01 · The Spring Heart of Youth, Rich as Wine

In the spring of the fourteenth year of the Changning reign, it happened to be Luowei’s eighth birthday.

Her birthday fell at the height of the flowering season. The crabapple tree planted outside her window had already grown tall, and when Luowei opened her eyes, she could see its branches, heavy with blossoms, trembling lightly in the breeze.

That morning, she entered the palace and first paid her respects to the Empress.

The Empress had been bedridden for many years, and only when the spring flowers bloomed each year did her vitality seem at its finest.

The first time Luowei went to call upon her, she caught sight of her through the varying shades of crabapple blossoms in the Qionghua Palace garden — a graceful and beautiful woman framed by jade-green windows.

Even after many, many years had passed, she could never forget that scene.

All the palace attendants around her bowed their heads deeply; only the little girl held her chin up, fearless.

And so what she saw first was the woman’s magnificent coiffure.

Her jet-black hair was swept up in a style like billowing clouds, adorned with splendid gold ornaments fashioned in the shapes of auspicious clouds and phoenix feathers — a dazzling, resplendent sight, an imposing and awe-inspiring beauty.

Yet beneath all that grandeur was a face so pale it had no color at all, a whiteness that was nearly the shade of snow, lacking any luster, the pallor of fragile illness.

This beautiful, sickly countenance drew Luowei’s gaze suddenly away from the coiffure and the gown, and she stared at her, nearly forgetting that the woman she had come to pay respects to was the most noble lady in the dynasty.

In that radiant and glorious spring, she felt only a faint sorrow, an inexpressible melancholy.

The Empress had not yet noticed her arrival; she held a small yellowed fan, idly fanning the flower petals that drifted past with unhurried slowness.

Beyond the drifting petals, Luowei slowly knelt and bowed: “May Your Highness the Empress live for ten thousand years.”

Hearing these words, the Empress suddenly came to herself and stretched her hand out through the window toward her with a gentle smile: “Luowei? Good child, come now, rise.”

From that point on, Luowei often accompanied Song Ling and Song Yaofeng when they came to call upon the Empress.

The Empress and her mother had been close friends; before the Empress entered the imperial palace and while her mother had yet to be betrothed, the two of them would often go out and about together.

Luowei sat beside her couch and listened as the Empress recalled the past with bright, shining eyes.

Her mother had been in poor health since childhood, kept under strict watch by her family, and could rarely go horse-riding or fishing; she had greatly envied the Empress’s skill at polo. At one polo gathering, the Empress had ridden off with her mother to the wild hills by the Jinming Pond, and when they grew tired they rested in a pavilion at the hilltop, where they happened to come upon the Emperor and Su Zhoudu secretly grilling fish behind the pavilion.

At that time, the Emperor was only the Crown Prince, and her father was merely his companion-in-study; the two of them had grown up together in the palace from a young age, so disciplined that they even remembered to restrain themselves in how many bites of each dish they took.

The four of them stared at one another amid the fragrant smoke rising from the fish, and in the end it was the Empress who could no longer hold back — she burst out laughing first.

Whenever she spoke of these things, her face would light up with a vivid, animated radiance.

Luowei gazed at her in a daze, a faint sting in her nose, though she was too young then to understand why.

After her mother had died of illness when she was six years old, it was only in the Empress’s company that she could faintly, once more, feel that warm, tender care.

The Empress stroked Luowei’s hand and urged her again and again to ride and hunt often, to keep her body strong and healthy. Song Yaofeng had said that the Empress had once been vigorous and radiant — by the Jinming Pond, on Mount Luyun, there were few men who could match her.

Until one Double Ninth Festival a few years ago, when her and Song Ling’s younger sibling was born at dusk, only to draw its last breath the moment it arrived in the world.

The dead child had destroyed the Empress’s health and her spirit; from that point on she began to be long confined to her sickbed, and in her leisure moments she liked only to gaze at the sky and the gardens full of flowering trees, lost in thought.

When the two little girls reached this point in their conversation they fell silent for a long while, and Luowei, slowly recalling those heavy golden ornaments she had glimpsed, imitated the grown-ups and let out a sigh.

…

Luowei shook her head, made her way through the lush flowering grove, and arrived at Qionghua Palace.

The Empress’s vitality this year seemed even weaker than the year before; the Emperor had sought out every physician both inside and outside the palace, yet none could halt her gradually fading and withering life force.

Yet every time she saw Luowei, she was delighted, her eyes curved with warmth, smiling so that two faint dimples appeared at the corners of her cheeks.

Luowei was often dazed by her beauty; coming back to her senses, she would let her mind wander — why had Song Ling not inherited those two dimples?

She so wanted to poke them; she had to settle for poking Song Yaofeng’s instead.

The birthday gift the Empress gave Luowei was four characters written in her own hand — “Orchids of the Li, Angelica of the Yuan” — along with a set of pink garments in an antique style.

“This is the dress of Chu — a garment of water-caltrop leaves, a skirt of lotus flowers, perfectly suited to your name,” the Empress said to her with a smile. “The characters for ‘Luo’ and ‘Wei’ are both words the virtuous admire; only, when you are near water and wetlands in the days ahead, remember not to let the hem of your skirt get wet.”

Many years later, she would wade through the water on a distant shore of reeds and rushes, having nearly forgotten the original meaning of fragrant grasses and fair maidens; and it was only when she was caught in a great rainstorm that she suddenly understood what the Empress had meant by “do not let the hem get wet.”

Luowei changed into that supremely elegant and refined Chu-style garment, and had been about to go directly in search of Song Ling and Song Yaofeng; but on second thought before departing, she decided first to go to Qionghua Palace to let the Empress see her.

She came so often that several of the kindly elderly palace attendants all knew her, and so they did not block her way, only reminding her in low voices that the Emperor had just arrived and was having a meal together with the Empress.

So Luowei crept quietly toward the main hall, intending to give the two of them a surprise; however, she had only taken a few steps when she saw the head palace attendant beside the Empress emerge with a grave expression and send everyone else away to a distance.

Luowei was curious, but she also kept to the rules of propriety and drew no closer. She followed the balustrade, intending to take the long way round through the garden behind Qionghua Palace toward the Gaoyang Terrace among the dense groves.

But she had only just reached the back of the hall when, through the round moon-gate window, she suddenly heard clearly the sound of jade shattering.

The Emperor and Empress both stood before the moon-gate window; beneath the window lay a jade ring pendant that had broken into two pieces.

One more step and they would see her; unable to advance or retreat, Luowei crouched down and hid behind the shrubbery to one side.

The Emperor and Empress were both lost in their own thoughts; no one noticed her.

After a long silence, just when Luowei’s waist and back had begun to ache and she thought neither of them would speak again, the Empress suddenly opened her mouth.

She asked in a voice Luowei had never heard before, delicate as a thread of gossamer: “What does Your Majesty think?”

Petals fluttered softly through the air; the spring flowers and leaves were lush and verdant, rich and full.

Yet the Empress, who in Luowei’s heart had always been composed and tender, was now saying slowly in a voice that was nearly choked with grief: “…Rong Xiao, do you think that because I married you and spent all these years as Empress, I could truly transform myself into the divine image enshrined and exalted in the Candle Tower?”

“I understand — what exists between you and me is already more than most could hope for; your inner court has few consorts, and your heirs are not as numerous as those of previous dynasties. All these years you have cherished me, respected me, harbored no suspicions and never strayed; A’Tang and Shu Kang are both fine children, apart from the one who has passed… and so today you are truly at a loss, unable to understand why I have been so melancholy and forlorn all these years.”

A few stray petals blew into Luowei’s eyes; she reached up to rub them, but they only hurt more, and a few traces of moisture were left on the back of her hand.

The Emperor was silent for a long while before saying: “Today, I finally understand.”

The Empress let out a soft laugh: “All these years, with the external threat on the northern border, the court has not been as tranquil as in years past; I understand your helplessness and I know your heart — I am willing to be understanding, yet I cannot. You wish to take on consorts and I cannot control my jealousy; I lost my child, and I cannot help but displace my resentment, cannot help but feel pain. I thought I could swallow all of this down, that it would not bring us to the day of bitter fruit from sweet beginnings, when we would be weary of the sight of each other — but now I grow more and more confused; these days, not wishing to see you is nothing but flight and avoidance.”

The Emperor reached down and picked up that broken jade pendant, saying in a low voice: “When we first met outside the Jinming Pond, you were so joyful, so bright — if you had chosen him, even if you had later gone to the northern border, you would not have… It was wrong of me to ask you into the palace back then.”

“It was not your error, it was mine,” the Empress replied. “It was I who insisted on coming to be with you; it was I who thought I could come to terms with it. People are always greedy and insatiable — they want love, they want eternal companionship, they want trust that needs no words; even when they are already so much more fortunate than others, they can never be satisfied.”

Luowei heard the Emperor’s voice trembling: “My beloved, do you regret it?”

Yet the Empress did not answer his question, only said: “Look — the crabapple trees have grown this tall. The year we planted them together, ten thousand li of tung blossoms, conversing unceasingly from dawn till dawn… I shall not… forget.”

After these words another long silence fell; Luowei waited and waited but heard no one speak again, only the sound of footsteps retreating away from the moon-gate window.

She looked back over her shoulder, pushed through the shrubbery, and lifting her skirt, ran out of the garden at a brisk pace.

Luowei ran in one breath all the way to the edges of the dense grove; she had just turned the corner when she nearly collided head-on with a group of palace guards.

Fortunately a hand appeared in time and pulled her to one side.

The faint scent of sandalwood lingered at the tip of her nose; Luowei bumped her head straight into the young man’s shoulder and instantly forgot all her cares, breaking into a radiant smile: “Second Elder Brother!”

Song Ling patted her shoulder; when the group of guards had moved off into the distance, he finally had the opportunity to look properly at Luowei’s new skirt: “Is that a Chu-style dress?”

“It was a gift from the Empress,” said Luowei, walking with him deeper into the grove, not forgetting to spin around a few times. “Does it look nice?”

Song Ling did not answer; Luowei stopped walking and turned her head, and at that very moment his fingers brushed past her cheek, plucking a crabapple blossom that had fallen on her shoulder.

The two of them exchanged a startled glance; Song Ling smiled slightly, his fingers sliding upward along her cheek, as though he wanted to pinch it.

But remembering that she did not like to have her cheeks pinched, he did not continue, only gently stroked it instead.

“Very beautiful,” he said.

Song Ling’s birthday gift was a painting — within it, a stretch of rolling green hills and a rural path at harvest time, depicting what he had seen along the road the previous year when he followed Fang Hezhi back to the academy at the Fang family’s home in Xu Province.

The two of them sat at the stone table on the Gaoyang Terrace and studied the painting in careful detail; Song Ling patiently pointed out each thing depicted in it to Luowei. Luowei had never left Biandu since birth and was full of longing: “What a beautiful place — will I be able to go there someday?”

“Once you’re a little older, I’ll take you there on horseback,” said Song Ling, ruffling her hair. “Look at this mountain — it’s called Mount Yan. The teacher says there is an ancient temple on the mountain that has stood through four dynasties, with a ceiling gilded in gold. I haven’t seen it yet; let’s go together.”

“Wonderful!” said Luowei with a laugh. “When the time comes I’ll offer this painting at the temple — Second Elder Brother must not go back on his word!”

She carefully rolled up the scroll and together with Song Ling went off to find Song Yaofeng.

It was her birthday today, and after midday Su Zhoudu let everyone out of the Zishandang Hall of Virtuous Studies, only reminding Luowei to remember to board the carriage home at Mingguang Gate before evening.

Luowei had always loved her birthdays; every such occasion, or the day of Song Yaofeng’s birthday, the two of them would bustle and whirl about, calling on various palaces. The Empress maintained such harmony in the inner court that no one disliked two delicate and lovely little girls, and by the end of one such round of visits they would have received enough gifts to overwhelm them.

This year Song Ling happened to be free and accompanied the two of them on their rounds, and had arranged in advance for servants to tally the gifts Luowei received and deliver them ahead of time to the Su family carriage.

When they grew tired of making the rounds, the three of them went boating together on Huiling Lake.

“Was Consort Chen’s gift a glass goblet? I only glimpsed it for a moment — it must be that Song Qi was at it again in front of his mother consort, reciting something like ‘glass bells, rich amber’… Speaking of which, what did Song Qi himself give?”

“He gave me a poem, but I’ve read it over and over and couldn’t make sense of it.”

“Quick, let me take a look… Hmm… what does all this mean? What a sour poem — he really has the nerve to give that. He must have been going on at you again about how he wants to be like the prince of old, drawing to himself all the talent under heaven, or some such thing.”

“I think it’s quite fine — what if he actually succeeds?”

“…He’s no better than Ningle; at least I can understand Ningle’s poetry.”

The two of them chatted away the whole boat ride, and it was not until the sun began to sink in the west that Song Yaofeng said a reluctant farewell and followed the palace attendants back.

Song Ling personally saw Luowei out of the palace, walking with her along the flower-strewn palace road.

At their young ages, there was no need for propriety’s restraints; Luowei held his arm and laughed as she asked: “Why didn’t Second Elder Brother say a word just now?”

Song Ling said: “Listening to the two of you talk, I found it very entertaining.”

Luowei said: “Really? You don’t find us noisy?”

Song Ling shook his head: “How could I?”

He watched the smile on Luowei’s face and felt within himself a very calm, quiet joy: “Did you have a happy day today?”

Luowei answered without hesitation: “Of course — Father said that tonight he’ll have my elder brother cook longevity noodles for me! Everyone who saw me today wished me well; not only am I happy, everyone seems so happy too — I want to make everyone always this happy.”

The words had barely left her mouth when she suddenly remembered the conversation she had overheard behind the moon-gate window that morning.

Only an incense-stick’s time ago, the gentle and beautiful Empress had been stroking her head, praising her as “a virtuous lady among women.” Then in the blink of an eye the jade pendant fell to the ground, and along with it the Empress’s carefully crafted mask had shattered into pieces.

Luowei had deliberately put from her mind those sorrowful words she hadn’t understood, even suspecting they were only her imagination. But now that she reflected on it, she realized how clearly and profoundly they had left their mark — throughout the entire day, she had not forgotten a single word.

Song Ling was still raising an eyebrow in surprise at her saying she “wanted to make everyone happy,” about to praise her for it; but seeing that Luowei had fallen into a daze, he could only reach out helplessly and wave his hand in front of her face: “What are you thinking about?”

Luowei jerked her head up: “The ladies of the various palaces we visited today…”

She got that far and would say no more; no matter how Song Ling tried to draw it out of her, she refused to speak again. The two of them walked to the end of the palace road and arrived before Mingguang Gate; Luowei looked up at the towering palace walls and had a sudden idea: “Can we go up there?”

“Of course.”

Song Ling didn’t understand why, but still sent the guards away and led Luowei up the city wall.

The palace walls were built very high; standing here one could look out over the entire imperial palace — the gleaming golden rooftops with their dragons and phoenixes carved in relief, some adorned with glazed tiles, were magnificent and resplendent in the gradually setting sun.

Luowei narrowed her eyes and looked out in all directions, lost in thought for a while, then mused aloud: “Second Elder Brother, didn’t your painting have a pair of large kites in it?”

Song Ling said: “Those were two wild geese.”

Luowei paid no attention to this and climbed up onto the top of the wall, bracing herself against the brickwork; Song Ling gave a start and grabbed hold of her hand: “It’s too dangerous up there, come down.”

Without waiting for her to react, he wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her down; but even as he did so, he did not put her back on the ground: “Do you want to see farther?”

Luowei shook her head, settling contentedly in his arms and spreading wide both her arms: “I just suddenly wanted to be a wild goose… how wonderful it would be if I had wings too — if I wanted to go to Xu Province, I could fly to the golden roof of the temple; if I wanted to come back to the palace, I could land on the glazed tiles.”

She closed her eyes and muttered with mild dissatisfaction: “What a pity there’s no wind right now — if the wind were stronger, would it feel even more like flying?”

Before the words had faded, Song Ling suddenly began sprinting with her in his arms along the long palace wall.

“Spread your arms.”

Luowei obediently kept her eyes closed and spread her arms wide, and against the enormous, golden-bright setting sun before her, she flew the whole length of it.

“Are you flying?”

She finally could not help bursting out laughing, burying her face in Song Ling’s shoulder as she answered: “I’m flying — thank you, Second Elder Brother.”

Luowei leaned down, drawing close to his ear, and caught again that fragrance of clean, sweet sandalwood.

This was his scent — the incense most commonly used in the Empress’s palace.

She thought once more of that gentle, sorrowful voice, and an impulse to weep suddenly rose within her; she pressed close to his ear and asked: “Second Elder Brother, will you become Emperor someday?”

Song Ling paused, the arms holding her not loosening, as though he were thinking the matter through.

After pondering for quite some time, he answered solemnly and earnestly: “I also want to make all the people under heaven happy. Father says only by becoming Emperor can that wish be fulfilled.”

Luowei said: “But I don’t want to become Empress.”

This time Song Ling was completely stunned; he couldn’t help but let go of his hold, setting her down, opening his mouth — and yet in the end saying nothing.

Luowei’s head was full of that shattered jade pendant. What did “bitter fruit from sweet beginnings” mean?

From afar came the deep, resonant sound of bells and chimes, startling a flock of birds into flight; Luowei came back to herself, remembered Su Zhoudu’s reminder, and hurried down from the city wall. She had walked quite a distance before she realized Song Ling had not followed.

He stood alone in the midst of the darkening red sky, leaving behind a silent silhouette for her; Luowei wanted to call to him but did not know what he was thinking, and so let it go.

Until she passed through Mingguang Gate, Luowei looked back and found that Song Ling was still standing there watching the sunset.

The palace gates were about to close; she suddenly felt an impulse to step back past Mingguang Gate, to climb the city wall again.

Even if they said not a word to each other, even if she had no idea what he was thinking and did not know what she herself was thinking either — she simply felt a dull ache in her chest.

Even if the sunset was this brilliant and beautiful, he should not be left there to watch it alone.

Someone ought to be standing by his side.

02 · The Western Hills — One Cannot Linger Long

The nineteenth year of the Changning reign — still spring.

Luowei had turned thirteen years old; she pinned up her hair and, together with Song Ling, made the journey to the Fanghe Academy in Xu Province.

Fang Hezhi had by then become a great Confucian scholar renowned throughout the realm; walking along the streets of Biandu, he attracted no shortage of admiration from officials and nobility. Yet a man such as this, once he reached the territory of Xu Province, did not ride a palanquin when going out and wore farmers’ clothing to walk the streets; when young students at the gate of the academy saw him, they immediately crowded around him: “Master Zhengshuo, you’re finally back! These past days with only Master Gan here, we’ve been made to copy books every single day!”

Fang Hezhi stroked his beard, chuckling: “Master Gan does everything for your own good.”

Xu Province had produced imperial examination top scholars since ancient times; even the sons of farmers came to study, and the Fanghe Academy stretched for several li from front to back. How many of the court’s renowned civil officials had received instruction here.

Deputy Minister Gan’s several great encyclopedic compilations had also been completed in this place of outstanding talent.

Song Qi had already come in earlier years and did not follow this time; Song Yaofeng disliked long, bumpy journeys and so also declined to come.

Song Zhiyu studied diligently and competed against Luowei every day; Luowei enjoyed this enormously, and their days of pitting wits against each other had a charm all their own.

Also studying with them were the Zhou siblings from the south of the Yangtze River, as well as Bai Lingcheng, who sat curled up in the very last row sleeping every day.

According to rumor, this Fanghe Academy had originally been founded by the Zhou siblings’ grandparents; Zhou Chuyin, though from the south of the Yangtze, had met Luowei many times — he was Song Ling’s sworn brother, a bond made at the first-birthday tasting ceremony, and every year he would come to Biandu to stay for one or two months.

Zhou Xuechu had no love for books; after classes let out, Luowei would always seize the moment while Zhou Chuyin and Song Ling were playing chess to run wild with Zhou Xuechu and Bai Lingcheng.

Zhou Xuechu could both climb trees to pick fruit and shoot arrows to catch rabbits, though whenever Luowei saw rabbits she thought of the ones Song Ling kept in the palace — and so the hunting always ended with the two little girls huddling together to watch Bai Lingcheng expertly bandage the legs of injured rabbits.

These carefree and unclouded days had not lasted long when a locust plague struck Xu Province.

Song Zhiyu returned to Biandu early; Zhou Xuechu had gone with Bai Lingcheng to the southwest some days before. Su Shiyu wrote a letter saying that her father was very worried and asking Luowei to return soon.

But Song Ling had received an imperial decree and was to remain behind to manage the relief from the locust disaster.

Luowei finished packing her luggage and boarded the carriage down the mountain.

She passed through the lush green fields she had seen on the journey out, but found the newly sprouted seedlings were now lying every which way.

Song Ling had his trouser legs rolled up and was in the fields speaking with an old farmer; when he caught sight of her carriage, he had intended to come over and say goodbye, but for some reason in the end he did not come. Luowei lifted the curtain and looked back, and found she had already gone quite a distance; Song Ling set down the farming tools in his hand and cast one long glance across the road toward her.

She thought of a distant dusk inside the imperial palace; stepping out from Mingguang Gate, what she had seen was also this same silent and solitary silhouette beneath the setting sun.

At that time, with the heavy palace gates between them, she had not wanted to leave him standing there alone.

Now that heavy palace gate had disappeared — so why should she go far away?

Luowei woke as if from a dream, gripping the carriage curtain, and cried out in a loud voice: “Stop the carriage!”

She jumped down from the carriage step and saw the village woman who had always warmly welcomed her now sitting in the fields, carrying a hoe and wiping her tears.

Every smile that had once appeared on her face had now entirely vanished.

Song Ling ran up to her side and saw Luowei’s red-rimmed eyes; Luowei turned to him and gave him a smile.

“Second Elder Brother, I want to stay behind too.”

For the first time she rolled up her skirt and pressed close, intimately, to the great earth that nurtures all things we eat and drink; the sensation of mud and sand flowing over the backs of her feet, the heartache of accidentally toppling seedlings when pulling up weeds, the exhilaration at seeing locusts fall to the ground — every sensation became vivid and real.

When summer came, the locust plague was finally extinguished; together she and Song Ling oversaw the disaster relief throughout the prefecture and county, doing as much as they could to reduce the suffering this natural disaster had brought upon the people.

Fang Hezhi took his two students up Mount Yan to pay their respects at Juzhua Temple; passing through the Fangheting Pavilion on the mountainside, which he often visited, he was inspired on a whim and had his young attendant bring out his qin.

Luowei played a melody on it; Song Ling drew his sword and played along in harmony. Fang Hezhi, gazing out at the green mountains, spontaneously composed and chanted a verse of “Jiang Shen Zi.”

— I longed to linger after the music ended to ask of her — but the person was gone, only a few mountain peaks remained, green.

When the last note faded, Fang Hezhi gave a long, drawn-out whistle, then called out in a loud voice: “Return, oh return! One cannot linger long in the western hills!” [1]

Luowei then stared in astonishment as two snow-white geese flew over the mountain peaks and came near, dancing around the Fangheting Pavilion.

“These are geese I raised in years past; see how large they have grown now.”

Like a child, Fang Hezhi climbed up onto the railing of the Fangheting Pavilion, flicked his wide sleeves in beckoning; and so those two snow geese circled affectionately around his broad robe, letting out clear and melodious calls.

Luowei stared with her mouth agape, and it was not until a clean white tail feather fell into the palm of her hand that she could bring herself to believe what she saw before her.

Song Ling drew close to her side and said in a low voice: “The teacher has known the art of calling cranes since childhood; after the white cranes were gone, he brought in two snow geese to replace them. When I first came here I was also struck with wonder and painted them into a picture — do you remember? The teacher is a man of elegant taste.”

Fang Hezhi seemed to hear his words and turned around, chuckling; with a sweep of his long sleeve, the two snow geese departed reluctantly.

Song Ling and Luowei quickly moved to support him from either side as he descended; Fang Hezhi put his arms around the two of them, laughing: “When they have fledglings, I’ll leave them for you to raise… No — cranes and geese cannot be kept within gilded chambers. It would be better to leave them for Chuyin. “

Luowei said urgently: “No matter, no matter — we’ll keep them on this very mountain. Since the teacher has made the offer, there’s no reason to take it back!”

The three of them were just preparing to continue up the mountain when a person who appeared to be a guard came hurrying up the mountain path; Song Ling had not yet had time to wonder why, when the man bowed and said in a grave voice: “By imperial decree, His Majesty summons His Highness to return to the capital with all haste.”

Song Ling said in puzzlement: “What matter?”

The guard hesitated for a moment, then said quietly: “Your Highness, please accept my condolences — the Empress… has passed away.”

03 · On the Goose’s Back, the Evening Sun Glows Crimson and Near to Dusk

The year Luowei came of age at fifteen, on New Year’s Day there was heavy snow, yet the moonlight within the snow was clear and bright; the people of the land all called it an auspicious omen.

To celebrate this scene, and to wash away the disasters and misfortunes of the past several years, the Emperor issued a decree changing the reign title to Tianshou — “Heaven’s Hunt.”

Song Ling’s birthday fell on the Lantern Festival, and so every year on that day he was busy from morning to night without a moment’s rest. After morning court, he offered prayers at the Candle Tower, attended the palace banquet, received congratulations, ascended the tower, and traveled the Bianhe River with the Emperor for the rituals; by the time the ceremonies were complete, half the crowds on the streets had already thinned.

Every year Luowei would wait for him and together they would release river lanterns; Song Ling hastily changed his robes, bid farewell to the Emperor and left from Mingguang Gate, and hurried back down Zhuque Avenue to the streets.

But Luowei was not waiting for him beneath the tree they had agreed upon before; Song Ling gazed at the revolving painted lantern hanging in the treetops, somewhat surprised, and asked his attendant: “Lu Heng — where has she gone?”

The one who came forward was a different guard: “Your Highness has forgotten — Lord Lu requested leave today.”

He paused briefly, then continued: “Miss Su is in the Fengle Tower.”

Song Ling had just arrived before the Fengle Tower when he saw Luowei and a young man wearing an exorcism dance mask come walking out of the tower together.

The young man stood tall and straight, a long sword at his waist.

Even without seeing the face, he could recognize who it was — this was the beloved son of General Yan, Yan Lang.

Because their residences were close to each other, Luowei and Yan Lang had become acquainted even earlier than Song Ling had; Song Yaofeng had said that when Luowei wasn’t coming to the palace, she would often go looking for this Yan Shizi to play.

Ah yes — back then when he had gifted her the short sword, it was Yan Lang she had first gone to for instruction.

Yan Lang had one hand tugging at Luowei’s sleeve, chatting with her in a familiar and affectionate way; they were so close to each other that neither had noticed him.

It turned out that Luowei had been bored waiting alone beneath the revolving lantern and happened to run into Yan Lang; thinking the ceremony was still some time away, she decided to come to the Fengle Tower with him to have some refreshments.

Yan Lang, seeing that she was glum and downcast, couldn’t help asking: “Are you unhappy?”

Luowei said: “This year I will come of age at fifteen.”

She had grown up step by step, and had finally come to understand, belatedly, the meaning behind the crabapple tree her father had planted with her together.

All these years Song Ling had taken care of her with great consideration, and she had never regretted her original decision.

Only now, upon coming of age, she might move to live in the East Palace, beginning a long stretch of years within those red walls.

She was naturally happy to marry him; after returning from Xu Province, she had come to understand even more deeply what her father often spoke of as “the realm” and what it truly meant. To govern this country together with him, to let everyone be happy — what a meaningful thing that would be.

Luowei lay awake half the night, feeling glad, yet she couldn’t help but turn back to that distant spring day.

The jade pendant had shattered in her dreams again and again, yet she clearly remembered that in the year the Empress passed away, the jade pendant had been buried in the mausoleum along with her.

The parting had been so brutal and abrupt; by the time she grew up, she had not even had the chance to open her mouth and ask — whether the Empress had any regrets.

Yan Lang didn’t understand the tangled thoughts and feelings within her heart; he was only interested in military dispatches.

Of all Luowei’s friends, he was the one who lived most happily of all; even Xuechu and Bai Lingcheng, who seemed cheerful on the surface, each harbored many matters they found difficult to speak of.

Conversing with someone who had no worries on his mind made Luowei feel relaxed and at ease.

— If only his tolerance for wine weren’t so poor.

After Yan Lang had drunk some wine, he would start weeping and laughing together; by the time things had gotten to the point where Luowei no longer knew what he was saying, she had no choice but to press an exorcism dance mask over his face.

Walking to the doorway, while still giving instructions to the guards of his household to send him safely home, Luowei suddenly caught the scent of sandalwood.

She turned her head and looked — Song Ling was standing right beside her.

He reached out and seized Luowei’s wrist, not saying a single word, turned and walked away; Luowei had not yet come back to her senses when she was already being led by him toward the Bianhe riverbank, and could only manage to call back: “Send him home quickly!”

Song Ling, with a displeased expression, bought flower lanterns and released them with her; it seemed as though he wanted to say something, and Luowei, observing his expression, couldn’t help asking: “What’s wrong with you?”

Song Ling said in a muffled voice: “You didn’t wait for me today.”

Luowei said: “I lost track of the time — tomorrow I’ll bring osmanthus sweet dumplings as an apology, all right?”

“It’s nothing, no need to apologize,” Song Ling quickly said; he watched the river lanterns float away into the distance, and after a long hesitation, finally said: “Luowei, I actually wanted to say…”

The words had reached his tongue but he could not bring himself to say them.

Since she had said that “she did not want to become Empress,” over all these years he had many times wanted to ask, but was always seized by an inexplicable timidity.

It was laughable when you thought about it — he had had his own mind since childhood, and toward certain matters he could even be called stubborn; yet he never dared to ask what she meant by those words. If he didn’t ask, things could remain as they were now, which was just fine; he had never liked doing things where success was not at all assured, and matters of the heart were no exception.

Another Lantern Festival, and still he had not managed to ask.

That year, Su Zhoudu passed away.

The Emperor, together with the Crown Prince, personally came to the Su family residence; Su Shiyu was occupied with preparing the funeral rites, and Luowei sat before the window beside that crabapple tree. Song Ling held in his hand the crabapple jade pendant he had carved himself, hesitating for a long time before finally offering it to her.

Even though he disliked this feeling of not being sure, if she truly had feelings for someone else, he did not want to use the imperial family’s arrangement to bind her to his side.

She ought to be free, unrestrained — like those geese summoned by a sweep of wide sleeves on Mount Yan, coming and going only according to her own heart.

Stepping back to be her elder brother, to be her friend, would also be fine.

Luowei stared dumbfounded at that crabapple jade pendant, as though looking at the jade ring pendant outside the Empress’s window.

Then she lifted her gaze along that slender hand and saw clearly Song Ling’s face.

He would perhaps never know what she was thinking in this moment, and would never know what making this decision meant to her.

For a woman, a marriage was in itself a gamble that staked one’s entire life; but because it was him, she was willing to forget all those tales of bitter fruit from sweet beginnings.

Luowei had only just begun to reach out her hand when she noticed that the hand holding the jade pendant seemed to be trembling slightly.

He could actually be this anxious?

Perhaps seeing that she had not answered for a long time, Song Ling lowered his head and continued: “…If your heart belongs to someone else, just tell me plainly.”

She had spent so many days lost in melancholy and lamenting the passing seasons, all for fear of not being able to bring this feeling to a good end — and it turned out Song Ling’s hesitation was entirely because he had no idea of her feelings whatsoever.

Luowei was somewhat vexed; she jumped down from the window ledge, grabbed that jade pendant with one hand, and with the other seized Song Ling’s collar, yanking him down to a stoop.

She stood on her tiptoes and lightly pecked his lips.

Softer than she had imagined.

That was their first kiss.

Thinking of her father who was about to depart this world, irritated at the dullness of the person before her, Luowei’s nose stung and she couldn’t hold back her tears; she flung her arms around his neck and said in a voice full of resentment: “Song Ling Ye, you are such a fool!”

…

The following year, Song Ling returned from the south having led troops in battle; Luowei, wishing to see him, set out ahead of time and went to Xu Province.

The two of them met in Xu Province and finally had the chance to go pay their respects at Juzhua Temple.

Fang Hezhi was in Biandu at this time; the Fangheting Pavilion was still there, only Luowei tried and tried but could not manage to call the snow geese to appear. As the two of them were about to leave with the qin in their arms, they heard from somewhere in the sky a faint, distant sound of wild geese calling, seeming both near and far.

Luowei only learned afterward that those two geese had passed away together before that day, and the goose cries they heard that day seemed to have been nothing but an illusion created by the wind passing through the mountain valley.

The golden roof of Juzhua Temple was even more beautiful than they had imagined; they knelt before the Buddha and solemnly made wishes for each other.

Luowei said “I am willing to sacrifice everything for you”; Song Ling covered her mouth saying it was an ill omen, then turned and spoke himself: “May there be no sacrifice between us, may we both live long lives; and if there truly must be sacrifice, then let me die before you.”

“Pah, pah, pah — now that’s the truly ill-omened one!”

Coming down the mountain Luowei was somewhat tired, and so Song Ling carried her on his back, walking slowly into the sunset.

Luowei pressed close to his ear, asking in a murmur: “When you gave me that jade pendant, why were you so frightened? We’ve known each other so long — surely you must have known…”

Song Ling reminded her: “When you were little and I was carrying you on my back as we ‘flew’ along the palace wall, when we were tired out, you suddenly told me you didn’t want to become Empress. I had wanted to ask you even then — why didn’t you want to become Empress? After that I always thought you liked—”

“No wonder you used to get so easily irritated!” Luowei understood and was furious. “…But since you’re so easy to coax out of it, being irritated doesn’t much matter, I suppose. Wait — so that was what you were thinking about? This had nothing to do with you at all, really — I was just worrying unnecessarily.”

She told him of the words she had overheard while crouched below the moon-gate window that day, then asked him: “After you marry me, will you marry someone else too?”

Song Ling declared without hesitation: “Of course not!”

“But you’re going to be Emperor,” said Luowei skeptically. “The histories are full of precedents — once you become Emperor, you’ll certainly forget the words you said today. You’ll be swept along by all manner of things, just like the Emperor and the Empress — they loved each other too, but I don’t want that kind of love.”

She moved close to his ear and threatened in a low voice: “If you forget your promise and turn to marry someone else, I…”

Song Ling couldn’t help feeling a jolt of anxiety, and warned: “Such things will never happen — you just said bad omens, don’t stake your own life and death…”

“What are you thinking? Do you think I’d hurt myself?” Luowei said sweetly. “You’ve got a fine imagination. What I was going to say was: if something like that happens, I’ll go stir up whichever new consort you’ve taken and get her to join forces with me to take everything you have, hold it in our own hands — the things I hold myself are real; why should I have to beg from you?”

“Fine then,” said Song Ling with a rueful laugh, “so what would happen to me? Would you kill me? If not, could you spare me a small palace, to come look in on me from time to time?”

Luowei fantasized about this with great enthusiasm: “That would depend on my mood… No, wait — by that time, who would still care what became of you? I would never waste tears on an unfaithful man.”

Finished laughing, Song Ling composed himself, and said with gravity and sincerity: “The wish to become Emperor is only for the wish I’ve had since long ago — to make everyone happy. You are willing to become Empress not only because you trust me, but also because of that same wish, isn’t it?”

“Wishes will always be fulfilled — once every person under heaven is living happily, we will slip away from the palace and come to Xu Province to raise snow geese. By then we’ll open an academy, build a house, raise geese, and keep some rabbits too; no one to press us, no pinching every penny either — where would there be any heart left to care about others.”

Luowei was startled by this idea: “Can we really slip away?”

Song Ling pledged with full confidence: “Of course we can.”

“That’s wonderful then — I also want to keep a little cat… Today’s sunset is so beautiful, even more beautiful than the one we saw on the palace wall back then. Once we’ve slipped away, every day — we’ll watch the sunset together.”

“Good — every day.”

On the mountain path at dusk, the sounds of people gradually faded into the distance; the sun in the far sky had already sunk to the west, yet the afterglow still lingered, and the distant call of geese could be heard, seemingly coming, seemingly going.

Author’s Note:

Suddenly appeared!

Notes:

[1] From Su Shi’s “Record of the Fangheting Pavilion.”