Pheasant moved out of the palace a few days after we said good-bye. The Emperor had given him a house outside the palace. The servants whispered about the woman the Emperor had chosen for him. She was from the prestigious Wang family and had a love for animals. Many believed she was a good choice.
And, to my great dismay, the shameless Rain, more wicked than anyone I knew, even Jewel, gave birth to a baby boy, for she had lain with Pheasant after I left him last year. I did not sleep well after hearing the news. I hoped the Emperor would punish her severely for having an illicit relationship with Pheasant, but he did not. Because she bore a precious son, the Emperor not only forgave her, but also ordered the celebration of the birth with great pomp. He even decreed that Rain serve Pheasant from now on and become an official member of his household. She was to be his concubine.
Suddenly, Pheasant, my Pheasant, the love of my heart, was a husband of another woman, a father with a newborn son.
On the night when the palace celebrated Pheasant’s son, the Emperor danced, laughing, spilling too much wine. I stayed in a corner while Pheasant drank with the others. When court protocol forced me to toast to him, I approached his table, knelt before him, and congratulated him.
He raised his head, his eyes two deep wells of anguish. But there was nothing we could say, with Rain sitting at his right, holding her newborn. I held my head low and poured wine into his cup.
The amber stream cascaded like a waterfall of tears.
? ? ?
The Emperor retracted Taizi’s allowances and forbade his activities in the Archery Hall, the imperial stables, the libraries, even the parks. Neither was he welcome at any formal gatherings. The heir retreated to his residence and spent all his time hosting wrestling tournaments. Sometimes, when I woke in the night, I heard the men’s boisterous laughter and drunken shouts echo in the distance. I thought about how tenderly Taizi had bound his lover with the strip of cloth and how his hands had trembled when he’d heard the Emperor’s order. I understood the hollowness in his voice, and I knew his pain was as real as mine.
And the Emperor, oh, he had changed as well. He even lost the last vestige of handsomeness. His cheeks sagged, and the right side of his face seemed somehow longer than the left side. He could not hold his sword anymore. The blade lay at his fingertips, but he simply could not reach out and hold it.
Still, he summoned us to his chamber, following the bedding schedule, but when I, together with the other Talents, went to his chamber, he always sat in the circle of candles, holding the goblet with his good left hand. As always, he did not trouble to bed us or ask us to seduce him. Rather he ordered us to stay in a corner far from his stool. Walking in front of him was forbidden. When someone did, he would hold his head and cry out, “Shadows, shadows!” as if they gave him a terrible headache.
He also ordered his dress maids—not me, never me—to read poems or summoned his musicians to play percussion and windpipe music until dawn. But he listened to none of these—his snore was louder than the music. And as soon as their recitals stopped, he woke with a start. It seemed he was afraid of going to sleep.
His nights with other ladies went worse than mine, I heard. He cursed, kicked, threw things, and when the ladies begged him to stop, he would jerk back, as though suddenly awake, and then he would weep. Sometimes, in his exhaustion, he would curl up in his oversize bed and doze, and then in the morning, when I received the linen sheets from his chambermaids, they were often soiled and stained with his essence.
Why had he changed so? Was it because of the ghost of his brother? I would never know, perhaps, and I was careful not to talk about the Emperor with Plum or Daisy.
? ? ?
“Perhaps, the One Above All, it is time to revisit the Art of Bedchamber.” The Taoist astrologer’s voice resonated through the Audience Hall as I waited in the antechamber.
I wished the audience would end quickly. I had lost interest in the Emperor’s governing strategies and the events happening in our kingdom. When I listened, I felt a thick, lethargic stupor clouding my head. It seemed to me the Emperor was not interested in audiences either. These days, he did not come to the audience very often. When he did, it was short and tedious, and his ministers had to wait outside in the corridor rather than inside.
The Emperor’s meeting with the astrologer was unplanned. He had complained of an ache on his face, or inside his mouth, which he did not seem to be sure. So he had consulted with imperial physicians, and the physician Sun Simiao had prescribed him pills for a toothache. But the Emperor had also summoned the astrologer for his opinion.
“The cure of a man by a woman is the true cure in the universe. Many practice it, but few succeed,” the astrologer said. “The essence escapes, a man’s spirit weakens, and a woman, in return, is strengthened.”