Consort Li resided in Laifeng Pavilion. Though she held the position of Noble Consort, ranking second only to the Empress in prestige, she preferred simplicity. Her chambers required few expenditures, and she didn’t have many palace servants or maids. Before Zhenzhen’s arrival, only two or three people were dedicated to serving her meals daily. The Consort had a gentle temperament, but always appeared lacking in vitality, and was said to have a poor appetite. As a newcomer, Zhenzhen couldn’t yet attend to her personally, only assisting Hu Dishan in the Consort’s small kitchen by chopping vegetables or cleaning cookware. Hu Dishan was in her thirties and appeared to be Consort Li’s long-serving head chef. The dishes she prepared looked quite flavorful, but after the Consort’s daily meals, the maids brought back considerable leftovers to the kitchen, some remaining entirely untouched, indicating the Consort had likely not even picked up her chopsticks.
The Mid-Autumn Festival arrived in the blink of an eye. That evening, the palace held an “Extended Osmanthus Banquet” at Yigui Pavilion, where the nobles gathered in one hall to taste moon cakes, appreciate osmanthus flowers, and admire the bright moon, just like common families. The pavilion was brilliantly lit with candles, illuminating faces radiating with festive joy. Performers sang and danced in succession, with celestial music floating throughout the imperial city.
Consort Li attended the banquet with many palace servants from her chambers, and Hu Dishan also brought her kitchen staff to assist. Since Zhenzhen’s seniority was still shallow, Hu Dishan didn’t include her, but Zhenzhen was content with the leisure. She sat alone in the small kitchen’s courtyard, gazing up at the full moon in contemplation for quite a while, then sighed deeply and returned to her room. She took out the dried sweet plum blossoms she had prepared and brought from Wenqiao Inn during winter, selected a few pieces to brew a cup of honey water fragrant with plum essence, then raised her cup to the moon and said softly: “Teacher Lin, there’s still no news from Mother. I must break our Mid-Autumn appointment. Tonight I toast with plum instead of wine, wishing you joy on your birthday from afar, peace and good health, and that everything you hope to accomplish may be as perfect as tonight’s moon.”
She drank alone under the moon. After a long while, hearing her stomach growl, she realized she hadn’t yet eaten dinner and was quite empty inside. She went to the small kitchen to search for food. There were many exquisite moon cakes in the kitchen, but she had no appetite for them at all. Constantly thinking of Lin Hong, her gaze fell upon a pile of taro roots in the corner, so she quickly made a decision. She washed two taro roots, warmed a pot of yellow wine, took out paper and lees, and began soaking the paper to wrap the taro, preparing to roast the “Earth Sesame Pills” that Lin Hong had taught her.
After wrapping the taro and lighting a chaff fire in the ground stove, just as she was about to place the taro in the ashes, someone entered gracefully from outside carrying a lantern. After surveying her and the objects in her hands, they laughed: “Today is a festival with grand banquets, yet here you are so pitifully roasting taro.”
Without looking up, Zhenzhen recognized Zhao Ai’s voice from the sound alone. While continuing to bury the taro, she said irritably: “I’m a country person, unworthy of grand banquets. Having taro to eat makes me quite content.”
Zhao Ai set down his palace lantern on the ground, smiled and crouched down, taking fire tongs to help her move aside the ashes for burying the taro. He didn’t speak for the moment, but their coordinated movements were quite harmonious.
Seeing him dressed in wide-sleeved formal robes, obviously having come from the banquet, Zhenzhen asked him: “The Extended Osmanthus Banquet will continue until late night. Why did Your Highness come out?”
“I drank several cups of wine at the banquet and felt stifled, so I came out to take a leisurely walk. When I reached your courtyard gate, I saw lights in the kitchen and smelled the fragrance of wine lees. On impulse, I came in to look, never expecting to encounter you.” Zhao Ai replied, then spoke gently to Zhenzhen: “When we’re alone, you needn’t call me Your Highness—it creates distance. I find it more comfortable when you address me directly as ‘you’ and ‘I.'”
“Then… what should I call you?” Zhenzhen asked.
Zhao Ai thought for a moment: “Second Brother? That’s what my family calls me.”
That won’t do—I’m not your family member, Zhenzhen thought to herself. But remembering his kindness in helping her at the Eastern Palace birthday banquet, she didn’t want to speak to him aggressively again. She turned to look at his left arm, changing to a question she’d wanted to ask since he entered: “Your injury—how is it now?”
“Not good.” Zhao Ai’s smile faded as he spoke seriously: “I bled quite a lot that day. After several days, it’s still red and swollen. The wound is deep and showing signs of festering.”
Zhenzhen frowned, suddenly grasping his left wrist with one hand while pushing up his wide sleeve with the other, quickly exposing his wound to her examination.
Contrary to his claims, the wound wasn’t deep—it seemed the pottery fragment had barely broken the skin without damaging muscle. The wound also wasn’t long, had already scabbed over, and showed no signs of festering.
Zhenzhen breathed a slight sigh of relief and withdrew her hands.
Zhao Ai pulled down his sleeve and smiled again: “Are you still a maiden? Don’t you know about proper conduct between men and women? Yet you boldly pushed up my sleeve to examine my arm.”
“At this moment, you’re not a man in my eyes.” Zhenzhen replied composedly. “My pushing up your sleeve to check your wound is the same as my lifting a cloth cover to see if newly sprouted bean sprouts have turned red—both are done with the eye of examining vegetables.”
Zhao Ai covered his forehead with his hand: “When I first came in, I thought you’d cry and thank me gratefully, asking about my injury with concern. I had prepared a whole speech about how it didn’t matter, but I never expected you to show no signs of guilt. I had to exaggerate the injury—otherwise, how could I ask for repayment in the future?”
“I do feel guilty…” Zhenzhen said, lowering her head to poke at the taro in the ash pile. “But you always have the ability to turn a person’s heartfelt gratitude into annoyance.”
Zhao Ai only smiled without speaking, sitting opposite Zhenzhen and stirring the ash pile for a while before asking: “Did you appreciate the moon tonight?”
Zhenzhen replied: “I looked at it briefly in the courtyard earlier. I didn’t feel anything special—it looked the same as any other full moon on the fifteenth.”
“Then let me take you to see a special one,” Zhao Ai pulled her to her feet. “On Phoenix Mountain, accessible through the rear garden. This taro won’t be ready for a while anyway. We can go up the mountain to appreciate the moon, and by the time we return, the taro should be cooked.”
Zhenzhen freed herself from his grasp, unwilling to go, but Zhao Ai repeatedly invited her, saying it was a wondrous mountain scene he’d discovered, dreamlike and magical. Finally, Zhenzhen couldn’t suppress her curiosity and agreed to accompany him. Zhao Ai picked up the palace lantern again and wanted to lead Zhenzhen out. After thinking, Zhenzhen took a bamboo basket, placing several moon cakes, a pot of hot water, and corresponding utensils inside before carrying it out with Zhao Ai.
Lin’an’s imperial city bordered Phoenix Mountain closely, with the rear garden connecting to the mountain. Pavilions and towers were built following the undulating terrain, with quite many steps. Zhenzhen followed behind Zhao Ai carrying the bamboo basket, deliberately maintaining about ten feet of distance from him. Zhao Ai walked ahead with the palace lantern, suddenly stopped, and turned to extend his hand toward Zhenzhen: “Give me the basket.”
Zhenzhen shook her head. When Zhao Ai insisted again, she explained her reason: “I’m not being polite with you. This basket is actually my tool. After all, I’m not your serving maid. If people see us traveling together this late at night, I’m afraid it would generate gossip. But with this basket of food, those who see us would think Second Prince wanted to appreciate the moon and ordered me, a Royal Kitchen servant, to bring moon cakes along to attend him. If you took the bamboo basket and I was empty-handed, they would become suspicious again.”
Zhao Ai asked with a smile: “When did you become so concerned about our reputations?”
Zhenzhen replied: “I’m just a lowly palace servant who’s never understood propriety—let them talk as they will. But you are, after all, a Prince, with many people watching your every move. If this causes people to question your character, saying you’re frivolous and indulging in feminine beauty, that wouldn’t be good.”
Hearing the last sentence, Zhao Ai suddenly burst into laughter. Zhenzhen recalled how Lin Hong had once teased her about having no beauty when borrowing the light ink lady painting, and immediately felt that Zhao Ai was probably laughing at her in the same way, instantly blushing with embarrassment.
Actually, this was something Director Pei had mentioned during their training—to be cautious in speech and behavior before princes, avoiding frivolous play or intimate gestures that might damage the prince’s reputation and cause people to question his indulgence in feminine beauty.
“Indulging in feminine beauty…” Zhao Ai repeated, then asked Zhenzhen: “Do I seem like that kind of person?”
Annoyed by his earlier laughter, Zhenzhen answered directly: “Yes.”
“Well then, that suspicion wouldn’t be wrong,” his gaze brushed over Zhenzhen’s eyes like a gentle breeze and light rain. “I am indeed indulging in your beauty.”
Taking advantage of Zhenzhen’s speechless shock, he took the bamboo basket from her hands without further discussion.
Fortunately, most palace servants in the rear garden tonight were gathered in and around Yigui Pavilion, so few witnessed their journey. They occasionally encountered night-duty palace servants along the way, who only respectfully saluted Zhao Ai without saying much.
The moon-viewing spot Zhao Ai was taking Zhenzhen to was on the mountainside. They passed through a beautiful stone forest, and a rock rising from the ground, about several zhang high, appeared before them. The stone wall had flowing, cloud-like rounded lines, standing precipitously beside a clear pool of water with an elegant posture. Near the stone’s peak was an opening about a foot in diameter, shaped like a full moon. Through this circular hole, one could see the current sky.
“This stone wall is called Moon Rock,” Zhao Ai introduced.
Zhenzhen looked up searching for the moon’s trace, but it was probably blocked by the stone wall or mountain trees and temporarily couldn’t be seen.
“Where’s the moon?” Zhenzhen asked Zhao Ai.
Zhao Ai said: “No rush.” Then he pulled Zhenzhen to sit by the pool’s edge, taking out moon cakes from the basket himself, cutting pieces to share with Zhenzhen.
Mountain osmanthus fragrance mingled with cool breezes, so they didn’t feel cold. Forest trees swayed in the wind, occasionally scattering flower petals and leaves. The scenery under moonlight and lamplight was extraordinarily serene and beautiful. Looking back at the palace complex below, they saw buildings brilliantly lit like flowing rosy clouds, making Zhenzhen feel somewhat dazed, unsure what night this was, between heaven and earth.
“Look!” Zhao Ai suddenly called to her, directing her gaze toward the rock opening. Zhenzhen discovered that the full moon had moved to the center of the rock opening, the two circles overlapping, similar in size, their light merging like paired jade discs. Moonlight passed through the wall, projecting onto the clear pool water before them, also forming a circular light spot that touched the water like a jade mirror or phantom moon.
Zhenzhen looked up at the merged bright moon above, then at the jade mirror light and shadow in the pool—one virtual, one real, beautiful beyond description.
“The sight of the full moon overlapping with the rock opening can only be seen on August fifteenth. If you’re fortunate enough to see it, you might make a wish to the moon, as the moon goddess is said to help fulfill your heart’s desires,” Zhao Ai told Zhenzhen, gently suggesting: “Make a wish.”
“Only one?” Zhenzhen asked.
Zhao Ai smiled slightly: “It should be. If we make too many wishes, the moon goddess would probably think us insatiably greedy.”
Zhenzhen lowered her brows in thought, finally pressing her palms together and making a wish to the merged full moon for an early reunion with her mother.
After a moment, the moon moved away from the rock opening, and Zhao Ai indicated they should return. Zhenzhen nodded and said to him: “Thank you for letting me see the scene of ‘one pool of autumn water, one round moon.'”
A slight light appeared in Zhao Ai’s eyes: “You actually know this poem?”
Zhenzhen was startled, remembering this was a line Lin Hong had mentioned when telling her about his name, but she didn’t know how the complete poem went. So she humbly asked Zhao Ai for instruction, and he immediately told her: “This is a quatrain written by a Tang dynasty talent named Yu Fu: ‘Silver ground without dust, golden chrysanthemums bloom, purple pears and red dates fall on moss. One pool of autumn water, one round moon—will old friends come tonight or not?'”
Zhenzhen suddenly understood. That night of parting, Lin Hong had casually mentioned golden chrysanthemums, purple pears, and red dates during Mid-Autumn in the garden, but what he was truly thinking in his heart was probably that last line: “Will old friends come tonight or not?”
So tonight, would he also be thinking about this question? Zhenzhen turned around, took several steps forward, and with her back to Zhao Ai, let her tears flow freely in the deep shadows of intertwining pines and cypresses.