Sugar with knives; proceed with caution.
As the lanterns were first lit, evening fell over the capital with an unusual chill. The snow came early that year: by morning on the twenty-ninth, heavy clouds had already begun letting down sparse salt-grain flakes, and by dusk, they had thickened into a fine downy layer that softly blanketed the palace eaves.
New Year pictures adorned the palace, and the door gods in gilded frames glowed upon every crimson palace gate, radiating awe and majesty. The young eunuchs, everywhere with their lanterns, hurried this way and that. Under the eaves of every hall and corridor hung colorful glass palace lanterns, each with five-colored tassels that swayed merrily in the snowy wind. The longevity banners before the Yingqian Hall stood tall and straight, as if piercing the clouds, each inscribed with different auspicious couplets.
A newly-arrived young eunuch, never having seen such splendor, looked up in amazement: everywhere, riches and honor, even people’s shadows seemed gilded at the edges. Gold dragons swirled across the vermillion spring couplets, dazzling in lantern light, looking as though the dragons might leap right off the panels. He stared in awe, only to be jolted to his senses when the chief eunuch snapped at him, nearly making him drop the jade wine vessel in his hands.
The chief eunuch scolded him soundly. “Country boy, you’ve never seen the world! If the Palace Directorate didn’t need extra hands, you’d never have gotten in! Once inside, hold your tongue—it’s New Year’s, say nothing unlucky, and don’t risk angering the Old Ancestor.”
The young eunuch nodded cautiously, then, after a while, crept up behind the chief and asked, “Is the Old Ancestor really so fearsome? W-what does he look like?”
“Is that something you’re allowed to ask?” the chief glared, eyes fierce. “Mind your wine and water! Once inside, neither gawk nor chatter! Be sharp!”
The young eunuch didn’t dare ask further. Only at the Directorate’s doors did he realize that over a dozen eunuchs were already waiting—some familiar, old townsmen from the chief’s hometown, along with a few minor stewards from the Imperial Household, carrying large and small gift chests, standing quietly, eyes down, awaiting their summons.
Unlike them, his group was only here to deliver wine and liquor—they had it easier, spared from waiting in the biting wind.
Once past the Directorate’s doors, the chief led him through several buildings, whispering, “See those? All here to pay homage to Ancestor Lian. If you could ever rise to that status, you’d be set for life in the palace. If fortune smiles and Ancestor Lian favors you, you’d be given a post with so many perks your mouth would drip with grease!”
The young eunuch blinked in confusion. “Really that good?”
“Wait and see. The best is still ahead!” The chief smirked and led the way forward.
Things already seemed as good as they could get—how grand must the best be? The young eunuch, filled with nervous excitement, stepped carefully in the chief’s tracks. The path, paved in neat pebbles, was dotted with tender young plum trees, not yet in bloom but meticulously tended and glossy with moisture.
At last, they reached Anrong Residence, deep within the Directorate. The place wasn’t large, with a thick felt curtain hanging over the entrance, and two cheerful-looking eunuchs standing guard. Warm light glowed from the windows, and laughter drifted out.
The chief addressed the doorkeepers: “From the kitchens, here with wine.”
The doorkeepers beamed. “Chief Steward, please come in!”
Clutching the wine, the young eunuch ducked his head and entered. As he lifted the felt, a wave of heat overwhelmed him—he, long accustomed to the cold, was momentarily stupefied by the warmth. When he came to, he marveled inwardly: Such good braziers! Ancestor Lian really lives up to his name!
In the outer room, several stewards from other offices sat sipping tea—figures so high and mighty, the young eunuch could only glance from behind. Even the kitchen’s chief only nodded in greeting before moving farther inside. Another layer of thick brocade curtain, more warmth—like spring itself had arrived. In the center, a large table, a beauty’s divan, and, across from it, a row of official chairs. Fragrant wine and fresh fruit filled the air—this was the main reception.
All seats were occupied except the one closest to the divan. The young eunuch, keeping his head low, was startled anew: every pair of boots, the hems of every robe, every glimpse of inner garment carried elaborate embroidery.
A crowd of senior eunuchs chatted and played the ‘Promotion Game’—every one a head steward or director of a major palace division, the “third-rank officials” of the eunuch world. These men schemed against each other by day, but tonight, they were all amiably gathered together, drinking wine and seeing in the New Year.
The figure on the beauty’s couch reclined gracefully by the armrest, accepting the spinning top for his turn once the player before him had finished.
“Ah, ‘Virtue’!” someone cried as the top stopped. “Another promotion! Director, you’re now a Hanlin academician!”
A plump, broad-faced eunuch rose, sleeves tucked, and gave the top a spin. When it stopped, he sighed, “Oh dear, Director Lian’s luck again—the top lands on ‘Corruption’ for me! If this keeps up, I’ll be farming back home soon!”
Laughter broke out. A fellow official held his sleeve, eyeing him sideways. “Lord Wu, if you’re demoted, let’s not forget our director here’s been promoted—you’ll have to provide a congratulatory gift before you leave for home!”
Reclining on the beauty’s divan, Lianzhi toyed with a dice, only smiling, saying nothing.
“How could I forget?” Lord Wu ingratiated himself, then clapped for a box to be brought forth. Everyone craned their necks. When the red silk was lifted away—gemstones glimmered, glass sparkled—a collective gasp filled the room.
A gold-wired, tourmaline plum blossom gemstone arrangement!
Glances flitted among the group: some irritated, some smug, more cursing inwardly—Wu Xiang was the head steward of the Imperial Household; what trinkets hadn’t he seen? Rumor had it the Emperor himself had delighted in two mythical jade planters last year, now nightly polished in the Empress’s palace for fear of even a mote of dust. Now this one, delivered straight to the Directorate—was it any less beautiful? If anything, even more lifelike!
With such a showpiece for comparison, who else’s gift could measure up?
Everyone smiled warily, each with their own schemes. Another round of the Promotion Game ensued. When the spinning top reached Lianzhi, he weighed it in his hand. His piece was near the center—just a few more wins, and he’d reach the summit. The others praised his luck—so many advances, so few setbacks. He smiled, spun the top, and once again landed on ‘Virtue.’
The gifts kept coming—a set of go stones in red and green agate with a white jade board.
He picked up a stone to inspect. A young attendant came to refill his wine, but as both reached at once, the wine splashed over Lianzhi’s sleeve. The kitchen’s chief instantly dropped to his knees, trembling, repeatedly apologizing.
The head warden from the prison division leapt up, sharp eyebrows and a cold expression. “What happened here?” he barked.
The kitchen chief, dragging the wine-pouring eunuch with him, kowtowed. “He’s new, unfamiliar with the rules—please, your lordships, forgive him…”
The warden’s brow darkened—he ordered the boy dragged out for punishment, about to call for guards, when Lianzhi on the divan cleared his throat, his voice cool and clear. “If the rules are not learned, then let him learn them again. On the eve of the new year, so quick to speak of beatings and killings—isn’t that cutting my own lifespan short?”
His words quieted the room. The warden forced a smile at once. “Rightly said, Director.” He glared at the kitchen staff. “Well? Get out of here!”
“Thank you, Director, thank you for your mercy!”
The kitchen chief pulled the young eunuch away. Legs trembling, the boy was about to retreat when Lianzhi lifted his gaze and looked him over. “Wait, come here. What’s your name?”
The kitchen chief nudged him desperately; the boy scurried forward, fell to his knees, and raised his head for Lianzhi to see—and so, for the first time, truly looked this “Old Ancestor” in the eyes. Draped in scarlet-violet, gold-embroidered robes falling like a waterfall of light, Lianzhi appeared not old at all but far too young, features surpassing those of any opera lead, gentle peach-blossom eyes exuding refined grace—he looked, he thought, like…
Like the scholar in the Promotion Game.
Flustered, he realized he’d been staring too long, and hastily kowtowed, stammering, “Replying to Old Ancestor—my name, given by the steward, is Anshun.”
“Calling me Old Ancestor—do I look that ancient?” Lianzhi laughed and glanced at the others.
The officials scrambled to cover the awkwardness with praise. “You’re not old, not old at all!”
At the doorway, the kitchen chief nearly burst with anger, itching to kick the boy’s backside—calling him “Old Ancestor” to his face?! That was how the servants referred to him behind his back! This director had entered the palace at eight, become head of the Directorate barely past twenty—by any dynasty’s standards, extraordinarily young. Now, in his thirties, he was unfathomable in expression. Who knew what hidden ferocity lay beneath? Rumor said his predecessor, his own sworn godfather, had been dismissed by Lianzhi—carved with over two thousand strokes outside the Wude Gate before dying!
If he treated his godfather thus, what leniency for others? You’d call him “Ancestor” too!
“Enough,” Lianzhi waved a hand, returning to the Promotion Game without another glance. “Anshun, was it? Stay here.”
Everyone was taken aback; even the kitchen chief needed a moment to react. When he did, he pulled Anshun down for another bow, weeping with gratitude. “Such grace for this foolish boy… Thank you, Director, thank you!” Seeing the youth still dazed, he nearly fainted with exasperation and gave him a swift kick. “What are you standing there for? Can’t you see you’re being given a golden chance?!”
The heavens themselves had dropped a treasure into his lap!
Jolted, Anshun hurried forward to kowtow and pledge loyalty.
Lianzhi spun the top, landing on “Merit,” and teased, “So many kowtows on New Year’s—is this a superstition for warding off evil?” With a casual flick, he tossed a glass bead from among those just won to Anshun. “Here, play with this.”
A single glass bead—nobody cared. Most just looked on, amused by the youth’s luck.
Fruit was brought up, and with more rounds of the Promotion Game, it became obvious even to a fool that the top was tampered with—all faces weighted, never once landing on “Corruption” for Lianzhi. The room’s other officials exchanged knowing glances, their pretense thin. The top spun from the prison warden back to Lianzhi, landing him on “Grand Tutor”—the highest post.
Everyone offered congratulations. The Promotion Game was tidied away, replaced with a deck of leaf-shaped playing cards.
Lianzhi took up his wine as the juniors shuffled, offhandedly asking the prison warden, “I heard the Geng fellow from the Ministry of Personnel is in your keeping. What did he do?”
The prison warden was closely tied to the Ministry of Justice—his cells held many a troublesome soul. It was said that when the criminal courts couldn’t get confessions, they sent them to the warden’s hands; nobody spoke of it, but everyone understood.
In the Ministry’s own words, he had “means.”
“Geng Zhaozhong? That’s right. Been detained for half a month. Not a huge matter, not a small one, either…” The warden mumbled, but seeing Lianzhi’s frown, finally gave in. “Pissed off the wrong people, that’s all. Someone doesn’t want him out; Geng’s but a fifth-tier clerk—he has no recourse.”
Another servant placed the gemstone planter from the Imperial Household by his side. Lianzhi turned a carved tourmaline branch, then tapped the table rhythmically. With that little “ta-ta,” he added, “I heard his wife’s family trades in ‘sourwood’—they run a bustling business, north and south.”
The warden hesitated, mind racing for the true meaning behind Lianzhi’s words. Realization dawned as he watched Lianzhi’s tapping fingers. He quickly raised a toast. “Director, ‘sourwood’ is just middling. If you’d honor his family, have them send a set of top-grade purple sandalwood chairs—filling your chamber with scent every night!”
Lianzhi smiled, lifting his own cup. “Let’s all drink—to wealth and fortune.”
“To fortune, to fortune!” The table cheered. “May spring bring blessings and long life!”
No sooner had they set down their cups than a young eunuch entered from outside, snow still melting on his brows. Bowing to Lianzhi, he announced, “Director, our Assistant Steward is busy attending to the Crown Prince and Her Majesty for the New Year’s vigil—Zhaohua Palace is short-handed, and the Emperor must be served as well. He truly cannot get away; he sends his regrets for not joining you here.”
The room hushed. Everyone, holding their cards, silently observed Lianzhi. He straightened, his face unchanged. “To serve one’s sovereign is paramount. It’s cold out—go back and wish your Assistant Steward health and long life for the New Year.”
The attendant made his courtesies and withdrew. Lianzhi raised his cup again. The others marveled at his composure; even after being publicly slighted by a mere upstart, he betrayed not a flicker, cheerfully unaffected. Especially considering that the current Assistant Steward of Zhaohua Palace had once been a nameless attendant under Lianzhi’s command—now, basking in Zhaohua’s favor, he had the audacity to lord it over his former master.
The Ritual Office scoffed, “Some people, unable to tell fragrance from filth, forget their own name.”
The prison warden chimed in, “Precisely! He’d be nothing without your patronage—just a foot-washer in those days. Now he’s climbed high, trying to kick you down—a thankless dog!”
Lianzhi played a card, unruffled. “If subordinates do well, we should be glad. Enough talk—whose turn is it next?”
The evening passed in lively games and gossip. As midnight struck, fireworks and firecrackers exploded outside, and one last round of toasts and auspicious greetings was exchanged before everyone finally departed for their own offices.
Once outside, each man loosened his breath. The Ritual Officer drew close to Wu Xiang of the Imperial Household, voice lowered, “Chief Wu, have you caught the rumors?”
Wu Xiang grew wary. “What rumors?”
Glancing both ways, the Ritual Officer whispered, “Half a year now, and that Assistant Steward of Zhaohua Palace hasn’t set foot in the Directorate. Prefers serving those two than appearing here.” He pressed his thumb subtly, glancing upward. “Word is, someone up top is finished—busy clearing a path for the Heir! Our man here suffered under Feng Jian in the past, and Lian’s his godson—how could he not be suspicious? The Assistant Steward knows the score, that’s why he’s swiftly distanced himself from us.”
Wu Xiang grabbed him, pulling him into a corner. “Where did you hear this? And you repeat it?!”
“What’s there to fear!” The Ritual Officer grinned. “Winds shift in the palace; now the east wind blows, but who’s to say tomorrow the west won’t prevail? You and I, we’re but kites on a string—choose the wrong wind and we’ll end up broken in the branches. We’re countrymen, ought to watch each other’s backs, no?”
He’d just sent that gemstone planter—if this really came to pass and implicated him… Wu Xiang shivered. The horrific fate of Feng Jian and his “direct line” eight years ago—executed, exiled, his kin ruined—was still vivid in memory; not quite nightmares, but close.
He’d been lucky not to attach himself to that party at the time, only barely scraping by to align himself with Lianzhi now.
How could it be, after barely eight years, that Lianzhi was already in jeopardy?
Within Anrong Residence, Wu Ji replaced the wicks in the lanterns, brought in a basin of water, then from his sleeve took out a silk handkerchief to gently polish the gemstone plum blossoms. Lianzhi had changed from his red-purple outer robes into a soft, close-fitting plain garment, sitting at his desk dealing with paperwork. Wu Ji, after checking the time and glancing at his master, ventured, “Director, half these pieces weren’t made in the palace. Should they also be cleaned through and donated to the Guangji Medical Bureau? Still best not to let Superintendent Yu know?”
“Mmm,” Lianzhi replied without looking up. “Don’t leave any trace.” Then, remembering something, he added, “That set of purple sandalwood furniture—don’t bring it into the palace. Have someone sell it for silver and find a way to get it back to the Geng family.”
This gemstone and jade plum arrangement was genuinely beautiful—yet no beauty could warm his heart. Wu Ji was less pained for the ornament than for Lianzhi himself. “What are you even doing this for?”
Lianzhi replied, “Their situation is difficult. The Tri-Res Library can’t support all of Guangji’s expenses. His own salary goes right back into the Supervision Office. Even if Prince Ji had endless wealth, he couldn’t carry it all alone. Little Miracle Doctor Yu’s aim is to benefit generations. We should help if we can. Besides, what use have I for these things—here, they’ll just gather dust.”
Wu Ji grew anxious. “That’s not what I meant! If you don’t want these things, don’t take them! I’ll clean up what can be laundered, but what about the rest? What about those account books, records—I keep saying burn them but you refuse. You say you don’t take bribes—who would believe it? If any of it’s found, it’s a disaster! Remember Feng Jian… He died for exactly this!” Wu Ji’s voice trembled. “Three thousand cuts, you’re not afraid?”
Lianzhi was silent for a long moment, finally setting down his pen with a sigh. “Wu Ji, have you heard something?”
Wu Ji mumbled, “No…”
“Dogs have dog holes, cats have cat tracks, eunuchs have their own ways.” Lianzhi said, “It’s not that I don’t refuse things—they wouldn’t let me. The roots of these connections run deep—without maintaining them, nothing I want to do could get done, and no one I’d help would be helped. As long as these waters are fouled, I can never be clean—unless I tie myself to them, they won’t go all out for my sake. Still, some people, some things—if I don’t help, if I don’t act…I’d regret it forever.”
He studied Wu Ji—a very young man, and it would be a shame if anything happened to him. “Look for a palace where you’d like to serve; I’ll see about a transfer. If you’d like, tell Fusheng to take you with him to Zhaohua.”
“I’m not going anywhere!” Wu Ji, knowing he couldn’t win this argument, fell silent, quietly wiping the gemstone tree. After a pause, he added, “Not even in death.”
Lianzhi could only shake his head helplessly.
After a moment, Wu Ji suddenly remembered, “That new boy, Anshun, is still kneeling outside for orders. Should I have him attend on you from now on?”
“Why would I need that?” Lianzhi frowned. “Just find him a suitable post.”
Wu Ji was puzzled. “I thought you took a liking to him…”
“He made a mistake in my presence—he’d have survived only a few days back in his old place. The boy’s so slow-witted, he’d have been killed without ever knowing the cause. They’re all born of fathers and mothers—if I didn’t take him in, he’d end up bundled in a mat and thrown out.”
Cradling the gem tree, Wu Ji muttered, “I think you ought to have some digestion tea.”
It took Lianzhi a moment to react. When he did, his laughter was mixed with exasperation. He threw a pen at Wu Ji. “Getting bold, aren’t you—daring to say I’m stuffed for no reason?”
Wu Ji bolted from the room.
Lianzhi returned to his bed, took a small wooden box from its secret compartment, and opened it to reveal a stack of letters, all bearing the same signature. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he opened them one by one; as his eyes traced each line, the fatigue on his face faded. By the end, an unconscious smile lifted the corners of his mouth. From his chest, he drew a fresh letter, on which delicate script read: “For Yunsheng’s attention”—each word seemed to drip honey. Lianzhi caressed the paper, reading those few words over and over.
Min Xuefei had only just returned from official business in Jinzhou—he’d be back for New Year’s, but they hadn’t seen each other in days. Lianzhi worried: had he tired himself out, was he losing weight? Slipping from bed, Lianzhi tried to write him a return letter on a plum-blossom notecard, yet after holding the brush for ages, he couldn’t begin—it was all too much, the words bottling up inside, all clamoring to escape but jamming together at his throat.
He set the brush aside and lay back down, pressing the thin paper against his lips as if in that way he could kiss the man outside the palace walls. However cold the palace night, as long as he could read Min Xuefei’s letters each day, Lianzhi’s heart was warm; let the sky fall—he had no fear.
Once more, he opened the letter.
Xuefei wrote: It shall not be long before we meet; wait for glad tidings.
A fresh longing trembled in Lianzhi’s chest.
–
The fifteenth day of the first month—the Lantern Festival. The Imperial Garden was adorned with all manner of lanterns, the opera house had performances from morning to night, maids and eunuchs decorated the stage and laid out offerings—just as every year, a dozen or more shows for the entire palace’s enjoyment. Even the princes and princesses, who rarely had such liberty, could feast their ears all day.
Among the lower seats sat the young, handsome Prince Yan Sinning, and beside him the Crown Prince. Dignified as a prince, yet perhaps not properly nourished from birth, he was nonetheless small for his eight years—his little form nearly hidden behind the tall table.
Yan Sinning had no complaint against the Crown Prince, even though the boy’s existence meant he would never sit on the dragon throne himself. But to Sinning, the palace’s intrigues had long become an object of scorn: father and son set against each other, brothers turning to enemies—all for a chair. Because of it, the legendary Prince Yue still languished in a lightless dungeon, seeking death yet unable to find it.
He would not repeat Prince Yue’s tragedy.
Each time he saw the carved, jewel-gripping dragon ceiling above, he felt suffocated—as if a sword’s point was poised overhead, ready to fall while he slept.
Prince Sinning fetched a soft cushion and placed it under the little Crown Prince, who, newly educated, was just starting to grow weary of his tutor’s endless lectures. The child understood little of the burden he was to bear; he was simply delighted to reach the dishes at table height, looking up at Sinning with a gap-toothed grin: “Thank you, big brother.”
Sinning smiled and drew the dishes closer for him.
The Crown Prince was well-behaved for a time, but he cared little for opera, the lanterns were all the same as last year, and soon boredom set in. After barely sitting through a few moments, he leaped down, grabbing his favorite dish of milk sweets, and scampered over to Sinning’s side. At the sight, the Empress started in alarm, and Fusheng moved to intercept, but the boy ignored all and squeezed in regardless.
Fusheng hurried after. “Your Highness! That’s His Eldest Highness’s seat, let us return.”
Sinning caught him up. “It’s fine, let His Highness sit here—no trouble.”
The little prince made a face, happily parking himself by Sinning’s side and munching his fruit.
On stage, a lilting southern song played, the tone’s silkiness unique to the region—clear and graceful, it was said to have been practiced all year by the musicians’ guild for this day. The musicians twirled their ribbons, singing and dancing, a marked contrast to the loud, windswept northern tunes: smooth as a mountain stream. Tapping his toes in time, Sinning was just thinking how gentle the music was when, at that moment, someone entered at his side—bringing that same gentle air with him.
Fusheng saw who it was, hesitated, but said nothing—he simply stepped back two paces, glancing at Lianzhi.
Lianzhi approached. Sinning heard him cough twice and asked, “What’s this—are you ill?”
“Thank you for your concern, Your Highness,” Lianzhi bowed his head. “Just a touch of the cold.”
The little prince kicked his feet and looked up at Lianzhi with exaggerated solemnity. “Director Lian must take care of his health!”
Lianzhi bowed lower, smiling. “My thanks to you as well, Your Highness.”
As one act ended, the Empress led a round of applause and rewards. Amid the hubbub, Sinning quietly held the Crown Prince and murmured, “Lord Geng went home the other day. The prison office didn’t trouble him much; he’s in no real danger, just a bit thinner… I had no idea he’d been transferred to their care.”
That phrase, though it sounded like talking to himself, was clearly for someone’s ears. Fusheng glanced at Lianzhi, who stayed silent as another performance started. Finally, as the first note of the warrior’s entrance rang out, a quiet voice from behind said: “Lord Geng is a man of virtue, much favored by His Majesty—he will be fine.”
The little prince, curious, craned over Sinning’s shoulder and found the Chief Supervisor smiling his way. The prince grinned back.
Evasive as it was, Sinning could only mock himself.
After two hours and more of performances, the little prince began to doze. Snuggled in Sinning’s arms, he drifted off as outside, midday snow still fell, white tiles stretching out in a blank expanse. On the wall, a row of cat paw prints—shaped like plum blossoms—led over the palace roof. Fusheng gently lifted the sleeping prince, reported to the Emperor and Empress, and carried him back to Zhaohua Palace. Before leaving, he cast Lianzhi a knowing look—there were words ready at his lips, but he said nothing.
Sinning straightened his robes—the child’s warmth still lingered where he had lain, a living stove of boundless yang energy. He glanced at Lianzhi, forever implacable, and could not help frowning. “Have you thought about your future?”
“Hmm? My future? What does Your Highness mean?” Lianzhi smiled. “My future is to serve until old age.”
Old age meant death. Eunuchs had no “future”; nor did they dare to dream of one.
Sinning was vexed by his evasion or feigned ignorance; deep down, he knew Lianzhi was not so simple, but no one knew his true thoughts. Suddenly, he recalled Min Xuefei—now a high official, rumored to be close with Lianzhi behind the scenes. Sinning had seen the two exchanging letters at the palace gates—perhaps more than letters passed between them… Did Min Xuefei know what lay in Lianzhi’s heart?
“Forget it,” Sinning said, rising to change clothes.
Just then, from the head table, a violent bout of coughing; a plate shattered. The Empress startled upright, caught the Emperor as his heavy form slumped against her, nearly dragging her down.
The play came to an abrupt halt. Panic erupted as the Empress lost herself. Lianzhi rushed forward to support the Emperor’s other arm, shouting at the top of his voice: “—Fetch the imperial physicians! Quickly, fetch the imperial physicians!”