Held in the Lonely Castle Chapter 10

 

 Held in the Lonely Castle  

 Chapter 10

Translated by : DANMEI HEAVEN

   Night Whispers

"Brother."

The princess called me this with clear eyes devoid of any guile. I was defenseless, disarmed.

She was asking me to ghostwrite an essay for her, one assigned by her father on the topic "The Nature of a Gentleman: Benevolence, Righteousness, Propriety, and Wisdom Rooted in the Heart."

She was the cleverest little girl I had ever met, yet she had no patience for Confucian classics. The emperor took a keen interest in her studies, often visiting to supervise and leaving her with piles of assignments—first copying texts for penmanship, then composing poetry and essays.

Once, seeing her struggle with an excessive copying task, I quietly wrote a few pages for her when no one was looking. Imitating others’ handwriting was effortless for me, and the princess, delighted, began seeking my help whenever assignments piled up.

After ghostwriting two or three times, I refused further requests, explaining that the beauty of calligraphy and the essence of literature could only be grasped through personal effort. She claimed to understand but would wheedle, "Just this once," and I’d relent—only for there to be a next time.

This time, it was pure ghostwriting. I steeled myself, refusing despite her pleas.

Her eyes flickered, and she dismissed her attendants, leaving only the two of us in the study. She sidled up, grasped my sleeve, and whispered, "Brother."

My heart contracted as if her fingers had plucked it.

Pleased with my stunned expression, she suppressed a smile, shook my sleeve, and begged, "Brother, just this once? I promise it’s the last time. If I don’t finish by dinner, Father will scold me again."

What could I say? In that moment, had she asked me to die for her, I would have complied gladly.

Silently, I sat. She fluttered around like a sparrow, spreading fine paper, grinding ink, and handing me a brush before perching on a stool to watch me write, offering intermittent praise.

That word—"brother"—became an inescapable spell. The princess wielded it to bend me to her will, though sometimes she used it without purpose, simply to address me.

Occasionally, she called me "brother" in front of others. At first, the palace women were aghast, insisting on propriety, but Consort Miao dismissed their concerns. "When His Majesty was crown prince, he often called his eunuch Zhou Huaizheng ‘brother.’ It’s merely a term of endearment for a trusted servant."

"The princess has no brothers," Han explained privately. "The emperor’s adopted son, the Thirteenth Regiment Commander, has left the palace. She must be lonely."

The emperor, having no sons, had once raised Zhao Zongshi, the thirteenth son of Prince Yunrang, in the palace, granting him the title of Regiment Commander of Yuezhou. After Consort Miao bore Prince Yu, the emperor sent Zongshi back to his estate. When the prince died young, Zongshi was not recalled.

"When the Thirteenth Regiment Commander was here, the princess called him ‘brother,’" Han said. "You’re about his age, so she finds you familiar. That’s why she calls you that." Then she added, "But we are lowly. Being addressed so by nobility can bring misfortune. When His Majesty was crown prince, he once jokingly wrote for Zhou Huaizheng, ‘Brother Zhou shall be beheaded.’ Years later, Zhou plotted to murder Minister Ding Wei and install His Majesty as emperor. The plot failed, and Zhou was executed. Some say Zhou’s acceptance of the emperor’s informal address invited divine punishment."

I understood her implication. Later, I tentatively suggested the princess stop calling me that, but she ignored me, using the address freely. I stopped protesting, secretly glad for her willfulness—each "brother" warmed me in ways I couldn’t admit.

The princess insisted I attend her lessons with the palace matron. Afterward, she’d ask me questions about anything unclear, allowing my own studies to continue in this unorthodox way.

One midnight, as I read by candlelight, a soft knock came at my door. Assuming it was a servant urging me to sleep, I opened it to find the princess.

Clearly having slipped away while her attendants slept, she wore only a thin underrobe and socks, no shoes, in the freezing winter night.

Startled, I asked, "Why is the princess here at this hour?"

She grinned. "I’m hungry. Do you have any food?"

Without waiting for an answer, she slipped past me, curiously surveying my room.

I hastily draped my warmest winter robe over her shoulders, but whether to let her stay posed a dilemma.

As a high-ranking eunuch, I had a private room. Being alone with the princess at night, regardless of circumstances, was deeply improper.

I urged her to return, saying I had no pastries and that waking her attendants would fetch her anything she desired. She countered, "Father always says to be considerate of servants. If I wake them, they’ll rush to the kitchens, burdening them unnecessarily. At first, I thought I’d endure hunger like Father, but my stomach kept growling! So I sneaked out to find you."

When I asked why she didn’t eat the snacks kept in her room, she said she was tired of them. I nearly laughed, wondering how she assumed I’d have what she craved, but held my tongue, fetching two small taro roots from my table. "Will the princess eat these?"

These were southern taro roots, barely larger than jujubes. As eunuchs stayed up later than our masters, the kitchens provided us with midnight snacks. Having eaten taro in childhood, I often chose it.

Unfamiliar with the unpeeled tuber, she asked what it was. I wasn’t surprised—her diet consisted of refined delicacies, and even taro dishes she’d encountered were pureed or baked into pastries.

I explained, then spread a quilt on the corridor outside my door for her to sit on, wrapping her snugly against the cold before sitting beside her to peel the taro.

After the first one, I offered it to her. Bundled like a dumpling, only her head movable, she blinked up at me, then at the taro in my hand.

I turned my face away, letting my smile melt into the night.

The princess struggled to free her hands, but I stopped her, fearing she’d catch cold, and held the taro to her lips. She nibbled at it delicately, like a bird pecking seeds.

She finished quickly, declaring the humble fare delicious, so I peeled another, her quiet gaze following my hands.

The palace corridors were unlit at night, but the moon was bright, casting our intertwined shadows. What should have been awkward silence between us felt perfectly natural.

Snow began to drift down. I stretched out my dark blue sleeve, catching a few flakes, and asked the princess, "How many petals does a snowflake have?"

"Six!" she answered instantly.

I said not always, guiding my sleeve to her. She peered, gasped, then yanked a hand free to grab my sleeve, counting with a fingertip. "One, two, three, four, five…"

"Some have five," she concluded, then found, "And three or four!"

I smiled, tucking her hand back under the quilt and feeding her another taro. The snowflakes on my sleeve melted into damp spots, but I didn’t feel the cold, despite the deepening winter.

I loved her bright laughter. Serving her like this filled me with joy. In the cool darkness, she was my sole source of light, outshining even the crescent moon above.

"Huaiji," she suddenly asked, "why did you come to the palace?"

I hesitated, unsure how to explain my family’s complicated circumstances, finally saying simply, "Because we were poor."

"What’s ‘poor’?" she asked, puzzled.

I realized her education hadn’t yet covered such concepts.

I offered the simplest definition: "Having little money."

"I don’t have much money either!" she exclaimed. "My sisters give me twelve coins a day. If I lose them all at coin toss, they won’t give more. Even if I win, I give the coins away, so I’m always penniless. Am I poor?"

"No…" I tried again. "Being poor means being cold, hungry, maybe having no food at all, eating only taro every day—"

"But taro is delicious!" she interrupted. "I’d love to eat it every day!"

Clearly, I’d chosen a poor example. I tried once more: "If you have things others lack and need desperately, they are poor compared to you. For example, you have many fine robes, but your maids don’t. So they are poorer than you."

Perhaps still not the best analogy, but I couldn’t think of anything else to convey poverty to a girl who had known only palace luxury.

She pondered, then said, "I think I understand… Like Qiuhe is poorer than me because I have time to play, and she’s always working. Lady Fan, Lady Zhou, and Lady Xu are poorer because their mothers aren’t here. Consort Yu is poorer than my sister because my sister holds a higher rank and receives more allowances… Then Consort Zhang is much poorer than Mother, since Mother is empress and she isn’t. When she tried to use the empress’s red parasol and guards, the ministers rebuked her fiercely…"

Here she smiled briefly before sobering. "But Father visits Consort Zhang often and only goes to Mother’s palace twice a month. So Mother is poorer than Consort Zhang."

I couldn’t comment on this, remaining silent as she continued, "What about Father? He must have his poverty… Ah, yes. The ministers who lecture him all have sons. He doesn’t…"

I grew even more mute. Finally, she turned to herself: "Actually, I’m very poor too. My eyes are poor… My maids, though they lack fine clothes, have seen so many interesting things outside the palace and tell me stories I’ve never heard… Besides the palace, I’ve only visited four gardens and the Golden Bright Pond. I’ve never seen the night markets or teahouses… I long to taste the street vendors’ rice and roasted meats, to watch sugar-glazed snowballs being made at the Vermilion Bird Gate, to visit the roasted pork monk at Xiangguo Temple…"

Her words, initially melancholy, ended on such a note that I laughed. The "roasted pork monk" was a notorious figure—a Buddhist monk who sold pork at Xiangguo Temple, his roasted cuts famed throughout the capital. While palace women could visit the temple to pray, meeting this carnivorous cleric would be challenging.

"What’s so funny?" she huffed. "Once you enter the palace, can you come and go as you please? See whomever you wish?"

I had no answer. Since entering the palace, I hadn’t left either. The bustling markets, the vibrant world outside, were fading memories.

"Sigh," the princess lamented, deeply vexed. "Huaiji, we’re both trapped here."

(To be continued)