The dream was hazy and blurred.
At times it was Liu Sheng, at times the glazed tiles of the Palace of Heavenly Purity, at times a torrent of menstrual blood. Xiansi was stretched taut as a string, trying desperately to wake, but no matter what, she could not.
When she truly woke, the sky outside the window was still shrouded in thick black gauze. A sliver of moonlight; pine needles rustled with a faint whisper. It was terrifyingly quiet.
Xiansi had broken out in a cold sweat. She sat on the felt cushion for a while before her senses returned to her. Her body gradually registered numbness, a bone-deep chill—the cold of the ground had seeped through her flesh.
…How did I fall asleep?
During her night watch she always dozed only lightly, staying alert, ready at any moment to answer her master's summons.
Once fully awake, she immediately checked for spotting.
No blood had leaked, there was no odor, and nothing seemed amiss.
She touched her forehead and breathed a sigh of relief.
Perhaps she had simply been too tired lately—she hadn't yet fully adjusted to the rhythm of an imperial chambermaid.
On a windless, still night, her heartbeat sounded especially clear.
She still had to work harder.
…
The next morning, Xiansi deliberately—yet casually—avoided Senior Maid Jinshu.
Jinshu patrolled at night specifically, enforcing palace discipline, impartial and sharp-eyed, catching maids and eunuchs who overstepped. Xiansi had carelessly fallen into deep sleep last night—a serious offense—and she felt guilty about it.
Yet Jinshu did not confront her directly.
Xiansi had won His Majesty's favor overnight, and her standing had soared; she was already someone to be wary of. Under the same roof, making a scene would only embarrass them both.
"Senior Maid, are you feeling well?" Chun'er asked cautiously. She was timid and wouldn't dare be so presumptuous with other senior maids, but with Xiansi she felt some inexplicable boldness.
Xiansi was startled inside but stayed composed on the surface: "Little girl, what kind of pointless question is that?"
"Yesterday, when you felt faint, I was scrubbing the floor tiles and happened to see it," Chun'er explained.
"After I've had breakfast, I'll be strong and hale," Xiansi said, her expression calm, a faint smile on her lips. "Stop your cheek and get back to work."
Little Chun'er scratched her head sheepishly.
"Senior Maid, you must be careful of Chen Bingzhong."
Her voice was softer than a mosquito's whine.
Because Chen Bingzhong had seen it too, and had tried to drag her—little Chun'er—along to testify as well.
In late spring and early summer, the days grew hotter by the day. White doves frolicked on the yellow glazed-tile walls; deep shade spread everywhere in the palace. The sun's intense golden light traced the majestic silhouettes of the halls, and spring waters wound eastward.
Inside the second eastern bay, the light was bright. As the Emperor's reading room, it was densely packed with ancient books of every kind. The red walls and vermilion tiles seemed to soften their grandeur; the windows were clean and the desks spotless, the air brimming with the fragrance of books.
In the side chamber, Xiansi steeped the loose tea, boiling it until fish-eye bubbles formed, then covered it with the porcelain lid to let it sit for a quarter hour. She had a ruler for timekeeping in her mind, precise beyond compare—not a moment more, not a moment less. The pale golden tea was poured into bright yellow tea vessels, its delicate fragrance drifting.
Brewing tea and needlework were her signature skills from her many years in the palace—even the most senior maid at the Empress Dowager's side could not compare.
She also had an exceptionally steady hand for carrying tea. No matter how hot the water, it never trembled or wavered—a feat owed to the layer of dull white calluses on her fingertips, built through years of hard practice.
"Your Majesty, please rest a moment."
Xiansi knelt on both knees, raising the tea tray above her head.
On the dragon throne, Hanzheng held a Xiang-bamboo brush handle between two fingers, deep in thought. Hearing her, he raised a hand and took the saucer. The tea was at the perfect temperature—warm with a hint of heat, yet not scalding, at its most mellow and fragrant.
He took a sip and said, "Longjing."
The curve of Xiansi's lips bent to just the right degree. "It is the tea's fortune that His Majesty enjoys it—and this servant's fortune as well."
She then brought out iced bayberries and a chilled dairy dessert to dispel the early summer heat, freshly retrieved from the cold storage—having lost their chill but not yet melted, so they didn't sting the teeth when bitten, the texture just right, with faint glimmers of icy crystals.
The new maidservant, compared to the former Chief Steward, seemed to possess more clever little touches. Hanzheng rarely nodded or smiled at anyone, yet now he did so to her, rewarding her ingenuity, and asked, "Where were these shipped from?"
"From Jiangnan." Xiansi had witnessed that smile with her own eyes, and the encouragement it gave her was unprecedented. Whatever a servant ought to know, once the master asked, she must report it clearly—no carelessness allowed. "They are tribute from Shaoxing."
Hanzheng's sharply lined hand slowly picked up a bayberry—but without using a fork. His fingertips were stained with dark red berry juice and flecks of frost. His pale, cold knuckles stood out distinctly, looking like a hand made to grip a blade rather than a bayberry. A pair of hands carrying a silent, formidable killing intent.
He glimpsed the stain on his hand, set the bayberry down, and lowered his hand to her.
Those cold, clean-boned fingers were suddenly very close to her face.
Xiansi was secretly startled.
Dirty. Stained by the bayberry.
Before, she had never imagined she would live to serve him at close range; now she had never imagined she would live to touch his hand.
It felt like the moon one dared not hope for even in dreams, suddenly descending before her.
However composed she was, she still froze for the space of a finger-snap, her composure slipping—and he observed this without a word.
Then she recovered swiftly, maintaining her kneeling posture, took out the white cotton paper she carried with her—extremely fine and soft, pre-misted with water—cradled His Majesty's two fingertips, and wiped away the berry stain with a touch so light it was nearly imperceptible.
His skin—cold. Colder even than the frost on the bayberries.
She trembled inwardly, feeling that to touch him at all was an offense.
Perhaps the berry's color was too deep and her wiping too gentle, for the dark stain did not fully fade. She encountered the same predicament as that day when his clothes had gotten stuck—how could she commit the irreverence of blaming His Majesty for eating bayberries without a fork?
She took out another sheet of white cotton paper, and back and forth it went.
Hanzheng's fingers turned nimbly—and instead caught and cradled her fingertips. A superior who stood above all order—even such a simple gesture made one's nerves draw tight.
He gave a light command: "Go fetch a basin of water."
Xiansi's mind went blank. She answered out of habit, maintaining her sense of propriety as she carried out his order. Only after stepping out of the hall, under the sun, did she feel her scattered souls and spirits return. The fingertips he had held still carried an excessive chill, and her heart pounded.
The basin was soon brought, with soap-pod added and towels laid beside it. She carried it in with quick little steps, her emotions reined in, dependable and proper, and knelt again at his side with a hint of apology: "Your Majesty, the water is here."
Hanzheng lowered that same hand to her once more.
He spoke little, his manner cool and mild, more often engaging in a cold game of psychological attrition. Just as the rumors outside said—serving him required guesswork.
She had already ruined one thing just now; surely she would not fumble again?
Xiansi swallowed, set the copper basin on the low stand, shuffled half a step closer on her knees, and took his hand in hers again—calm and composed. Her touch, besides being light, carried a thread more of trepidation than before.
The clear water faintly reflected the daylight from the window. His hand and hers soaked in it together, and his eyes and her eyes alike caught the clear light.
Xiansi dipped the small piece of soaked white cotton paper in soap-pod and wiped at the bayberry stain again. With the water softening her touch, she could press a little harder without seeming rude or overstepping, and he didn't notice.
Thank goodness—the bayberry stain was finally clean this time.
She quietly breathed a small sigh of relief, hesitated, and was about to lift his hand out when he withdrew it himself, dripping with streaks of water. She hurriedly picked up a towel and carefully dabbed it dry.
"Take the bayberries and pastries away," Hanzheng said mildly. "Eat them yourself."
"Yes." Xiansi answered aloud, unable to contain her wild joy. His Majesty seemed to have grown used to feeding her.
With her humble status, she could hardly bear such imperial grace!
Yet inwardly she also fretted—this attempt to curry favor had failed, and worse, she had offended His Majesty.
It seemed the most important thing for a servant was to know one's place. For someone like her, without any talent for flattery, being steady and reliable mattered most.
Hanzheng picked up the goat-hair brush with its Xiang-bamboo handle again; this time, the scent of ink carried a hint of soap-pod.
The cinnabar ink had dried, caked on the brush tip.
He casually dipped it twice in the sky-blue celadon brush-rinser, then tossed her a "grind the ink" command.
Xiansi saw that the ink stick was carved with the words "Tianfu Black Pearl Cinnabar Ink"—a masterpiece of the ink-craft master Cheng Junfang, now an imperial tribute. As it rubbed against the inkstone, its color was like a fully ripened persimmon, smooth and lustrous, releasing ink evenly. Xiansi was fortunate—this was her first time grinding such superior ink, likely worth more than all her worldly possessions.
Only the Emperor could make imperial annotations in cinnabar red.
For a while, the room held nothing but the quiet sound of granules grinding.
When the white goat-hair brush tip was fully saturated with vermilion ink, his hand was once more within inches of her. She could even feel that icy aura, cold and distinct.
Her breath caught.
Hanzheng's strokes fell—approving, crossing out—sharp, steep, fierce. Someone would be beheaded, someone promoted, someone exiled. From a minister's perspective, receiving the Emperor's annotations was, after all, not the worst outcome. The most humiliating blow was a memorial to the throne set aside and returned untouched—those might face a fate more miserable than beheading.
That was right—he was exactly this capricious. Even though he was a cultivator in a Daoist robe, his hands were stained with the blood of countless lives. The falling blade, unparalleled in ruthlessness.
Xiansi's spine went rigid, as if the crushing pressure were being applied to her. An instinctive urge to flee rose within her—she would rather stand night watch on the cold, hard ground than serve in this warm study. The overwhelming majesty of the Emperor was soul-shaking; she was truly terrified.
The silence was like a wall of icebergs, heavy and suffocating.
Four hours passed beneath that pressure, with no one daring to breathe freely, before His Majesty finally set down the brush.
The brush tip flicked off a few specks of vermilion red, like human blood.
He rose, loosened his wrist, gently rolled his neck, and stood by the window to rest a while.
The memorials were done. The atmosphere in the hall eased, like the sky clearing after rain. Former servants had said in private that no matter how troubled His Majesty was by state affairs, he never took it out on those around him—such was his exceptional self-discipline, and the good fortune of servants born in this dynasty.
Xiansi swallowed the lonely air. Years of trained instinct told her it was time to do something—a competent servant should not stand like a wooden post. If she served even a little worse than her godfather Liu Lun had, she would soon be dismissed.
With her hands folded before her, Xiansi stepped forward, bending slightly at the waist, and said gently, "Your Majesty has labored hard over the affairs of the realm. Might this servant be permitted to loosen your shoulders?"
Her dark, limpid eyes lowered respectfully, hiding her timidity deep within, yet he still caught a trace of it. Hanzheng disliked contact with others, but he agreed anyway, returning to his chair and saying, "Come."
Xiansi faced a challenge, but fortunately her kneading and pressing skills had been trained. After bowing, she calmly circled behind him, reached out, and placed her hands on his shoulders—at first lighter than a dragonfly skimming the water, then gradually increasing in strength.
Palace maids were not permitted to keep long nails. Her hands were always washed white and clean, with a simple, unadorned quality, and she served in a way that nourished silently, like rain seeping into the earth. Only a layer of Daoist robe fabric—neither thin nor quite thick—separated his broad, upright shoulders from her hands.
At dawn and dusk, when she helped him change clothes, she touched him just as intimately, for just as long.
Hanzheng closed his long-lidded eyes, veiling whatever mood he was in, seemingly enjoying it.
Xiansi worked hard to please him, yet she could never read his emotions. He held himself somewhere between closeness and distance, shut within a circle of coldness, orderly and ascetic. One could confide in him, but never draw near.
By her ear came his lukewarm question: "What year did you enter the palace?"
"In answer to Your Majesty, this servant entered the palace at sixteen."
"How were you chosen?"
"My parents died early, so my uncle and aunt sent me here." She smiled at the appropriate moment, omitting much of what had happened in between.
"You were mistreated." He guessed it almost instantly.
Xiansi could hardly explain whether she had been mistreated or not—playing the victim before His Majesty was unseemly.
Yet the Emperor taking her side made her feel warm.
"This servant entered the palace of her own will."
"What are your family's circumstances like?"
Xiansi smiled apologetically. "Forgive this servant for making Your Majesty laugh, but we live by farming. We have a few mu of poor farmland—enough to stay fed and clothed."
"The affairs of the people are the affairs of the realm." Hanzheng showed no sign of amusement. His tone was strange—like pity for the common people, and yet like he held not a shred of pity for them at all.
Whatever he said, it was because of his own rules.
After a moment, his words took a turn, and he remarked mildly, "In that case, it seems it would be better for you to leave the palace."
Xiansi's scalp went numb.
This was not merely a statement—it was extremely dangerous, touching on the question of whether father or sovereign weighed heavier, layered with traps upon traps.
Setting aside her rift with her uncle, if she said she wished to return home to care for her kin, it would mean placing her lowly commoner relatives above imperial authority—gross irreverence.
But if she professed loyalty to the Emperor single-mindedly, she would inevitably bear the charge of unfiliality, inviting contempt and disdain.
Xiansi could not kneel while loosening his shoulders, so she answered in a tone neither servile nor arrogant: "Your Majesty is both sovereign and father. This servant serves Your Majesty with filial devotion, and the neighbors and villagers will look after my uncle and aunt in my stead. Thus one may reconcile loyalty to the sovereign with filial piety."
"Well said—reconciling loyalty to the sovereign with filial piety." He seemed to give a low, soft laugh, then opened his eyes. "That's enough."
Xiansi's slightly numb hands carefully stilled.
"Has this servant relieved a little of Your Majesty's fatigue?" she ventured.
He gave a sound of acknowledgment, indifferent and casual—needing neither to care for anyone nor to be cared for.
Xiansi felt reassured. Compared to the earlier fiasco with the bayberry stain, the shoulder massage had been done properly.
The Emperor was a good master. As she was fortunate to have more and more contact with His Majesty, she served him with growing ease.
Yet it was as if she walked a blade's edge with sheer cliffs on either side. On top of her former reverence for the Emperor, a deep layer of fear had been added—hard to put into words, arising not merely from his identity as Emperor, but from the man himself.
The Emperor waved his hand. Today's duties in the study were thus concluded.
Xiansi withdrew on quiet feet, and only after she had gone a very, very long way did she dare quietly let out a deep breath.
She looked up. The sky was as blue as water, with a single white cloud drifting across it.
Four hours had passed, and she still hadn't had her midday meal. Seeing the unusual look on her face, Liu Lun came up to her and asked, "Serving at His Majesty's side with brush and ink—did you manage everything smoothly?"
"Everything went fine," Xiansi said.
Liu Lun nodded approvingly. "You need to adapt quickly to the pace of attending before the throne. Do everything properly, and don't provoke your master's displeasure. If you break any rule you shouldn't, you must accept your punishment promptly."
"I understand it all," Xiansi vowed earnestly.
Liu Lun sighed and waved her off to have her midday meal. She was far too thin—though it wasn't his place to say so, even he felt sorry for her.