In the blink of an eye it was the Qingming season. Inside and outside the palace, spring blossoms fell in drifts, withering of their own accord. At court, things were no more peaceful — the campaign on the northern border with Beiyou dragged on without end, a spring drought had struck Jiangnan, and within the inner palace a case had emerged of a guard commander murdering a female official in a crime of passion, sending several factions of court ministers into a clamor that would not be quieted.

Though Luowei had been nominated by court ministers to assist in governance, ever since the second year of Jinghe she had refused to hold court from behind a curtain, choosing only to listen to the Emperor’s words and help him resolve his troubles — had she not strategically retreated from the eyes of court ministers and stepped back, she might never have gained the fine reputation she now enjoyed.

In these days, Luowei had no need to rise early, and was content in her leisure. She only needed to visit Qianfang Hall once every four days to help Song Lan handle some accumulated memorials.

With troubles unfolding ceaselessly, she had her own informants and had absolutely no need to act in plain view of the Emperor and the Grand Councilor, only to invite suspicion.

Four days before Hanshi, spring rain fell again on the palace. It enshrouded the willows in mist, covertly stealing away the last of the spring. Whenever Luowei encountered weather like this, she always felt a heaviness in her heart, and she leaned sideways against the round-moon window, watching the rain drip from the eaves.

The palace attendants bustled about, lowering the bamboo screens along the veranda. The courtyard of Qionghua Hall was deep and still; with the screens lowered it seemed even more desolate, dim and lightless — nothing like the noon hour.

Yan Luo came over carrying an outer robe, about to ask the Empress whether the spring chill was troubling her, but found her leaning against the window, silent — she had already drifted off to sleep.

Luowei now dreamed far more frequently than she once had. Beyond the dream that recurred so often — the night of the Lantern Festival — she could also dream of old, happy memories.

Today, for instance, she dreamed of their first meeting.

*

The first time she entered the palace accompanying her father Su Zhoudu, Luowei was only five years old.

At that time, her mother had not yet died — she was merely in poor health, bedridden all day, and had been unable to make the journey with this father and daughter.

In public, court protocol was strict; but in private, between Su Zhoudu and Emperor Gao Song Rongxiao, there was none of the distance of lord and subject. Before his closest friend, the Emperor rarely even used the imperial “we.”

After waving away the palace attendants, Emperor Gao personally lifted the pot to pour wine for her father. He laughed as he asked: “Five years in the blink of an eye — you’ve finally brought your daughter to the palace?”

The little girl gathered up her skirts and practiced the elegant lotus steps the nanny at home had carefully taught her, stepping forward in her childish way to pay her respects: “This subject’s daughter kowtows before His Imperial Majesty, and wishes—”

Before she could finish, Emperor Gao had already lifted her up and bounced her in his arms: “What a beautiful little girl! My dear Luowei, seeing me is like seeing your uncle — no need for such formal bowing.”

Then he complained: “Zhoudu, you really are too miserly — a daughter this lovely, why didn’t you bring her to the palace sooner?”

Su Zhoudu gave a helpless look but did not stop him: “A young child entering the palace — what if she caused offense? Now that she understands the ways of the world a little, I dared to bring her to see you.”

Luowei, seeing Emperor Gao so kind and approachable, gradually lost her fear, and was even coaxed into fits of giggling.

Emperor Gao stroked her double-knotted hair and turned to Su Zhoudu: “I think Luowei is wonderful — why not betroth her to my family? I’m thinking of—”

“Your Majesty, the Second Imperial Prince has arrived.”

Before the words were finished, they were interrupted by the creaking of an opening door. The eunuch who attended Emperor Gao bent low and entered, leading in from outside a handsome, proper young man.

Luowei wrapped her arms around Emperor Gao’s neck and twisted her head to look.

The young man was only two years her senior. Mature for his age, he had already grown tall and slender, dressed in pale gold, hair bound high, his every movement and expression governed by propriety. He had not yet raised his eyes when he bowed: “Your subject pays his respects to Imperial Father — may I ask after Your Majesty’s imperial health?”

“I am well,” said Emperor Gao, setting her down and gesturing for the young man to rise. “Little Ling, you’ve come just in time — come and have a look: this is the younger sister of your teacher’s family, her name is Luowei.”

The young man rose with dignified bearing, glanced once, then averted his eyes with propriety — though he could not resist stealing another few glances from the corner of his eye: “The younger sister raised by Teacher is indeed remarkable — ‘the fallen blossoms stand alone, a swallow pair in gentle rain’ [1]… her name suits her well.”

Luowei looked up at him. The doors of the great hall were half-open, and the noon sunlight streamed through the gap, wrapping the young man in a halo of gold.

She wanted to see him more clearly, so she leaned in a few more steps and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the light. She had meant only to block the glare — but the young man started slightly, and naturally reached out to take her hand.

The clasped hands were burned warm by that light. Luowei felt a layer of sticky perspiration gather in her palm. She blinked and finally made out his features clearly — and in that moment, all the etiquette her mother had instilled in her vanished completely, and she didn’t even use the proper honorific: “…That isn’t a gentle rain — my name uses the character for grass-and-reed.”

The young man immediately said: “The crepe myrtle blooms red for a hundred days — how wonderful.”

Luowei pursed her lips and smiled, and secretly pinched his palm.

The two met for the first time with complete ease and without a trace of shyness. Emperor Gao clapped his hands and laughed aloud, turning back to Su Zhoudu: “You see, Zhoudu — I told you it was so. These two are destined from their very first meeting. From now on, let Luowei come to the palace and serve as a companion to his younger sister.”

Luowei’s grandfather Su Chaoci had been a Grand Councilor across two reigns, renowned throughout the realm; his bond with Emperor Ming had been profound. By her father’s generation it was the same. Her mother had said that her father had entered the palace as a young boy to serve as Emperor Gao’s companion reader, and the two had grown up together as brothers in all but name.

She hadn’t believed it before, had thought the golden palace too towering and imperial favor too unpredictable — but now, having witnessed it herself for the first time, she knew that even within these stern inner courts, there truly existed a bond like that between Emperor Gao and her father — free of suspicion, unconstrained by ceremony.

“Little Ling, Luowei is entering the palace for the first time. Why don’t you take her around for a look? She’ll be coming often from now on — consider it getting familiar with the paths in advance.”

“Your subject obeys.”

Su Zhoudu patted Luowei’s shoulder and told her gently to keep close to the young man and not to run off.

Only then did she learn the identity of this handsome young man — he was Emperor Gao’s legitimate eldest son, second in birth order, named Ling. The children of the imperial family of this generation all had names with the element of water; water accords with benevolence, the highest goodness.

His courtesy name was Ling Ye — meaning the flash of lightning and the brilliance of the sun.

Emperor Gao and her father sat across from each other playing chess, while Song Ling took her by the hand and led her on a tour through the Empress’s garden.

In front of the Empress’s hall was a fine garden. It was then the sixth month, and the crabapple blossoms in the garden had already fallen; only a single crepe myrtle was blooming in full, exuberant glory.

“How fitting — Mother’s garden has only crepe myrtle and crabapple. Your name uses the character for the reed-like myrtle plant, and my childhood name is A’Tang — after the crabapple. In private, when there is no one about, you must call me ‘Big Brother A’Tang.'”

Song Ling plucked a cluster of crepe myrtle blossoms to give her as a gift. She pinned them in her hair, and after returning home, gazed at herself in the bronze mirror for a long, long time, reluctant to put them away.

After some time had passed, her father and mother summoned her to speak at the bedside. She went in wearing a newly made crepe myrtle flower hairpin, and the two of them looked at her with complex expressions and were silent for a long while.

In the end, it was her father who spoke first, gently asking: “Luowei, do you like Big Brother A’Tang?”

She was still young and innocent, not understanding the full meaning of the question — she simply followed her heart and nodded vigorously: “Big Brother A’Tang took me for refreshments, to see the flowers, and to release lanterns. He taught me to read and to ride horses, and even secretly let me pet the little rabbit he raised… He is so wonderful — your daughter likes him very much.”

Her mother took her hand and let out a sigh of indeterminate meaning.

Her father, however, seemed as if he had made up his mind about something; the very next day, he sent someone to purchase a young crabapple sapling.

Su Zhoudu personally accompanied Luowei to plant that sapling in the garden, and smiled as he said: “Luowei, haven’t you always wished to grow up faster? Look at this little tree — by the time it spreads a great canopy of leaves, with a thousand branches and ten thousand blossoms, you will have grown into the person you hope to become.”

That crabapple tree outside her window weathered spring after spring, growing from the width of a bowl to the girth of an embrace. Every year on her birthday, she would tie a red tassel to one of its branches.

The deep green leaves and the long crimson tassels intertwined and swayed; the pale pink buds clustered thick across the whole tree in the fullness of spring — it became the place where all her dreams lived, in the years before she grew up.

Now an Empress, Luowei stood beneath the tree and looked up. The red tassels fluttered and danced, tossing blossoms in disarray — before she could even rejoice at this beautiful spring scene, she saw above the flowering tree the clear sky crack and collapse, ludicrously slashing and cleaving the tree she had tended for so many years, trapping it into a heap of broken, withered branches.

The sound of rain beneath the eaves gradually ceased. Luowei woke from her dream, her face wet with tears.