As the clamor of summer heat receded, autumn made its gradual approach.

On the day my brother returned to the capital, the weather after recent rain had just cleared — the sky a washed, brilliant blue, with drifting clouds softening the distant mountains on the horizon, suffused with a feeling of vast, open serenity.

Outside the Chaoyang Gate, banners and streamers rippled in the wind; yellow parasols and blue fans, vermillion plaques and dragon flags — the procession of the imperially appointed Supervisor of Rivers and Canals, Prince of Jiangxia, wound forward in a great sweep. My brother in purple robes and jade belt, his cloud-brocade cloak billowing in the wind, rode ahead of all the rest. This man who blazed like a constellation, who had set the hearts of countless young women in the capital aflutter — this was the brother I was so proud of. I stood at Xiao Qi’s side and watched my brother steadily. In the space of a year, the gentle softness of the misty Jiangnan had not added to his air of easy elegance but had instead carved into his brow and eyes a deeper, more composed maturity. Xiao Qi and my brother clasped arms and stood side by side, setting foot together on the main path. My brother glanced slightly aside, looked toward me with a smile; as his graceful brows lifted, there was already an air — that of our father in his heyday at the peak of his power — faintly visible in his bearing. In this place and time, the two men I held dearest in the world had, at last, come to stand together.

Before even washing off the dust of the journey, my brother hurried to Ci’an Temple to pay his respects to my mother. Before her spirit tablet, the two of us sat in quiet companionship — it was as though one could feel the gentle gaze of my mother looking down on us from beyond.

Another spring, summer, autumn, and winter had passed in silence. My mother had gone; my brother had returned; and I had fought my way through yet more storms of ice and knives.

“A’Wu,” my brother called softly to me, his eyes filled with deep and quiet sorrow. “Your brother has truly been very foolish.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder and smiled faintly. “A foolish brother is better — it gives me someone to tease.”

My brother pressed his hand gently to my head, drawing me close. “You headstrong girl — still so willful and proud.”

I closed my eyes and smiled. “Whose fault is that for being so foolish?”

“All these years I have let you endure hardship.” My brother sighed quietly. The scent of the mallow flower came from his clothes — warm, gentle, and calm. “From now on, your brother will always be at your side, and you will no longer have to carry everything alone.”

I buried my face in his shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut, holding back the tears.

Returning to the capital with my brother, apart from several concubines, was a small person I had not expected — a child. The concubine Zhuyan had borne my brother a daughter, as bright and lovely as freshly fallen snow, named Qingyi. My brother said that among all his children, Qingyi resembled me most as a small child. Whether because of those words or not, even Xiao Qi — who had always kept his distance from small children — became deeply fond of this child.

That evening after bathing, I sat lazily on the brocade daybed with my hair still loose, waiting for it to dry.

Xiao Qi sat beside me, reading a memorial while idly playing with my damp hair.

My thoughts drifted to how adorable Qingyi was, and I had a sudden flight of fancy. “Why not take Qingyi and adopt her as our daughter?” Xiao Qi gave a start, and at once his expression grew cold. “What is the point of adopting someone else’s child — we will have our own. Stop letting your mind wander.” I lowered my head, and my heart darkened briefly, without words to speak. He drew me close, his eyes warm and gentle. “Once your health is recovered, we will certainly have our own children.”

I turned my head away and forced a smile, shifting to a different topic. “Qingyi is not a legitimate child — when my brother eventually takes a principal consort, no one can say how she will fare under that woman’s roof.”

Xiao Qi smiled. “That is difficult to say. Wang Su has concubines and consorts in abundance — if the future Princess Consort of Jiangxia should prove even half as imperiously jealous as you, he may well find his household turned upside down.”

Seeing me raise my eyebrows and glare at him, Xiao Qi quickly corrected himself with a laugh. “Which shows that the blessings of a man with many wives are quite illusory.”

“Oh? I seem to recall someone once enjoyed such blessings himself.” I fixed him with a sideways look.

Xiao Qi gave an embarrassed cough. “Old affairs of the past — best not brought up…”

In the tenth month of the second year of Yongli, Prince Xian Zidan led the Left and Right Commanders and the three hundred thousand troops of the southern expeditionary army back to the capital in triumph.

The captured members of the southern imperial clan, escorted in chains to the capital, were paraded through the streets in their fetters — the princes and nobles of former days reduced to prisoners, drawing crowds of citizens to watch.

Xiao Qi led his officials out of the city to receive them, and went personally with his generals to tour and commend the troops in the encampment. In the court, Xiao Qi commanded a lofty, supreme authority; and beyond the court, Xiao Qi had never shed the bold and free bearing of a military man.

I stood in the main hall of Prince Xian’s residence, my eyes lightly closed, imagining the scene outside the Chaoyang Gate — the army’s might blazing to the heavens, banners blocking out the sun — and one by one, clear faces drifted past my mind’s eye: Xiao Qi, proud and overawing; my brother, refined and graceful; Song Huai’an, quietly unyielding; Hu Guanglie, in high and spirited form… And last of all, Zidan’s white-robed figure receding into the distance.

In this moment, I stood with the assembled royal kin and nobles in the newly completed Residence of Prince Xian, awaiting Zidan’s return.

Outside the door, the last rays of the setting sun opened into a shimmering expanse of color before my eyes. What must come would come in the end.

I walked slowly out of the hall, stepped onto the red-felted and gold-dusted main path, my saffron-gold draped veil sweeping out behind me, and led the assembled company out to welcome Zidan’s carriage.

Before the residence gates the procession was imposing and splendid. My brother rode first on a white horse — purple bridle, carved saddle, luminous and graceful as a piece of jade — and had already arrived at the gate. But behind him was a carrying carriage, its four sides hung with brocade curtains, and Zidan was nowhere to be seen. I was momentarily startled. My brother had already dismounted and stood to one side. The attendant called out in a high voice: “Respectfully welcoming Prince Xian home to his residence—”

The brocade curtain before the carriage was lifted by an attendant. A pale, slender hand reached out and rested on the attendant’s arm, and from within the curtain came a fit of coughing. Zidan stepped out from behind the curtain — in a sky-blue robe embroidered with dragons, gold coronet, purple cap-cord, jade belt — supported on either side by attendants. The wide sleeves of his broad robe caught the wind and billowed high, and his already tall and slender figure looked even thinner and more frail, as though he could barely bear the weight of his garments. The last light of the setting sun fell on his face, which was like ice and snow in its quality, as though it were transparent.

I stared at him unmoving, and the tightening in my heart made it impossible to breathe. The company on all sides bowed together; I too stiffly bowed. As I looked up, I saw Zidan gazing steadily at me, the warmth in the depths of his eyes flickering away in an instant, leaving only a distant smile in its place.

My brother stepped forward and positioned himself between us, one hand at Zidan’s arm and the other at my shoulder. With his characteristic easy smile, he said in a clear voice, “Prince Xian has endured the hardships of the road. I think we can dispense with these formalities. The new Residence of Prince Xian — Zidan, you have not yet had a chance to look it over; it has cost A’Wu a great deal of thought and effort. Even my own Shuyu Retreat cannot compare.” I smiled faintly, stepped slightly to the side, and with eyes lowered said, “Prince Xian has endured the dust and toil of the journey. Please first take some rest — this evening A’Wu has prepared a modest welcome dinner to celebrate the Prince’s return to his new home.”

“The Princess Consort is too kind.” Zidan smiled faintly — before he could finish speaking, he suddenly covered his mouth, coughing again and again.

I was alarmed, and looked toward my brother; our eyes met with the same worry, and my heart clenched.

When the lanterns were first lit, the banquet opened in the new residence.

Through the evening, music wound through the hall and cups were raised freely — it was as though the old grandeur of the imperial family had been glimpsed again for a moment. Zidan sat in the seat of honor. He had already changed into a simple pale blue robe, and among the brilliant splendor of the hall, it only made his complexion appear all the more haggard. As the cups were passed three times, a strange flush had appeared on his cheeks, while his face had gone pale to an almost transparent whiteness. Even those around him seemed to notice that something was not right; conversations fell quiet as people exchanged glances in hushed concern. He continued to pour his own cup and drink without pause.

I frowned and looked toward my brother. My brother rose with a smile. “It has been a long time since I have looked at the moon over Zhi Garden. Zidan, shall we have a look together?”

Zidan was already somewhat drunk, but only smiled without speaking, and let my brother forcibly help him to his feet. Taking a wine vessel with him, he left with somewhat unsteady steps.

I pressed my hand to my aching temples. From around me came the muffled sounds of whispered discussion.

I rose and looked around at the company. Everyone fell silent at once.

“The hour grows late. Since Prince Xian has left the banquet, the gathering will close for the evening. You are all dismissed.” I said this quietly, then turned and left without ceremony, unwilling to spend any more time in the company of these worldly opportunists among the royal kin. These people lived off nothing but a distant thread of blood connection, spending their days in ease and arrogance; now that they had become easy prey for others, no longer enjoying their former prominence, they were all the more bereft of ambition, knowing only how to ingratiate themselves with whoever held power. It occurred to me that many of those present were elder kinsmen of mine — among them more than a few who had been known as celebrated men of refinement in their day — yet today they fawned over me in a dozen different ways, reading every shift in my expression. I stepped out of the main hall and was met by the evening wind, which cooled me through, and as my mind cleared I could not help but smile at myself. I was indeed becoming more and more like Xiao Qi — without noticing when, I had grown accustomed to viewing the aristocracy from the position of someone without such lineage.

“Where is the Prince of Jiangxia?” I frowned, scanning the courtyard, where my brother and Zidan were nowhere to be seen.

“Reporting to the Princess Consort — the Prince of Jiangxia has already accompanied Prince Xian to his sleeping chambers to rest.”

I nodded slightly, told the others to remain where they were, and set off alone with A’Yue toward Zidan’s sleeping chambers. Walking along the wisteria-covered connecting corridor before the hall, I suddenly saw a slender figure in a secluded spot, craning her neck to gaze toward Zidan’s chambers.

“Who is there?” My heart gave a quiet lurch, and I stopped and called out.

The figure started. A familiar soft, gentle voice trembled: “Caiwei pays her respects to the Princess Consort.” It was her again — I let out a breath of relief, having nearly taken her for one of Xiao Qi’s informants placed here.

“Why are you here alone at this late hour?” Annoyance mixed with the worry already in my heart, and I could not help but let my tone and expression grow stern. Gu Caiwei sank to her knees, her face suffused with shame, yet her neck held stubbornly upright as she bit her lip in silence.

I sighed. I felt pity for her foolishness, and also a measure of respect for her persistence. “Have you forgotten what I said to you that day?” She kept her head bowed and said quietly, “The Princess Consort’s words that day are engraved in Caiwei’s heart. But where the heart has given itself, without regret or complaint — Caiwei has already missed her chance, and dares no longer hope for anything. What she thinks and does is only to follow her own heart’s inclination.” I looked at her steadily. This frail young woman, adrift as a falling petal, who might at any moment be swept by fate toward some unknowable shore — she was not without her moments of self-pity, yet had the courage to speak these words, unafraid of the world’s judgment. That in itself was worthy of admiration.

“Rise.” I sighed. “To follow your own heart’s inclination — it is a rare thing to have this courage in you… Very well. Come with me.” She rose in bewilderment and followed behind me with timid steps, entering the chamber together.

The moment we stepped through the door, an empty cup came flying out, followed by my brother’s helpless voice: “Zidan, drinking at this rate — are you doing this on purpose to kill yourself?”

I stood at the door. Both men grappling over the wine vessel turned to look at me, startled into stillness. I was furious — I wanted to rebuke my brother for not knowing when to stop, for letting Zidan drink so much at a moment like this. My brother wiped the wine stains on his clothing in embarrassed awkwardness with a cloth handed to him by a maidservant. “I couldn’t hold him back — you have arrived at just the right moment.” Zidan glanced at me, his eyes already glazed, then turned away to pour himself another cup.

“I have already summoned a physician. I have this in hand — you go first.” I looked at my brother from the side. He seemed about to say something, then shook his head with a helpless smile. “Very well.”

I turned slightly. “As you go, I must ask you to escort this young lady of the Gu family back to her residence.”

My brother only then noticed Gu Caiwei standing behind me, and gave a startled pause.

Gu Caiwei’s face flushed deeply. She lowered her head without speaking.

Watching the two of them walk away, I smiled in helpless resignation. There was already enough sorrow in the world — if one person could be spared it, better to spare them.

All the attendants withdrew to a distance.

I stood directly before Zidan. He seemed to look through me entirely, helping himself to more wine without regard, his pale and slender hand, gripping the cup, trembling faintly. I snatched the wine vessel from him, threw my head back, and drank directly from it. Wine poured down in a cataract, splashing across my face and body; in the mouth it was cold and harshly pungent, choking me until tears filled my eyes. He made a weak effort to lean forward, catching hold of my sleeve. A clear, sharp sound rang out — I raised my hand and hurled the wine vessel away. It struck the ground and shattered.

“If you wish to drink, I will drink with you.” I turned back and looked at him coldly. These words felt all too familiar — and now to say them was like a knife through my heart. Zidan had never been one who could hold his wine — when had he learned to drink something this raw and fierce? He looked at me through bleary, half-unfocused eyes, and through the swimming haze, there was a glimmer in the depths of those eyes, bright as welling water.

“Who are you? A’Wu would never be like this — you… you are not her.” Zidan stared at me. His face, already white as paper, had gone paler still — to a terrifying whiteness. My heart was desolate, yet I had no choice but to smile. “You are right. I am no longer the A’Wu I once was, and you are no longer the Zidan you once were.”

“You…” Zidan’s gaze wandered. “You look like my mother.”

He let out a sudden laugh and slumped back into his chair, his hair in loose disarray, his expression lost and sorrowful. “How could A’Wu turn into my mother — I am truly drunk… A’Wu will not change. She said she would wait for me to return, and she will certainly be in Yaoguang Hall waiting for me!” I could not allow him to continue. I could no longer bear this slow and ceaseless destruction. Gritting my teeth, I seized the half-cup of wine remaining on the table and threw it in his face. “Zidan, look clearly — A’Wu has changed. Everyone in the entire world has changed. Only you alone refuse to change!” Wine dripped from his brow and cheeks; he tilted his face up, eyes closed, and smiled — and tears slid along the corners of his eyes.

I suppressed the grief rising inside me and said with a bitter smile, “Who was it who once told me — there is nothing more precious in this world than life! So long as one lives, there is hope! I spent all that thought and effort to let you live and live well, and yet you… how can you hurt yourself like this?” I could say no more, and fell back in defeat, feeling only desolation and despair within. “If you think that by hurting yourself again and again, you will make me feel regret and pain… then you are wrong!”

I turned decisively away, unwilling to look another moment at his self-destructive state. Even one more glance was a pain I could not endure.

“A’Wu!” From behind me came his low, broken call. At my ear, it was unbearable in its grief and extremity. My heart seized; my step involuntarily faltered. He rushed forward from behind and held me tightly in his arms. His cold lips fell at the side of my neck; hot tears and cold lips tangled in my hair and on my skin — despairing, burning, clinging… This embrace was so familiar, familiar enough to make one long to remain in it, long enough to lose oneself entirely.

“Do not go. Do not leave me.” His hands locked tight around my waist, encircling me so that I could not stir, as though summoning every last measure of his strength to hold onto the last piece of driftwood.

“Everything has changed. We can never go back to what we were.” I closed my eyes, tears streaming. “Zidan, I beg you to come to your senses. I beg you to live and live well.”

His body trembled; he held me and would not let go. I no longer struggled either, but let him hold me quietly, motionless.

After a long, long while, I finally steeled myself, broke free of his embrace, and ran out of the hall without looking back.

The members of the southern imperial clan brought as prisoners to the capital — those with incontrovertible evidence of treason were immediately put to death; their family members were either exiled to the frontier or reduced to the status of entertainers. Those with insufficient evidence and their various accomplices were imprisoned in the dungeons, subjected to harsh torture; some confessed out of fear, others died in resentment. Within two months, all those who had once been of golden lineage had been reduced to dust, utterly ruined.

Yue prefecture was the first to report auspicious omens descending from heaven, claiming that in the north, dragon-clouds had risen and the sky was brilliant with rosy light. Immediately thereafter, memorials from every prefecture and commandery arrived in turn — some describing celestial phenomena, saying that twin suns hung together in the sky; others claiming that a white tiger had emerged from the southern mountains and dissolved into violet radiance that shot into the heavens; still others said a divine turtle had emerged from the Luo River bearing a heavenly message in its mouth… In the capital’s streets and markets, a folk rhyme began to circulate whose origin no one could trace, with the most widely quoted line reading: “The cups are drained, the twin candles fall.” On its surface it seemed an ordinary rhyme about drinking at a feast, yet some interpreted it differently: “cups drained” was a homophonic pun on “the heavenly mandate is exhausted”; “twin” meant two; and “candles” was a homophone for “rulers” — so the hidden meaning of the line was: “The heavenly mandate is exhausted; having passed through two rulers, it falls.” Once this interpretation began to circulate, every street and alleyway was eagerly transmitting it; even within the palace, people were discussing it in private whispers.

Memorials from various prefectures and commanderies reporting auspicious omens received no response from Xiao Qi, and he also appeared not to know about the market rhymes — which only made his officials all the more uncertain of his intentions; they speculated privately and dared not speak of it openly.

All the world knew that the young emperor was sickly, long confined in the depths of the palace. The imperial blood-line had all but died out; only Prince Xian remained as a candidate who could succeed to the throne.

Inside Fuyun Pavilion, the falling leaves scattered gold everywhere.

My brother and I were deep in an engrossing game of Go, while Xiao Qi — though not skilled at the game — stood beside us with a smile, watching without speaking.

In this match, my brother opened by playing black in the small star points, initially claiming as much solid territory in all directions as he could. As the game progressed my brother fell into extended deliberation. I advanced step by careful step, appearing to retreat but actually pressing forward; at the midgame I deliberately left a weak point, drawing my brother to launch a rapid series of attacks. He rashly pushed his center pieces too far out into no man’s land, and as they grew ever more entangled, the center’s large group barely managed to survive — but the upper cluster of pieces was cut off and captured by me.

“Well played! A fine capture!” Xiao Qi clapped and laughed out loud.

My brother had been thinking hard, hand poised to place his piece; upon hearing Xiao Qi’s words, he withdrew his hand again and groaned, “A gentleman watching a Go match does not speak.”

I retorted with a smile, “Taking back a move is the conduct of a petty man.”

My brother’s half-withdrawn hand froze where it was. He glared at me, and had no choice but to play where he had intended. At the level of play Xiao Qi commanded, he too could see that my brother’s move was his own undoing. His laughter paused; he and I exchanged a glance, and both burst out laughing.

A fallen leaf came spiraling into the pavilion, drifting precisely down to rest on the catalpa wood Go board — the golden leaf and agate game pieces set against the ancient wood grain, a scene of pure and refined beauty.

“Done, done — I give up!” My brother simply swept the board aside in surrender, and let out a long sigh: “Of women and petty men, both are alike difficult to manage.”

Few people now would dare to make such jests in front of Xiao Qi — except for me, perhaps only my brother. The two of them, in nature and background, were worlds apart, and had originally each harbored their own prejudices: my brother had seen Xiao Qi as uncouth, and Xiao Qi had seen my brother as a pampered noble. Now that they had set aside their prejudices and come together, they discovered that each of them was a man of true feeling. In the court and in private, after spending time together, they had actually come to find each other quite congenial — with something of the feeling of true friends. It was rare that both men had leisure today, and they were in the midst of laughing and jesting when a palace attendant bowed and entered. “Reporting to the Prince — the Marquis Wuwei seeks an audience outside the hall.”

Xiao Qi’s smile faded. He frowned slightly, and without raising his voice, a natural authority radiated from his brow and eyes.

“Is Hu Guanglie still making a commotion?” I shook my head with a smile.

“You two enjoy yourselves — I’ll go see what the madman Hu is up to this time.” Xiao Qi smiled, nodded slightly to my brother, and turned and left.

My brother turned a piece of agate over and over in his hand, his smile gone. He said mildly, “Why specifically a woman of the Hu family?”

“Is there something wrong with the Hu family?” I looked up at my brother.

“Among military families one could certainly find refined and gentle young women — but this Hu girl is quite young, and by all accounts has a spirited and fierce temperament. How could she match Zidan? Is this not an ill-considered pairing on your part?” My brother raised his gracefully arched eyebrows, and in profile was strikingly handsome — the sight irresistibly calling to mind the way Zidan used to furrow his brow in quiet melancholy. A stab of pain passed through my heart. Since that night, Zidan had used illness as a pretext, neither appearing at court nor entering the palace, spending his days behind closed doors in the Residence of Prince Xian. I had also not set foot inside the Residence of Prince Xian again. It was Xiao Qi who had personally gone to visit him; I had claimed illness and refused to accompany him, and Xiao Qi had not pressed the matter, returning only to say quietly that Zidan’s color had improved greatly. My brother, however, came and went frequently at the Residence of Prince Xian, often sending Zidan his favorite books of poetry and art, along with nourishing tonics. According to my brother, Zidan had become very temperate in his ways now: though he spoke little and laughed little, he had stopped drinking and was willing to take his medicine and receive treatment. Only, my brother’s role as chief minister kept him increasingly occupied with official affairs, and he could not always be at Zidan’s side.

Meanwhile, Xiao Qi’s urging that I choose a consort for Zidan had grown more pressing by the day.

Young Jingli was growing; he could not indefinitely be confined to the deep palace on the pretext of illness. Xiao Qi had already begun to consider a change of emperor. Sooner or later, Zidan would accede to the throne. His consort would be the future Empress — the nominal mistress of the six palaces. Xiao Qi placed great weight on this, determined to select a daughter of a military powerhouse and place her at Zidan’s side. I could not directly defy his wishes, and could only try, in the course of choosing candidates, to do my best to find an upright and loyal good woman.

Originally I had held little expectation for the daughters of military families in the candidate pool, having simply called a few young women into the palace on a whim — and had not imagined that one of them would strike me in such a way as to make me take her in an entirely new light.

“You have not met the Hu girl. How can you be sure she would be unsuitable? A spirited nature is not necessarily a fault.” I turned the fallen leaf over between my fingers and smiled faintly. “A trailing vine does not grow alone of itself — it seeks to be supported by a great tree.”

My brother’s expression shifted, as though something had come to him. “You are comparing Zidan to a trailing vine?”

I lowered my gaze and sighed. “The Zidan of former times was a willow sapling — and the Zidan of today has become a withered vine. Only by letting him entwine with a strong and thriving tree might he find his way back to life.”

My brother was quiet for a moment, then raised his brows and asked, “Can it be that the Hu girl you have chosen is, in fact, the great tree meant for him?”

I gave a rueful smile, yet could not answer my brother’s question. Who is the right tree for whom; who may truly depend on another for the rest of a life — perhaps there is no one in this world who can say with certainty.

This marriage had met with skepticism not only from my brother, but even Hu Guanglie refused to give his younger sister in marriage into the imperial family, and had gone so far as to defy Xiao Qi, creating one disturbance after another over the matter. This rough and blustering man truly held genuine affection for his half-sister — just as my brother had once cherished me. Had I not seen Hu Yao with my own eyes, I would never have imagined that Hu Guanglie could have such a radiant and captivating sister. Young as she was, Hu Yao had none of the ways of a typical young girl, and none of the proud and delicate bearing of a great family’s daughter; her manner was frank and open throughout, with an undercurrent of spirited brightness. The day I met her — in a red dress vivid as fire, her face fresh and glowing without adornment — she had flashed me a brilliant smile, and I felt instantly as though illuminated by the light of early spring. With a woman like her at one’s side, even the deepest gloom would have to disperse. Looking at Hu Yao, I could only feel myself grow dim in comparison. She had youth, energy, and a soaring, unbounded vitality — while all I had was a heart worn and hardened by years of trials. Perhaps only a woman as clear and steadfast as she could be Zidan’s true companion.