The water dropped in the water clock beside me. Nine. Where were they? They must hurry…
I rose, patting the side of my Cloudy Chignon, the elaborate hairstyle I had finally mastered. A few strands had fallen on my shoulders, and the loose knot that should have sat on top of my head had slumped sadly to my right ear. I wished I could make myself look more presentable, but we were not allowed to leave the chamber. The physicians had ordered me and the other Talents to stay with the Emperor at all times. I had not bathed for two months, or looked at myself in the bronze mirror, or put on my white face cream. My hair, which had once been soft and fragrant, now felt heavy and lumpy on my neck, and the green robe I wore had turned brown, stained with splashes of herbal remedies.
The thought whispered to me again. I peered at him. What if he died tonight? What would happen to me and the other women who served him when he did die? I quickly smothered the thoughts. I should not think of those questions, for it was treason to ponder on the Emperor’s mortality…
But all the titled women in the Inner Court must have wondered about their fate these months while he lay there unresponsive. After all, it was the unspoken law that we, as the Emperor’s women, should never feel the warmth of another man’s arms again after the Emperor’s death. There must have been a plan for us. Yet no one openly talked about it, even though the ladies gathered together in the courtyard every morning, whispering, their eyes misty with tears.
I wished I could listen to the Duke and the Secretary, the two highest-ranking ministers, when they came to visit the Emperor. But they had many important matters to discuss and did not seem to pay attention to us. And Pheasant. He was busy too, and I had not yet had an opportunity to ask him about our fate.
But no matter what the plan was for us, I knew one thing was for sure: after the Emperor’s death, Pheasant—my Pheasant—would be the ruler of the kingdom. He would look after me and my future.
And he had promised… The empress of bright moon, he said…
My heart warm with joy, I glanced at the doors. Pheasant and the Duke should have arrived by now. I wondered what the delay was.
A soft drizzle fell outside, light, persistent, carrying a pleasing rhythm that reminded me of the sound of baby silkworms devouring mulberry leaves. It was the fifth month of the year, a good time to have some rain. I yearned to go outside, feel the raindrops on my face, and smell the fresh air, for the bedchamber was veiled with the thick scent of incense, ginseng, musk, clove, dried python bile, and the unpleasant odor of death. I had been inside for so long, I supposed I smelled just like the chamber. I knew my fellow Talent, Daisy, did, as well as the others who yawned in the corner. Each time one of them passed me, I could name the herb in her hair.
Footsteps rose in the dark corridor, and red light from many lanterns poured through the doors. Finally, Pheasant and the Duke entered the chamber, their wet robes clinging to their chests. The physician, Sun Simiao, followed behind.
I retreated to the corner, giving them space, as they had asked each time they came, although I wished to stand right beside them and listen to what the physician had to report. When he examined the Emperor earlier, he had sighed heavily.
The men whispered in low voices, their eyes on the Emperor. The Duke sighed and sniffed, running a hand over his face. Pheasant, surprisingly, looked somber, although his eyes glittered.
“Crown Prince,” the physician said, stepping aside to the screen, and Pheasant and the Duke followed him. “We have done the best we could. But I’m afraid I must tell you the dreadful news. The One Above All will not see the dawn’s light.”
My heart jerked. I tried to remain motionless.
“I understand.” Pheasant’s voice was soft and sad, and I stole a look at him. His eyes sparkled in the candlelight near the screen. His face was thinner, his jawline more refined than ever, and he had grown a beard.
I remembered how grief-stricken Pheasant had been when he learned the Emperor had become ill last year. For days, Pheasant had stood by the bedside, with us women scurrying from the physicians’ herb chamber to the courtyard, carrying bowls of medicine. When we fed the Emperor, Pheasant, careless of his own life, would taste the liquid first, to ensure it had not been mixed with any pernicious ingredient by a vicious hand. When some of us fell down in fatigue after days without sleep, he would tell us to rest and watch the Emperor himself. He was a dutiful son, and I was not sure the Emperor deserved him.