Before the hour of the Dog arrived, in the thin dusk, Xiansi was receiving the handover keys and filling out the duty roster when Wang Fulu, who attended Liu Lun, suddenly came over and said to her, "Tonight, you will keep the night watch in the inner bedchamber and attend to His Majesty."
Xiansi was momentarily stunned. "As commanded."
Liu Lun had rearranged the night watch rotation because of Chen Bingzhong's death. But Chen Bingzhong had only been a gatekeeper in life, and Liu Lun had any number of adopted sons under him—any one of whom would have leapt at the chance to fill the vacancy. Why would Liu Lun surrender such a precious posting as the inner bedchamber?
She felt a natural dread before His Majesty, and being suddenly assigned to serve in the inner bedchamber, that dread spread into anxiety. The boundaries between her and the Emperor, in certain respects, seemed to be growing ever blurrier.
Servants keeping the night watch in the innermost bedchamber were not permitted felt mats; at most they crouched or sat through the night, keeping vigil over their master until dawn. If the master wanted water, they handed it over; if he coughed, they brought medicine; if he was cold, they added blankets; if he was hot, they fanned him. They listened carefully to whether the master's breathing was even through the night, whether he suffered nightmares—all of which served as vital evidence for the Imperial Medical Bureau's daily wellness pulse readings.
Because it offered the chance to be alone with the master in the dead of night, to stand closest of all, night watch had always been one of the most coveted posts.
The one who kept the vigil was also the master's most trusted servant, for the master's very safety at night rested entirely upon them.
Xiansi had risen to the very summit, yet felt no joy—only the chilling isolation of the summit.
For the higher one climbs, the harder one falls.
Night descended. Thin gray-blue clouds veiled the bright moon. Roof beasts stood upon the four ridges of the pointed roof, heads high and chests out, majestic and fierce, half-facing the moon, lurking in the darkness. The palace was like a great beast in deep sleep.
In the inner bedchamber, Xiansi used a pole to close the crimson-and-gold lattice panels, shutting out the blustering night wind. She laid out the bedding in advance, prepared the warm water, brewed the tea, and quietly awaited His Majesty's arrival.
The Emperor's private retreat was serene and ethereal. A Boshan incense burner slowly exhaled mist like the cloud-wreathed immortal isles of the sea; willow, lotus, white peach, pine, and cypress branches stood in the vases. At a glance, the room seemed wreathed in immortal vapors, open and uncluttered.
Heavy cloud-patterned curtains hung from the domed ceiling, adorned with pines, bamboo, clouds, and cranes; the pillows were embroidered with the stars of the Big Dipper. Light seemed to rise from the still, empty room—at once a sleeping chamber and a private domain perfect for meditation and prayer to the immortals.
From the arrangement of the chamber, one could see that he was a man of utmost cleanliness and quiet, without the slightest trace of the gaudy, gold-and-silver opulence of past emperors, and little bound by convention and rules. At the same time, he was a deeply controlling man—rational, orderly, meticulous to a hair. Every inch of the room's arrangement bore the imprint of his singular controlling style, ordered precisely as he wished.
Such a talent for arranging a space… If he arranged objects so, how much more so people—whether high ministers of the Grand Secretariat or palace servants of the inner court.
Xiansi seemed to sense something, but she was given no time to dwell on it.
"Greetings, Your Majesty." When the Emperor arrived, Xiansi bowed low, head lowered, lashes fluttering like fans.
Hanzheng sat down, his tall, austere figure colder than a sword. With a tacit understanding, Xiansi moved forward two steps on her knees, her expression steady, and helped him out of his outer garments—far more practiced now than the flustered fumbling of the first time.
"So it's you."
He spoke flatly, his gaze like a nail.
"From now on, this servant will attend Your Majesty as you sleep."
She explained with lowered brows and downcast eyes.
Hanzheng's clothes were thin, his hair threaded with tiny droplets of water, carrying a light chill—freshly bathed, cool and unencumbered.
Perhaps because the inner bedchamber was so still, Xiansi's nerves jumped and jangled, and the very air around her seemed to grow a degree colder.
He didn't ask much about the night watch, for the change in personnel was one he had orchestrated himself. As the Emperor, whatever he wanted never needed to be spoken aloud—a single glance sufficed.
The bright candle flames flickered and danced, dazzling to the eyes. Xiansi folded the clothes he had removed, then covered the candle with a shade. At once, soft, dim light suffused the room, draped in a layer of black gauze.
With a dry towel laid flat across her arm, Xiansi asked, "Shall this servant dry Your Majesty's hair?"
Tonight, Hanzheng's bearing was sharp-edged, swirling with cold vortexes, as unapproachable as sheer cliffs. Yet he also carried a trace of human warmth—for Xiansi's suggestion, he offered compliance, making no trouble of it.
"Mm."
Xiansi then gently toweled his ink-black hair, her pressure gradually increasing, her heart in her throat the whole while. Her knees were extremely close to the dragon bed, nearly pressed against it—because he had not turned aside, she could only reach his hair from this somewhat awkward position.
His Majesty was extremely protective of his private space, and serving a monarch is like keeping a tiger as a companion—even the slightest misstep in a glance could invite catastrophe.
Xiansi was grateful that his ink-black hair was already half-dry, and with the room already warm, the task would soon be finished. Otherwise, to spend a long while with her breath mingling with His Majesty's faint breathing—she dared not imagine how her scalp would prickle.
The candle, long deprived of air beneath its shade, had withered considerably. The room was steeped in a misty darkness; people, affairs, and objects were all blurred, and in the shadows one could scarcely distinguish what was inches away.
Such light was clearly unsuitable for seeing. Xiansi hesitated over whether His Majesty intended to retire at once—if so, the candles should be extinguished entirely; if His Majesty still wished to read by night, they would need to be trimmed brighter.
"Your Majesty, please rest."
She knelt before him in a formal posture, her manner docile. She judged that His Majesty held no book in hand and meant to retire directly. Tonight she was to keep vigil duty; a corner outside the bed curtains would be where she belonged.
Yet Hanzheng showed none of the drowsiness of one about to sleep. On the contrary, his mind was terrifyingly lucid.
He asked quietly, "You presume to decide for me?"
Xiansi was startled with dread, thinking it an ironic prelude to punishment. In the palace, meals and sleep were matters of the utmost importance—only the master might give commands, and no one else dared offer suggestions.
Listening closely, His Majesty's tone was even, without any sarcastic, mocking undertone.
"This servant dares not decide for Your Majesty."
She swallowed, then immediately corrected herself, leaving no opening for criticism: "If Your Majesty wishes to read or attend to anything else, this servant will serve you."
Hanzheng sat upon the bed; Xiansi knelt with bowed head upon the floor—one above, one below, a natural gulf between them.
He gazed at her. She trembled all over; he was so terrifying that she dared not look up at him. The more afraid she was, the more he stared.
That fawning manner of hers was the habitual posture of palace servants. Yet there was something different—other servants' flattery came from the marrow of their bones, while hers was deliberately learned, laced with falseness.
The air froze, thick with something unspeakable.
Xiansi's thoughts surged like a tide.
When it came to attending a master at bedtime, she was truly not a nimble servant. Never mind pretty words—she could barely carry the proceedings forward normally… Or perhaps it was because this was her first time attending at bedtime, and she did not know the procedure.
Whatever the reason, caught in this predicament, with the imperial mind as unfathomable as an abyss, her throat felt stuffed with thick cotton wadding.
From bowing her head so long, her neck ached as if a weight were pressing upon it. She was uncomfortable, yet dared not say so, nor even stir slightly, fearing a breach of etiquette before the throne—one mistake, and she would be beyond all redemption.
At that very moment, two slightly cool knuckles of Hanzheng's hand suddenly settled beneath her chin.
Xiansi, dazed, lifted her face.
In that instant, everything around them blurred.
He merely extended his fingers, his upper body unmoving. Xiansi's whole body was taut; she had no right to pull away on her own, and could only lean forward, straining to accommodate his movement.
Only now did she truly see him—his waist leaner than she had imagined, his shoulders broader, an absolute sharpness, a coldness akin to a weapon, as if he could cut a gash in the very air.
He gripped her chin, seemingly without purpose, simply because he wished to.
"Your Majesty…"
Hanzheng gazed at her so intently, as if to imprint every inch of her into his mind. Her brow and the bridge of her nose formed a graceful, smooth curve; his palm shifted slightly, moving with excruciating slowness, so as to savor the full sensation of her jaw.
"What are you thinking?"
His eyes were sharp as moonlight on a cold pool, capable of piercing right through her.
"This servant dares not think."
She held her slender neck stiff, gazing up at him from below.
By now, the candles had burned themselves out entirely, and the two of them, master and servant, one sitting and one kneeling, remained silent in the bone-chilling darkness.
Together, yet lost in different thoughts, both savoring what lingered.
The hour was truly, truly late.
Hanzheng rubbed his fingertips together, stopping at the merest taste. The moon's shadow, drifting behind the clouds, fell upon the bed curtains, flickering bright and dim.
After a moment, he patted her face:
"Settle down for the night."
The languid haze that had suffused the room was dispelled by that brief command. The chamber returned to solemnity, gravity, darkness, clarity, and cleanliness—as if the transgression between them had never existed.
The cold moon hung high; her heart felt heavy and stifled.
Xiansi, as if granted a pardon, returned to her place as a servant. Her turbulent thoughts were quickly suppressed, and the warmth of his touch soon faded.
She reacted swiftly, properly extinguishing the spent candles, lowering the curtains, and offering a silent formal kneeling salutation.
For a long while, her heart pounded like a drum, impossible to calm. Her mind was filled with strange, kaleidoscopic thoughts, like a thousand tangled threads she could not begin to untangle.
The night had only just begun.
His Majesty's sleep was pure—not a single sound could be heard, as if time itself had stopped flowing.
Xiansi's duty tonight was vigil duty. With her master sound asleep, she stayed at the corner of the bed curtains, separated from him by a single layer of fabric.
The night deepened.
It was early summer; the charcoal fires had long been put out. The dew grew heavy as the hours wore on, and sitting too long brought a chill.
By the rules, she was to remain awake all night—yet from within the curtains, his voice drifted out:
"Go rest."
It stood out starkly in the silent darkness.
Xiansi heard it clearly.
Keeping vigil was arduous work, but it was also an honor.
To receive the honor of the vigil without bearing its hardship—what extraordinary fortune.
"I thank Your Majesty—"
In the alcove adjoining the sleeping chamber stood an Arhat couch. She lay there, legs curled up in perfect propriety, quietly waiting for the darkness to pass.
She did not sleep all night.
…
The morning sun burst forth, the sky clean as a mirror.
The clouds were glossy as enamel, drifting slowly. The Palace of Heavenly Purity stood like a red-and-gold picture frame, filling the painting with azure sky. A flock of pigeons, feathers white as snow, was released—the finest embellishment upon the canvas.
Mornings at the Palace of Heavenly Purity were always busy. The servants each attended to their duties, scrambling to get through their tasks, signaling to one another with covert glances, putting on their most winning smiles—mopping floors, burning incense, delivering the morning meal—hurrying along on quick little steps to ensure the master's day began smoothly.
Xiansi had served in the inner bedchamber the night before, surpassing Liu Lun, and was already regarded as the foremost figure. The way the servants looked at her held awe mixed with caution, and within that caution, a barely perceptible thread of admiration and fawning, faintly glimmering through.
Such rapid promotion was legendary among the palace maids.
Xiansi herself showed no arrogance. When she held her breath and composed herself, she was solemn and dignified, no different from usual. The work in her hands was still done quickly and steadily, with composure and diligence.
Liu Lun asked her, "How did last night's duty go?" she answered, "Well enough." Her expression was somewhat distant, her thoughts heavy, as if unwilling to say more.
Though experienced, Liu Lun was a bit at a loss. "You mustn't be impatient serving His Majesty," he said. "Take it slowly."
Xiansi kept her head down, continuing her work without pause. Compared to before, she had grown more silent and withdrawn.
Liu Lun privately reasoned that they must have misunderstood—His Majesty merely found her convenient to use.
After all, she was just an ordinary palace maid, worth less than a cat or dog raised by a master. Emperors taking notice of palace maids existed since ancient times, but those were absurd plots from operas and storybooks—unlikely to happen with the present Emperor, so disciplined and austere.
In reality, masters were masters, and servants were servants.
Moreover, His Majesty was soon to be wed; the future Empress had already been decided.
When His Majesty departed, the entire palace's servants prostrated themselves on the ground in neat, solemn order. His Majesty passed by, neither cold nor warm, proceeding as usual, without so much as a glance at Xiansi or any other servant. An invisible barrier stood between master and servants.
Only after the imperial procession had completely vanished did Xiansi straighten up from among the mass of dark-clothed servants, her movements sluggish.
Liu Lun, Wang Fulu, and the others who knew the inside story instinctively glanced at her, their gazes faintly appraising.
Xiansi tried her best to ignore those looks.
Last night's events were still clearly etched in her mind, every detail vividly alive—even now, her chin still retained the warmth of his touch.
Her heart was in turmoil, but not from embarrassment. She had no such delusions of ascending from the dust to become a phoenix. Last night, she had genuinely been frightened.
Nor did she have the misplaced pride of defying her master.
The crux was that she didn't know what to do. The senior maids taught her the rules, the duties, how to serve His Majesty—but no one had ever taught her how to serve a man.
She was cautious and careful, not daring to refuse, yet not daring to take initiative either, like someone trembling on a tightrope stretched between two abysses. Bewildered… like buckets bobbing up and down in a well… lost in a fog.
Such matters relied entirely on one's own comprehension; no one would point the way. How high she could climb, how hard she could fall, what fortune might befall her—all depended on herself alone.
She wanted to win the Emperor's favor; no sacrifice was too great. But in practice, her efforts backfired—the more she tried to do something, the more the actual result moved in the opposite direction.
Men and women were kept apart. Traditionally, only eunuchs kept watch in the inner bedchamber at night—never a palace maid. His Majesty breaking precedent by summoning Xiansi into the inner bedchamber carried an unmistakable implication. Unfortunately, Xiansi was too dull to perceive it, failing His Majesty's expectations.
For the first time, she realized she could not control her own fate.
When she had been a lowly servant, she had always believed that human will could conquer heaven. Rules, duties, the ways of the world—these could all be mastered. As long as one worked hard enough, things would unfold as one wished.
Now, serving His Majesty, the established rules had become guidelines the master could change at any moment on a whim. Her efforts had become dispensable, tossed about by fate, unable to find even a single foothold.
She agonized over it again and again, like a trapped beast at the bottom of a well. Servants in the palace had no means of saving themselves; they could only wrap themselves deeply in thick walls, numbing themselves with self-deception.
She let out a deep sigh—disillusioned, dejected, but not entirely defeated. Deep down, she still held onto hope for a comeback. Perhaps life had merely hit a rough patch; once she got through it, the skies would clear after the storm.