The sun was low in the sky by the time I packed my belongings at the Golden Lotus Mansion. I could have left the next day, but I had no reason to delay; there were no farewells to make, no one I would miss here. In the days after the competition, Lady Meiling and her other attendants had kept me busy with an endless stream of
unpleasant and humiliating tasks. I would have liked to say that such maliciousness slid off me as water on oil, that the joy in my heart left no room for bitterness to fester. But I was neither so magnanimous nor forgiving. I had learned
by now that nothing irked my tormentors as much as indifference. And so, I had smiled at their commands,
bowed and complied, all the while imagining their dismay when I left for the palace, to never return.
As I walked up the white marble stairs which led to the Jade Palace, my feet were lighter than the clouds that
drifted above. To my surprise, I found the chief attendant waiting by the entrance. His lips thinned in disapproval at the sight of me, or perhaps he did not appreciate the lateness of the hour.
“Her Celestial Majesty asked that I instruct you in your duties.” Without waiting for my response, he strode
through the red-lacquered doors, leaving me to hurry after him.
Gripped by anxiety before, all I could recall was a blurred haze of vibrant color and exquisite beauty. Calmer today, I studied my surroundings, discovering that the Jade Palace was the size of a small city and laid out with methodical precision. The soldiers were housed in the outermost perimeter along the palace walls, while a little farther in
were the rooms of the attendants and palace staff. Ringed by flowering gardens and carp-filled ponds was the Outer Court, the quarters of honored guests and select courtiers without an estate of their own. The Inner Court was where the royal family resided, their sprawling courtyards
clustered around the heart of the palace: the Imperial Treasury, the Chamber of Reflection, and the Hall of Eastern Light.
Lost in this maze of winding paths, each hall and chamber with its own name and designated purpose, I
recalled the simplicity of my home with a pang. While the grounds of the Pure Light Palace were vast, our needs were undeniably more modest with no courtiers to entertain, the uncomplicated meals which we prepared ourselves, and a wild forest in our backyard.
As we walked, the chief attendant droned on about the rules of etiquette. “You must kneel when you greet His Highness and whenever he issues you a command. At all other times, bow from your waist when he speaks to you. Always address His Highness using his title and never his name. If you have the good fortune to meet Their Celestial Majesties, kneel and press your forehead to the ground
until they give you permission to rise. If you walk past
someone of higher rank, stop and bow. Speak in a soft tone, dress neatly as befits your station—”
I listened attentively at first, but my attention soon
wandered to the ornately carved ceilings and pillars along the corridor. Gilded phoenixes were interspersed with
crimson peonies and emerald-green leaves. The walkway cut through a garden which I longed to explore, shaded with magnolia and crabapple trees—
I stopped, realizing that I had lost sight of the chief attendant. Spinning around, I found him standing a short distance behind, his arms crossed over his chest as he
glared at me with intense displeasure.
I bowed—low. While I was unfamiliar with the nuances of palace hierarchy, the chief attendant evidently believed
himself my superior. “Thank you for your guidance,” I
intoned as respectfully as I could, all the while wondering how many rules I had missed, and if they were of any importance.
To my relief, he unfolded his arms and continued walking. “Should a noble have assumed this position, they would not reside within the palace, instead arriving each morning to accompany His Highness and returning home each evening. However, given your situation, we needed to make some adjustments.” Here the chief attendant sighed as
though he had made some onerous concession. “With these
additional benefits in mind, in addition to your duties as Prince Liwei’s learning companion, Her Celestial Majesty has commanded that you serve him as well.”
I looked away to hide my confusion, aware of his watchful gaze on me. Was I a glorified attendant, or a disgraced companion? This was not the prize I had won, and I did not think another would be treated so—certainly not Lady Lianbao. Did the empress hope I would take offense and refuse? I was not as weak-willed as that. Despite the shade she had cast over my achievement, I would not storm out in a fit of pique. After serving Lady Meiling, this was no hardship. Moreover, I preferred to earn my keep instead of feeling indebted to Their Celestial Majesties. Perhaps I
should have resented my reduced status more, but for this opportunity I would sweep the floors here every day if I had to.
“I would be honored to serve His Highness,” I said.
The chief attendant pursed his lips. “You are honored indeed. Do not forget that. You are to awaken each morning before His Highness rises and help him to dress. You will
prepare his tea and arrange his meals. While at mealtimes you may dine with His Highness, serve him before yourself. Do not eat until he takes the first bite. You will accompany him to his classes and training, where you will study
alongside him—placing his learning needs above your own, of course.”
“Of course,” I repeated tightly, biting back the choicer words that sprang to my tongue.
Fortunately, we soon entered the Courtyard of Eternal Tranquility. How serene it was, without the crowd of spectators and anxiety knotting my insides. Jasmine, wisteria, and peach blossom trees bloomed in the garden, their fragrance delicate and sweet. A waterfall rumbled into a pond which thronged with yellow and orange carp.
Overlooking it was the pavilion where the selection had been held, except now a round marble table and several stools were arranged within.
“This is your room.” The chief attendant stopped outside the closed doors of a small building. “One more thing, I
urge you to maintain an attentive and respectful manner at all times, creating a harmonious environment for His Highness. During his bath—”
I inhaled sharply, the breath hissing between my lips. “I need to help His Highness with his bath?”
He drew himself up, shooting me a censorious look. “When His Highness is taking his bath, use that time to
prepare his books and materials for the following day.” He enunciated each word with painstaking clarity, no doubt
taking me for a fool.
I mumbled my thanks, grateful when he left. Sliding the doors open, I entered. The room was spacious and well-
furnished with a large wooden bed draped with light blue
curtains. Silk scroll paintings hung on the walls, depicting scenes of violet-gray mountains and cypress trees, pheasants and peonies. A large window opened to the
courtyard and beside it was a desk, stacked with paper, a set of writing brushes, and a porcelain inkstone. A silk
lantern was already lit, throwing its radiance against the dwindling light. I perched on the bed in disbelief, pinching the flesh of my arm. It stung; this was real. I wanted to
laugh aloud as I fell back onto the soft mattress. The
serenity of this place, broken only by the rhythmic flow of water and the wind rustling through the trees, reminded me of home. And after living with those who had found my every word and gesture wanting, it was a relief to be alone once more.
Undisturbed by past nightmares, I slept through the night until sunlight streamed through my window. The curtains fluttered in the morning breeze, laden with the scent of flowers. There was an unfamiliar lightness in my spirit—the lack of dread, I realized. I had not been aware of the
tension coiled within me, until it was gone. Piles of silks
and brocade were stacked in the cupboard, and I pulled out a white robe which I fastened around my waist with a
length of green satin. Its flowing skirt was embroidered with butterflies and when I ran a knuckle across the
smooth stitches of a wing, it fluttered. An enchanted dress. Did this mean my lifeforce was strong? Would I soon learn to use it? My skin tingled at the thought.
Leaving my room, I crossed the courtyard to Prince Liwei’s chambers—the large building across from mine.
The wooden doors were lacquered a rich red, latticed with a pattern of circles, interspersed with gilded camelias.
Raising my hand, I knocked gently. When there was no response, I rapped harder. After waiting a short while, I slid it open, anxious to not be late. It was dim inside, thick
brocade drawn across the windows and around the
rosewood bed in the far corner. Prince Liwei must still be asleep. My heart beat quicker as I stepped into the room, a floorboard creaking beneath my feet.
“Your Highness, I was instructed to wake you at this hour.” My voice came out thin and uncertain, his title stiff
against my tongue. Recalling the chief attendant’s lecture, I sank to my knees, folding myself over until my forehead
thumped clumsily against the hard floor.
Silence greeted me in return. I shifted, wondering how
one might “respectfully” awaken a prince. The bed curtains rustled, a moment before they were pulled away. Lifting my head, my eyes locked onto his. Heat rushed into my face
when I realized he wore just his white underrobe.
“Tea,” I blurted. “Do you want some tea, Your Highness?”
He propped himself up on one elbow, yawning as his hair fell loosely across his shoulders. “What are you doing on
the floor? Rise, there’s no need to kneel. You weren’t nearly as respectful when we first met.”
“Only because I didn’t know who you were. You shouldn’t sneak up on people without warning or a procession, or . . . whatever you usually do. It’s most inconsiderate and unfair of—” Too late, did I shut my mouth. He had a knack for
needling me.
He grinned, looking unexpectedly pleased. “I’m glad the person I met by the river is still here. You seemed different a moment ago. So . . . deferential.”
I bared my clenched teeth in more a grimace than a smile. “Tea, Your Highness?”
“Ah. Yes please.” But then a strange expression flitted across his face. “Could you ask someone from the kitchen to prepare it? I’m not sure I could drink your ‘unique’ brew a second time.”
Caught between laughter and mortification, I hurried to the kitchen, retracing my steps from yesterday. A rich and savory aroma wafted from the simmering pots of porridge,
the pans sizzling with crescent-shaped dumplings. Distracted, I almost collided into an attendant carrying a steaming bowl of soup. He shot me a fearsome glare, his mouth opening to scold me, but someone grabbed my arm and pulled me away.
It was a girl in the purple robe of a kitchen attendant. Her cheeks had the rounded curves of an apple and her black hair was coiled into a bun.
“Best to stay out of his way. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us because he serves the empress.” Her
chestnut brown eyes darted to me. “I’m Minyi. Are you new? What do you do? Whom do you serve?”
I paused, taken aback by her inquisitiveness. But I
detected no malice in her, just curiosity and an openness which reminded me of Ping’er. “Prince Liwei,” I replied.
“Ah, so you’re the one who displeased Her Celestial Majesty.”
My mouth went dry, the smell of food now turning my stomach. How quickly the news had spread.
She patted my hand. “Don’t worry. Her Celestial Majesty disapproves of almost everyone. Now, was there something you or His Highness needed?”
“Just breakfast. And tea, for His Highness,” I said, recovering myself.
“Was there anything you wanted?” she asked.
When my gaze strayed to the dumplings, she winked. “I’ll make sure you get an especially large serving this
morning.”
“Thank you.” I bowed to her, but she pulled me up.
“No need for that. You’re Prince Liwei’s companion.” She rubbed her chin in contemplation. “Maybe I should bow to you.”
“Please don’t,” I said with feeling, before thanking her once more and leaving.
In Prince Liwei’s room, I helped him to dress, holding out a sky-blue brocade robe as he slipped into it. Around his
waist I knotted a black sash, to which he fastened an ornament of yellow jade and silk.
His dark hair flowed loosely down his back as he sat
before a mirror, holding out a silver comb. “Would you help me?”
I hesitated, before reaching out to take it. I had only ever done my own hair, in the simple style which required no
skill whatsoever. In the Golden Lotus Mansion, it was Jiayi who had the intimate task of dressing Lady Meiling. I ran the comb through Prince Liwei’s strands with rhythmic strokes, my mind working furiously as I tried to recall the men’s styles from the Golden Lotus Mansion. His hair was heavier than mine, silken and lustrous, spilling down his back like polished ebony. Finding a knot, I dug the comb deeper, accidentally ripping out a few strands.
He inhaled sharply, turning to me with a pained expression. “Xingyin, have I offended you in some way?”
The comb fell from my hand with a clatter. Perhaps I had attacked his hair with more vigor than intended. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
With deft fingers, he pulled his hair into a smooth topknot, which he tucked into a silver headpiece and
secured with a carved jade pin. Catching my eye in the mirror, he arched an eyebrow. “Are you? Sorry enough to
help me with my hair every morning until you get it right?”
Was that a command? Recalling the rules of etiquette, I knelt in acknowledgment, but he reached out, placing his hands beneath my elbows to lift me up.
“Xingyin, we’ll be together every day. When it’s just the two of us, there’s no need for such formality. You don’t
need to kneel or bow every time I say something, or you’ll spend most of the day with your head on the ground. And just call me Liwei. When we met, I felt there were no walls between us. That you were someone I could speak freely with. I’d like us to be friends, if you want that, too?” he
asked gently.
My eyes collided into his. How warm his smile, like a ray of sunshine had slid into the solitude of my soul. He was
not at all what I expected of a prince, but so much more. I wondered what the chief attendant would make of this. Not that it mattered.
“Yes, I would,” I replied.
After our morning meal, we left to our first lesson. I
followed Liwei through the seemingly endless corridors, into a large garden. Graceful willows ringed a lake, a red wooden bridge arching over the water to a small island. A single pavilion was built upon it with an upturned roof of glazed green tiles, blending seamlessly into the verdant surroundings. I inhaled deeply the fresh air, tempted to linger, but Liwei strode ahead through a circular gateway of white stone adorned with a lacquered plaque which read:
CHAMBER OF REFLECTION
An apt name for a place of learning, one I hoped to live up to. As we sat down at a long table and took out our books, I looked around the room. The gray marble floor, plain
wooden beams, and sparse furnishings were a stark
contrast to the rest of the opulent palace. Shelves were
crammed with scrolls, and books were piled onto the tables which had been pushed against the walls. The tall, latticed windows opened out to the garden, the cool air drifting into the chamber.
An elderly immortal entered. Liwei whispered to me that he was the Keeper of Mortal Fates who would teach us the history of the realms. His white beard hung past his waist and his wrinkled hand grasped a jade staff.
I had seen those creases on Ping’er’s face before, as she tucked me into bed those nights my mother lingered too
long on the balcony. My finger had brushed the lines at the corners of her eyes. “Ping’er, what are these?”
“A mark of the years,” she had replied.
“Are you older than Mother?” I was surprised, as my mother seemed so grave and solemn.
“By a hundred years at least. Up until adulthood, our lives follow a similar pattern to those of the mortals. After that, our ages cease to matter. An immortal who is a
thousand years old may appear the same as one who is
thirty. The strength of our lifeforce determines our youth.” I raised myself up on an elbow, alight with curiosity.
“Lifeforce?”
“The core of our powers, which determines how much
energy we possess to be channeled into magic. I have these lines because I’m not as strong,” she said.
“Will Mother have these lines? Me?” I had asked.
“Only time will tell.” Before I could ask more, Ping’er had hurried from the room, closing the door firmly after her.
The memory tugged at my heart. Until the empress’s arrival, this was the first and last time Ping’er had spoken to me of magic. Now I knew the secrets she had kept that night, those of my sealed powers. This discovery might
have upset me more had I learned it before the empress’s visit. But I found it no longer mattered—not now, after the storm had broken and swept me away. Though I could not help wishing that I had known of its existence, that I might have done something to prevent it.
The Keeper of Mortal Fates picked up a book, flicking
through its pages. “How old is he?” I blurted to Liwei as I stared at his snow-white hair.
The Keeper glanced up with a pained expression. “Do not comment on another’s age. It’s not considered good manners anywhere, especially in the Mortal Realm.” His manner was stern yet not unkind, as though warning me of others who might take offense more easily.
I murmured a hasty apology. But the moment the Keeper turned away, Liwei leaned closer to whisper, “Some immortals choose to no longer preserve their youth.”
“Because we prefer to preserve our wisdom,” the Keeper snapped. “Your Highness, I urge you to set a better
example for your study companion.”
I nodded somberly, ignoring Liwei’s glare—although I admittedly had a part in his rebuke. It was refreshing to hear someone, other than me, reprimanded for their conduct.
When the Keeper of Mortal Fates left, a tutor arrived to teach us about the constellations, then another, about
herbology. I was struggling to sit still during the lengthy lesson, delivered by an unsmiling immortal with a pointed chin and pedantic air. As my eyes glazed over the pictures of flowers, all of which were beginning to look the same, my hand flew to my mouth to stifle a yawn.
Perhaps sensing my wandering attention, the teacher swung around. “Xingyin, what are the properties of this
plant?” His tone was biting as he tapped the page in front of me with a slender bamboo cane.
I bolted upright, staring blankly at the picture of an
unremarkable pale-blue flower with pointed petals. “Star- lilies,” its title read. Unfortunately, no other information was forthcoming.
“Umm,” I glanced wildly at Liwei. He widened his eyes at me, before closing them and letting his head droop to one side.
“Sleep!” I cried out, catching his meaning.
The teacher’s mouth pursed. “Correct. Though bitter, this wildflower can be a potent sleeping drug when consumed with wine.”
“Thank you,” I whispered to Liwei.
“You’re welcome.” A small smile played on his lips.
I had just put away the books from the last lesson when a grim-looking immortal strode toward us, his boots clicking
against the marble floor. His lean face was unlined save for a deep crease in his brow and his dark hair was pulled into a topknot. His armor was crafted from flat pieces of shining white metal rimmed with gold, laced tightly together like scales over his shoulders and chest, reaching down to his knees. Red cloth covered his arms, gathered into thick gold cuffs around his wrists. A wide strip of black leather
encircled his waist, set with a disc of yellow jade. Strapped to his side was a large silver scabbard, from which
protruded an ebony hilt. The aura which rippled from him was as steady and strong as a sturdy oak of many years.
A Celestial soldier, just as those Ping’er and I had fled
that night. A chill settled over me, my fingers curling on the table. “Why is he here? Is there some trouble?”
“General Jianyun is the highest ranked commander in the Celestial Army. He’s here to instruct us in warfare.”
“Your Highness.” He greeted Liwei with a bow. As his gaze slid to me, the lines across his brow deepened.
“General Jianyun, this is Xingyin,” Liwei gestured to me.
I bowed to the general, but he did not respond. Beneath his piercing glare, I fidgeted, unsettled by the memories his presence evoked.
“Are you interested in warfare?”
I stiffened at his sharp tone even as I floundered for an answer. I had given little thought to the grand schemes of kingdoms battling for dominance, for glory, power, and pride. My desires were humbler, smaller. All I wanted to
learn was how to defend myself and protect those I loved. “I don’t know yet. This is my first lesson,” I replied. As his
expression darkened with disapproval, a spark of defiance kindled in me. “I am keen to learn. But a student’s interest also depends upon a teacher’s skill.”
His eyes bulged. I held my breath. Would he toss me out of the class? I would have deserved it, too, for my impertinence.
To my surprise, General Jianyun grinned instead. “Does Her Celestial Majesty approve of your companion?” he
asked Liwei with mock incredulity.
“My mother does not involve herself in such matters” was all Liwei said, as he flipped his book open.
Though the general’s expression was one of disbelief, he said no more on the subject.
By noontime, my head throbbed from learning and my
hand ached from writing. When we were dismissed for the afternoon meal, I was glad to escape to the kitchen.
Carrying the tray laden with food, I headed toward the pavilion outside the Chamber of Reflection. A small sign hung over it, painted in broad black strokes with the characters:
WILLOW SONG PAVILION
“A beautiful name.” I laid out the steamed fish, tender snow pea leaves, and eight-treasures chicken on the marble table.
“A fitting one, too,” Liwei replied, placing a finger to his lips.
I did not understand his meaning, but followed his lead to remain silent. When a breeze blew, the willows swayed,
dipping their branches into the clear water. As their
delicate leaves rustled against each another, the air filled with sighing whispers—an exquisite though melancholy melody. How it reminded me of the wind blowing through the osmanthus trees, the clink of my mother’s jade ornaments.
“Did you enjoy our lessons?” Liwei asked, breaking my reverie. He served a little of each dish onto my plate, in blatant disregard of convention.
“Some more than others,” I replied, recalling the tedious lecture on plants and herbs. “Especially General Jianyun’s.”
“I thought you would fall asleep in that class.”
“Why? Should girls only draw, sing, and sew?” I asked, thinking of Lady Meiling’s lessons, and my own with Ping’er.
“Of course not.” His tone was grave as he leaned forward like he was about to impart some great wisdom. “What
about having children?” There was a teasing glint in his eyes.
I choked on a piece of chicken I was chewing, with the
added indignity of having Liwei slap my back to dislodge it. Eager to change the subject, I said, “Well, I can’t draw, and you wouldn’t want me to sing.”
“Will you sew my clothes?”
“Not unless you want clothes with holes where they shouldn’t be.”
His fingers tapped the table contemplatively. “So, you can’t draw, sing, or sew. What about—”
“No!” I burst out, louder than intended, fighting down the flash of warmth across my skin.
He blinked, shooting me a look of innocence. “All I was going to ask was whether you would play your flute for me.”
Flute? I cursed inwardly, my wandering mind.
“What did you think I meant?” He shook his head in mock disapproval.
“Just that. Nothing else.” I grasped at the lie.
“How else might you compensate for your shortcomings? It appears you have many indeed.” As Liwei’s lips twitched, I suspected he was enjoying this far too much.
“The same way you can compensate for yours,” I retorted.
“Mine?” He sounded stung. A part of me wondered if anyone had ever spoken to him this way. “Name one.”
“Your manners?” I offered. “Your sense of superiority?
Your habit of interrupting your teachers? How you say such outrageous things to amuse yourself? Your—”
Liwei held up a hand, looking pained. “One was enough.”
I tried to keep a straight countenance through the mirth which bubbled up in me. How at ease I felt, my heart lighter than it had been in months. “Besides, I don’t believe playing music was included in my list of duties,” I added.
He picked up a glistening piece of white fish, inspecting it for bones before placing it on my plate. “You’re not very accommodating.”
I shot him my sweetest smile. “It depends on how you ask.”
He laughed, but then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for my mother’s order, that you were asked to attend to me as well. You don’t have to. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, when I want to.”
“I really don’t mind,” I said. “I’m glad to earn my keep. And if I don’t, someone might report back to Her Celestial Majesty.” She would be keen for the slightest excuse to dismiss me—of that, I was certain. Part of me was relieved that the empress showed me no generosity, because it
meant I owed her nothing. And Liwei did not make me feel like I was attending to him, but rather assisting him. A
small distinction, yet it made a world of difference to my pride.
“Thank you,” he said, rising to his feet. “Now, we must hurry. We have a long afternoon of training before us.”
My curiosity was pricked. “What training?”
“Sword fighting, archery, martial arts. If you aren’t interested, I can have you excused,” he offered, with a magnanimous sweep of his hand.
I forced myself to breathe deeply, to stem the exhilaration rushing through me like water streaming down a mountain after a burst of rain. My appetite was whetted after
General Jianyun’s lesson and I was eager to learn more about the skills which could help me become stronger. Powerful enough to withstand the winds of change or to shift its course, instead of yielding under the slightest
breeze. My imagination soared, unfettered, as I fantasized about flying home and breaking the enchantment that
bound my mother to the moon . . .
My voice shook with excitement. “Liwei, I’ll play the flute for you whenever you wish—as long as you don’t excuse me from those lessons.”
