Ivy."
"Ivy." He said it once, much more accurately than last time.
"Zhao Xu."
He smiled. Then turned and ran. Ran a few steps, turned back and shouted:
"Draw more cards tomorrow! Sixteen isn't enough to play!"
I crouched where I was, watching his retreating figure. The hem of his robes caught underfoot again; he stumbled, nearly fell, but didn't stop, kept running. Sunlight chased his back, stretching that thin, small shadow very long.
I looked down at the drawings on the ground. The egg from egg-fried rice, the crooked food box, the osmanthus tree, the person with the broom. And those characters in the dirt—"Thank you for playing with me."
I reached out and smoothed those characters away. Not afraid of others seeing, but wanting to remember.
That night, I drew thirty-two more cards. Drew until my hand ached, drew until the candle burned out, continued by moonlight. Drew sun, moon, stars, flowers, birds, fish, cats, dogs, horses, deer, houses, boats, bridges, mountains, clouds, rain.
When I finished the last one, I stacked them into a pile, tied with red string, and tucked them beneath my pillow. With those notes. With that jade. With Grandfather's paper.
And that osmanthus petal. The one Zhao Xu gave me. I pressed it inside Grandfather's paper, with those characters—"Song Zhezong Zhao Xu, Yuanfeng eighth year third month, Shenzong died, ascended the throne, age nine."
Grandfather, he is ten now. No, nominal age ten. He has learned many characters, learned to write his own notes, learned to play Twenty Questions, learned to draw crooked eggs. He has learned one more thing—he said, let me call him Zhao Xu.
I called. He smiled.
Osmanthus fragrance drifted in through the window, thick and inescapable. I closed my eyes, remembering what he said today—"Then don't go back. Here there is osmanthus. Here there is me."
Nine-year-old emperor. Standing beneath the osmanthus tree, mud on his robes, playing cards in hand. He said, here there is me.
Good. Then I won't go back. Here there is osmanthus. Here there is him. Here there is a hundred years of porridge to brew.
[End of Chapter 8]