Moonlight spilled through the latticed window like cold water pooling on the floor. As he was to change his garments, only she and His Majesty remained in the alcove.
His Majesty said, "Rise."
He then walked over to the white jade Arhat couch.
Xiansi rose and approached with silent, small steps.
All she could see were the trailing edges of His Majesty's robes.
The Emperor wore not the dragon robe, but a Daoist robe.
Since ascending the throne, the Emperor had often performed ritual fasting and offerings dressed in Daoist attire.
The broad lapel closed to the right, and his long sleeves trailed the ground—solemn and austere, yet flowing and graceful. His waist was bound with a silk sash, its pattern the color of a dark blue sky, giving him an ethereal, transcendent air.
Xiansi's hands reached for the silk sash; small jade ornaments chimed softly.
Inevitably, she and His Majesty stood very close, their breaths nearly intertwining.
His breathing was cool and even.
She pressed her own breath as light as possible, deftly untying the sash and placing it on a tray. In the moment of turning to return, she inadvertently caught a glimpse of His Majesty's eyes—clear, clear as a river.
Yet those eyes held no feeling at all. Indifferent.
Xiansi quickly dropped her gaze to the floor.
Hanzheng turned and sat down on the Arhat couch, his loose Daoist robe pooling on the floor, utterly composed. His eyes were lowered, his expression placid, his mood unreadable. Xiansi knelt at his feet, bending low, and removed his black boots.
Her palms were clammy with cold. Reverent and restrained, she maintained a decorous composure on her face, eyelids lowered in perfect calm, striving to be like air—a mere instrument for serving His Majesty, minimizing her presence.
With the imperial countenance mere inches away, most would be frightened into weakness and trembling. But Xiansi had been tempered in the deep palace for seven years; she had learned to keep her face unchanged, to be gentle and deferential before her master, to keep up appearances.
She felt something else as well—a mixture of gratitude, of being overwhelmed by favor, and a faint sense of unreality. She was deeply moved, deeply loyal, that in this life she should have the chance to serve His Majesty in person.
Having set aside the sash and boots, she began removing the Daoist robe.
Hanzheng was tall and slender, his body lean, his pale skin cool, his muscles spare.
His bearing was dignified, quiet and profound; his hands, every knuckle distinct, carried a sense of strength, faint veins surfacing beneath the skin.
More than that—in his every movement, his gaze, his very aura, there was a fierce power, like a sword in motion.
He gave off a terrifying impression, forbidding and inviolable.
And because he never allowed anyone to look directly at him, he was all the more mysterious.
Xiansi set the boots neatly together, rose silently and cautiously, and removed the outermost straight-collared, front-fastening robe. Flowing robes and wide sashes, with broad inner sleeves—it came off easily, layer upon layer falling away. Next was the inner garment, pale as white jade. She undid the hidden clasps fastened along the inside one by one, the rustle of fabric brushing against fabric as the garments fell in heaps.
For an instant, Hanzheng's gaze slanted down onto her—like winter rain wrapped in mist, and yet, perversely, a cold sort of tenderness. A single chance glance was piercingly chill, as if a basin of icy meltwater had been poured down one's spine.
Xiansi shivered, imperceptibly.
The candlelight in the room was dim. The icy silence stretched on, and the suffocating heaviness only deepened.
The undressing, the loosening of sashes—how long it took.
Xiansi knelt once more to loosen the lower garment held by the waistband. Her over-chilled fingers touched his waist. She could clearly feel its narrowness, taut and sharp-edged, with an aggression that belonged to men alone.
Those lacquer-dark eyes turned toward her once more.
Xiansi's usual composure shattered. She gritted her teeth and undid one knot, nearly blurting out "This servant was wrong," but then reined in a sliver of reason, striving to carve out a thread of survival amid the damp, heavy pressure. Eyes fixed straight ahead, she finished loosening his lower garment.
A scare, but no disaster.
The candlelight flickered.
She naturally retreated to three paces before the Emperor, head bowed low, and kowtowed, saying quietly, "Your Majesty, please proceed to the inner bedchamber."
The whole process was brisk and clean, with no superfluous movements—no more than the time it took to drink a cup of tea, yet it felt as long as the past year.
Hanzheng lowered his lashes and strode away.
Xiansi remained kowtowed on the floor for a long, long while.
She felt somewhat drained; she had done her utmost to perform perfectly just now.
Senior Maid Jinshu of the bedchamber attendants had been patrolling all along, half-visible, half-not—a senior maid of higher rank than Xiansi. If anyone performed their duties poorly, without a word from the master, a single glance from her was enough to have them dismissed or punished.
After a brief moment to compose herself, Xiansi rose with unhurried poise, checked that her coiled hair and attire were proper, her face devoid of any visible emotion, pale as paper. Upon seeing Senior Maid Jinshu, she silently offered a respectful greeting.
Her first time attending the Emperor, and she had managed it quite adequately.
The old palace maid Jinshu had put up her hair and vowed never to marry; she was the most senior palace maid of the Palace of Heavenly Purity, and its head maid as well. Shrewd and fierce, with eyes like an airtight net—whomever she caught making a mistake was sure to receive a lashing from her bamboo whip, and even someone of Xiansi's rank was no exception.
A subtle nod from Senior Maid Jinshu meant she had passed.
It was past the middle of the hour of the Pig.
Darkness filled heaven and earth; night mist drifted.
The midnight pastries were distributed at this hour, but when it was Xiansi's turn, she politely declined. She was all skin and bones, pitifully thin, as though a gust of wind could knock her over—the result of years of restraint.
A long while later, the lights in the inner bedchamber went out.
Only when wrapped in darkness did Xiansi dare slowly turn her head, gazing toward the inner bedchamber.
The Palace of Heavenly Purity sank into utter silence. At this moment, no person and no thing was permitted to make a sound and disturb the master's sleep.
After the hour of the Pig, Xiansi and the other palace servants on night watch spread out their felt pads to make simple beds on the floor.
The rules were fixed and unyielding, the training still ringing in her ears:
"Night watch is duty. Being permitted a felt pad is a grace handed down from the ancestors. At no time may you truly fall into deep sleep. If something happens, at a single call you must hear it clearly, rise, and respond swiftly. Drowsy eyes, sluggishness, and dawdling are forbidden."
"After midnight, you may spread out your felt pad. Your sleeping posture must be the same as in the communal sleeping quarters of the eastern wing—rest against the wall. Lying flat on your back is forbidden, as are any snores, strange noises, or indecent postures."
"Your clothing must remain neat through the night. Loosening it or letting it become disheveled is forbidden."
…
The servants on night watch were like soldiers resting on their arms, awaiting orders at any moment.
If they overstepped, they might not lose their lives, but they would certainly take a beating—and affairs before the Emperor would never again be entrusted to their hands.
Xiansi performed excellently, sitting with her legs neatly folded on the felt pad, her upper body resting against the wall. Remaining motionless all night like a dead thing was something she could endure; her stamina was exceptional.
Looking across the entire palace, she was one of the few servants who executed the standards flawlessly, and with her experience and seniority, no wonder Eunuch Liu had promoted her.
All was silent—not even the sound of breathing.
Behind the wall, the Emperor, presumably, slept soundly tonight.
In the latter half of the night, the underfloor heating system shut off. The alcove gradually turned from sweltering to cold; the heat dissipated, and the felt pad was not enough to ward off the biting chill of early spring. The moonlight was like a cold blanket—coldness everywhere.
Xiansi drifted into a light doze and ceased to feel the cold.
The sleeping quarters of the Palace of Heavenly Purity were nothing much—she had slept through frost winds and cold rain ten times more bitter than this.
Climb desperately upward, climb to the very top of the servant hierarchy, and only then would life become a little easier…
She had dozed fitfully for roughly four hours. At the hour of the Tiger, while the sky was still thick with darkness, the palace servants rose. The hour of the Tiger was normally when Xiansi would wake the junior maids, but today she rose even earlier. After a night of aching back and strained endurance, she had barely slept at all. Forcing herself to stay alert, she rolled up the felt bedding and returned it to the eunuch Wang Fulu, preparing for the morning duties.
And the mornings were exceedingly busy.
First, at the hour of the Tiger, the palace servants had to rise—heat the water, warm the garments for use, light the lamps, while the kitchen staff prepared tea and broth.
When the watch-drums from the West First Long Street rang in their ears, the Emperor would rise. Before that, everything had to be ready, orderly and meticulous, each person at their post—not a single thing out of place.
Moreover, because this was such a special hour of the morning, everything proceeded in silence. Whispering and murmuring were taboo; even footsteps had to be kept soft. The bedchamber attendants often worked under the same roof and knew one another well, each with countless wiles of their own, eyes lowered and minds attentive, communicating by hand signals. A fool who couldn't read the secret signs had no business serving in the Palace of Heavenly Purity at all.
At the hour of the Rabbit, the Emperor held an audience at the palace gate, and only afterward took his morning meal.
Lately, the Emperor had reined in the Grand Secretariat, and his conduct was unpredictable—diligent in governance one day, negligent the next, toying with power, playing puppet games, pulling strings from behind the scenes. Fortune or ruin hinged on a single word from their sovereign and father, which only made those below him tremble with anxiety and throw themselves into their duties with utmost vigilance.
But the moment the horn-shaped lamps in the hall lit up, the servants received their signal—the Emperor had risen.
This was Xiansi's first time serving in the inner bedchamber of the Palace of Heavenly Purity. She sought no credit, only to make no mistakes. Carrying the Emperor's everyday Daoist robes—cleaned, dried, and made ready by the Imperial Wardrobe Office—she stood respectfully in the alcove, waiting patiently.
Inside the inner bedchamber, after Liu Lun and the other eunuchs attended the Emperor's washing, they came out to the alcove. As before, Xiansi first knelt and kowtowed. Such cumbersome grand rites were no longer required after serving for some time, but these first days demanded full reverence. Liu Lun and the others, for convenience's sake in their daily service, ordinarily only offered greetings without kowtowing.
In the alcove, the Sovereign once more stood before her.
The two doors closed, and in that space neither small nor large, only the two of them remained, the air taut as a drawn bowstring.
Hanzheng's tall figure stood against a powerful backlight, morning light scattered across his cheek while his face remained in shadow—that chill of early spring cold water against the skin, drifting in through the half-open window, stirring the hems of their garments faintly.
After last night's ordeal, Xiansi's composure had steadied considerably. She held out the long robe, her gaze fixed on the spot half a step before her master. She shook the garment open, her hands light, her upper body steady, her movements a shade more deft than the night before—from inner garment to outer robe, then the belt and the shoes, all in less than the time it took to drink a cup of tea.
Afterward, donning a properly pleasant expression, she knelt at the appropriate moment and said, "Good morning, Your Majesty."
Hanzheng studied the maid before him, his gaze precise to the millimeter.
Unfamiliar face. Loyal. Quick to adapt.
He quietly drank a cup of tea in the alcove, the pale mist of dawn drifting faintly beyond the lattice window, for a long while.
"Rise."
He said this before departing.
Xiansi held her standard kneeling posture for a long time, her heart still fluttering with unease, awed by the Sovereign's aura—like a high wall edged with blades.
She had no part in serving the Emperor's morning meal. Her next duty was to oversee the junior maids and eunuchs in their sweeping and incense-burning—work she had done for years and knew well.
The hierarchy among the palace servants of the Palace of Heavenly Purity was sharply defined. Those who had the chance to attend the Emperor in person—keeping the night watch, presenting tea, grinding ink, serving dishes—unquestionably ranked at the top. Next came those who worked for the Emperor but could not get near him: folding his clothes, delivering meals from the imperial kitchen, purchasing brushes and ink, carrying memorials. At the very bottom were those relegated to menial labor on the periphery—tending fires, scrubbing floors, chopping vegetables. Between each rank yawned a chasm; superiors strictly governed their inferiors, and no one dared cross the forbidden line.
Xiansi had originally belonged to the second tier. After attending the Emperor last night, she was like a stone edged in gold—transformed overnight. The young palace maids who had once admired her now found her more unattainable than ever.
With this, she had climbed to the very summit of servitude.
Yet she herself merely smiled faintly, unruffled, her eyes watchful in every direction while concealing her edge. Neither arrogant in victory nor discouraged in defeat, with a blade forever hanging over her head. Imperial favor was fickle—it could be withdrawn at any moment by a single word or glance from her master. In essence, she was nothing more than a cat or dog kept by her master, a servant lower than the ants—what was there to be proud of?
Everything she had achieved today had come at great cost.
She had fought her way out of brutal competition, and at any moment those below might drag her back down.
She had to be like a fish chased by a catfish—forever flawless, forever taut.