Chapter 12
2239words
I lifted it up and held it against the light. The liquid swirled, its color resembling day-old tea, yet its smell was sickeningly sweet. The young eunuch said it was grape wine offered as tribute from the Western Regions, mixed with almond. I had tasted the unpoisoned version before and knew that real grape wine should be astringent, but this pot was suspiciously sweet.
I brought the spout to my lips, then set it down again. It wasn't fear, I just wanted to take a good look at this room.
The sandalwood screen was still the old one, with its embroidered pattern of birds paying homage to the phoenix now faded, and a gold thread missing from the phoenix's tail—I had torn it off in a fit of rage twenty years ago. That was the year Duke Henry had just left, and I stabbed at the screen with scissors in the middle of the night, sending wooden splinters flying everywhere. The next day Lord Marcus came, silently swept up the broken pieces, and stacked them one by one in the corner. Thinking back now, he knew even then that this day would come.
The bronze mirror reflected my face. Thirty-six years old, with wrinkles piling at the corners of my eyes, like crumpled rice paper. I reached out and rubbed them, but the wrinkles remained. My mother was the same age when she killed Lady Han. She smiled at the mirror and said, "A woman past thirty-five should learn to prepare her own coffin." I was hiding behind the curtain then, secretly watching, thinking she looked like a man-eating yaksha. Now it's my turn to look in the mirror, and the yaksha has become myself.
The night drum sounded. Three beats, slow and lingering, like urging death to come.
I picked up the wine flask again. This time I didn't hesitate, tilting my head back for a large gulp. The cloyingly sweet wine slid down my throat, like swallowing a mouthful of scalding honey. Then came bitterness, so bitter my tongue went numb—the taste of almonds.
My stomach began to cramp, as if someone was stirring it with a rolling pin. I sat down holding the edge of the table, hearing my teeth chattering. As the pain darkened my vision, I suddenly remembered what Lord Marcus had said: when Death Potion takes effect, people curl up like shrimp. I tried to straighten my legs, but found my knees no longer obeyed me.
"Taiping."
Who was calling me? The voice seemed distant, as if through a veil. I looked up to see my mother standing in front of the screen, still wearing that black robe with golden dragons embroidered on the collar. She reached out to touch my face, her fingers ice-cold, carrying the scent of ambergris.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
I nodded. It hurt, hurt so much I wanted to roll on the floor.
"Good that it hurts," Mother smiled, "When I drank the poison back then, it was ten times more painful than this."
Her face began to blur, turning into Prince Edward. The young man wore dragon robes, stood with a straight back, but his eyes were as red as a rabbit's. His lips trembled, and after a long while he forced out: "Aunt, may you rest in peace."
I wanted to scold him, but when I opened my mouth, I vomited blood. The blood splattered on my lotus-colored skirt, like scattered red plum blossoms. This skirt was made the year I first married, and now it felt tight—apparently all the flesh accumulated over thirty years had gathered at my waist.
The ceiling was spinning. The carved beams transformed into a black dragon, opening its mouth to devour me. I reached out to grab something and caught hold of the hanging tassels. Red tassels, their ends long bare, hung there years ago for Duke Henry to see. On our wedding night, he clumsily broke three of them, and I laughed so hard I couldn't straighten up. Now the tassels remain, but the person has long turned to ash.
"Peace... peace..."
This time it was Lord Marcus's voice. He crouched by the bedside, fanning himself with that broken fan, the characters "spirit and integrity" on its surface blurred by sweat stains. I reached out to touch his face, but what I felt instead was a scalding hot wine flask. The poisoned wine trickled down from the corner of my mouth, staining my front lapel dark red.
The pain wasn't so intense anymore; numbness was setting in. Starting from my fingertips, it gradually crept upward, like being soaked in ice water in winter. I saw my hands trembling, my nails turning bluish-purple—these hands that had once strangled throats and torn up imperial edicts now couldn't even hold a wine cup steady.
Lily was crying. This girl had been with me since she was little, and her crying sounded like a cat's mewl. She knelt on the footstool, clutching my ankle, her tears soaking through my sock. I wanted to tell her not to cry, but when I opened my mouth, only more bloody foam came out. The blood carried the taste of wine, the flavor of almonds, and an indescribable fishy sweetness.
"Your Highness...please open your eyes and look at this servant..."
Look at what? Everything I see is black. Mother's black robe, Prince Edward's dragon robe, Duke Henry's coffin, all black. It seems before death, the world becomes a large black cloth, swallowing all colors.
I vaguely hear hoofbeats outside. Clip-clop, clip-clop, coming closer, then fading away. Is it Chongjian running? That child has always feared the dark, and now that night has fallen, why is he running? I struggle to crawl toward the window, my nails scraping white marks on the blue brick floor. The window paper is torn, wind pours in, making the candle on the table flicker.
The candle is white, its flame blue, like a ghost fire. I remember when I had a fever as a child, mother watched over me the same way, wiping my forehead with a hot towel. Back then she would hum soft, gentle tunes: "The crescent moon shines over the nine provinces..." Now the moon is no longer crescent, it shines upon Prince Edward's new palace.
The poison has reached my chest. My heart pounds as if it would break my ribs, and I can't catch my breath. I lie on my back and see a white silk rope hanging from the beam—it was prepared earlier but never used. Perhaps it's better this way; hanged people have their tongues sticking out, which is unsightly. Lying like this, at least I look like a sleeping noblewoman.
"Taiping!"
Who's shaking me? With such force that my bones might come apart. I struggle to open my eyes and see Chong Jian kneeling by my bed, his face streaked with tears. This child has grown so thin, his cheekbones protruding like those of a half-starved monkey. In his hand, he clutches a yellow scroll bearing a bright red imperial seal.
"His Majesty... has granted the surname Li..." he sobs with hiccups, "From now on... your child will be called Li Chong Jian..."
I tried to smile, but my lips cracked, oozing blood. Li Chongjian, what a beautiful name, much easier on the tongue than Xue Chongjian. The Xue family is long gone, what's the point of keeping the surname?
"Mother... say something..."
Say what? Tell him to live well? Tell him not to be like me? My tongue was so swollen it filled my mouth, allowing only "huh huh" sounds to escape. Chongjian put his ear close to my mouth, hearing only the soft popping of blood bubbles.
The watch drum sounded again. Two beats this time, the death knell before an execution. Stars began to appear before my eyes, one after another, bursting into red. Red dress, red candles, red blood, red seal ink... red so bright it made one drowsy.
The last person I saw was Lord Marcus. He stood before the screen, wearing that moon-white shirt with mud spots on the hem. He reached out to pull me, his fingers passing through my wrist—so I could no longer touch him.
"Let's go," he said, "if we don't leave now, we'll miss seeing the new emperor's coronation."
I looked down and saw myself still lying on the bed, my face pale, with blood stains at the corner of my mouth. My lotus-pink dress had been stained purple by blood, like a moldy rag. So it's true that when people die, their souls really do float out.
The floating sensation was light, like a kite I flew as a child. I followed Lord Marcus through the window, passing through the carved doors, through the corridors, through that lotus pond where corpses had floated. The pond had dried up, with koi fish bones buried in the silt.
The imperial palace was in the distance, brilliantly lit. Prince Edward stood on the vermilion steps wearing dragon robes, his chin held high. He had grown thinner, with tears at the corners of his eyes, but his lips were curled upward. Drums and music sounded in unison as hundreds of officials shouted "Long live the emperor!" The sound was so powerful it made even souls tremble.
"Quite a spectacle, isn't it?" Lord Marcus asked me.
I nodded. Lively, much livelier than my Princess Mansion.
"Any regrets?"
I shook my head. No regrets, just a bit hungry. The poisoned wine wasn't served with appetizers, drinking on an empty stomach hurts the belly.
Chongjian knelt at the very back, dressed in plain white mourning clothes. In his hands, he held my memorial tablet, with "Princess Grace of National Pacification" written in cinnabar. The tablet was roughly made, but the characters were written meticulously, each stroke like carving on wood.
My spirit began to waver, starting to sink downward. Lord Marcus grabbed my hand, his palm empty—ghosts cannot touch ghosts. We were like two leaves, spinning in the wind.
"It's time to disperse," he said. "The new emperor is proud and won't tolerate old ghosts."
I saw my fingers becoming transparent, like sugar syrup melting in the sun. In my last moment of consciousness, I heard Prince Edward reciting the funeral oration. His voice was clear, carrying that unique crisp quality of youth:
"My aunt has rendered great service to the state and shown kindness to the imperial family..."
Bullshit. I've killed more people than he's ever seen. But the voice sounds nice, like the tune my mother used to hum when putting me to sleep as a child.
Before completely dispersing, I took one last look at Chongjian. He was looking up at the sky, thousands of lights reflecting in his eyes. I wasn't among those lights. From now on, his surname is Li, not Xue.
My soul shattered into thousands of pieces, each one red. Red like the silk flower I wore when I came of age, red like the wedding candles on our first night, red like the blood mixed in the poisoned wine.
It's all over now.
——Many years later, Prince Edward was drinking in the imperial garden.
The peonies were in full bloom, red and white ones crowded together. He sat alone in the pavilion, holding an old wine pot with a crack in it. When a young eunuch offered to replace it with a new one, he waved his hand: "This pot... was used by someone from the past."
Flower petals fell, one sticking to the spout of the pot. As he reached out to brush it away, he seemed to see the petal transform into blood, dripping down the spout.
"Your Majesty?" A young eunuch approached, "You don't look well..."
Prince Edward shook his head and took a gulp. The wine was sweet, with the bitterness of almonds.
As the wind passed through, the peony bushes rustled, sounding like a woman laughing. He turned around abruptly, but amid the shifting flower shadows, there was nothing.
"Everyone leave." He waved, dismissing those around him, then poured himself a full cup and raised it to the empty air. "Aunt, this cup is for you."
The swirling wine reflected the image of a young woman in a red dress from thirty-six years ago. She stood among the peonies, looking back with a smile, her features as vivid as life.
Prince Edward drained the cup in one gulp. The wine was cold, burning his throat.
Beneath the peonies lay thirty-six jars of maiden red wine. Princess Grace had buried them years ago, promising they would be dug up for Chongjian's wedding. Now Chongjian's hair had turned white, but the wine jars remained in the earth, untouched by anyone who dared.
Prince Edward touched the crack on the wine pot. That crack was from when it was dropped that year—dropped by Princess Grace. She smashed the pot and said: "Li Sanlang, remember this, this empire bears the surname Li, and also Wu, but will never bear the surname Xue."
Now the empire bears the surname Li, not Wu, and certainly not Xue.
He smiled slightly and placed the wine pot upside down on the table. The last drop of wine fell, hitting the bluestone floor, looking just like a drop of blood.
The wind stopped, and the peonies ceased swaying.
