Yuanyou first year, eighth month. The Grand Tutor finally relented.
The news came from the young eunuch, panting for breath: "Elder Sister! His Majesty was praised by the Grand Tutor today! Said His Majesty's policy essays are much better than last year, even said His Majesty 'naturally intelligent, progressing rapidly'!"
I was brewing osmanthus sugar porridge; my ladle paused. "The Grand Tutor's exact words?"
"Exact words! This one heard with own ears!" The young eunuch imitated the Grand Tutor's tone, back straight, stroking nonexistent beard, biting particularly clear on "progressing rapidly." After imitating, he laughed first himself, "When His Majesty came out of the Grand Tutor's study, mouth corners raised high, but still maintaining composure, said 'The Grand Tutor overpraises.' After coming out, ran to the corridor corner, jumped once."
"Jumped once?"
"Mm. Just once. This one saw."
I suppressed a smile, sprinkled an extra handful of osmanthus into the porridge.
When Zhao Xu came that afternoon, his steps were larger than usual, walking faster than usual. Coat hem swinging back and forth, like a flag. He walked to me, stopped, lowered his head to look at me. He was already half a head taller than me; when he lowered his head to look at me, lash shadows fell on my forehead. Sunlight shone from behind him, gilding his outline with gold. His jawline was much harder than last year, Adam's apple slightly protruding, casting a small shadow in the light. He stood there, like a tree just shooting up, green, straight, all over possessing that clean, pure handsomeness particular to youth.
"You heard?"
"Heard. The Grand Tutor praised you."
"Not just praised." His mouth corners raised, but still maintaining composure, imitating the Grand Tutor stroking his beard, "The Grand Tutor said, 'His Majesty naturally intelligent, progressing rapidly, this old minister is greatly comforted.'"
He imitated the Grand Tutor's tone, very serious. But after imitating, couldn't help smiling. Smiled until his eyes curved, like osmanthus just blooming in August. That smile spread from mouth corners, flooding across his entire face, washing away that deliberately maintained steadiness of youth. When he smiled, there was light in his eyes, not sunlight reflection, but something else—like a lamp in deep water, shining up from below, bright and dim.
"Happy?"
"Happy," he said, then added, "But the Grand Tutor said, must continue working hard. Cannot relax because of one praise."
"Then how do you plan to continue working hard?"
"Continue reading tomorrow." He thought, "Be happy today first."
He pulled my sleeve toward the Imperial Garden. "Come, see the osmanthus. This year's osmanthus bloomed, more than last year."
The osmanthus in the Imperial Garden had bloomed. Not last year's sparse few flowers, but full trees full of branches, golden yellow. Sunlight passed through branches and leaves, leaving mottled light and shadow on the ground, like scattered gold covering the earth. Wind came, osmanthus rustling down, like a golden rain, the air entirely sweet, sweet to cloying, sweet enough to make one want to close eyes. He stood beneath the tree, looking up. Light spots fell on his face, bright and dim. His profile was cut in half, half bright, half dark, jawline sharp as knife-cut.
"Look at that one." He pointed at one osmanthus flower at the highest branch. That flower bloomed perfectly, petals golden yellow, almost transparent in sunlight. "That one is the biggest. I've watched it for several days. This morning it opened."
"How did you watch?"
"Pass by after court every day, take a glance. Yesterday hadn't opened, today opened." He reached to pick it, couldn't reach. Stood on tiptoe, still couldn't reach. He turned to look at me, brow furrowed, mouth slightly pouting, that childish expression of not reaching candy, on his body already half a head taller than me, was not incongruous.
"You help me pick."
"You pick yourself. You're taller than me."
"Taller still can't reach." He stood on tiptoe again, fingertips still a little short of that osmanthus flower. He stepped back, looked at the tree, then at his own hand, brow knitted together.
I looked up at that branch. Not particularly high, but the branch was thin, climbing up might sway. At Columbia, there was a climbing gym beside the school, Emily pulled me to go. She said: "Ivy, you stay in the laboratory all day, your bones are stiff." After going, I found it quite interesting. Climbing didn't require brute force, what was needed was—find the next point, steady, then go up. Later I developed a habit, seeing high places wanted to climb. The oak tree behind the dormitory, the fire escape on the library's side, that big rock in Central Park. Emily said I was transformed from a monkey. I said monkeys didn't climb as well as me.
This tree, much simpler than the climbing gym's wall.
"I'll come." I rolled up my sleeves, walked to the tree.
"You?" He paused, "You're going to climb the tree?"
"Mm. You catch below."
"Can you do it?"
"Watch."
I grabbed the lowest branch, pulled myself up, flipped over, stepped on the fork. The branch swayed once, osmanthus rustled down a few flowers. He stood below, looking up, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Sunlight shone on his face; his expression changed from surprise to tension, from tension to something I couldn't read—like worry, like something else.
"Be careful!"
"Don't speak. Catch the flower."
I climbed up one more layer. This branch was thicker than below, stepping on it very steady. Further up, that one was thinner. I tested it, could hold weight. I lowered my center of gravity, hand grabbed the upper branch, foot pushed off—whole body swung once, osmanthus fell like rain. Golden petals fell from above his head, landing on his hair, shoulders, eyelashes. He didn't move. Looking up, unblinking, watching me.
"A Heng!"
"Fine." I steadied my body, reached for that osmanthus flower. Fingertips touched it, still a little short. Leaned forward a bit more, branch bent down, creaking. That sound was especially piercing in the quiet Imperial Garden, like a bone breaking.
"Don't pick! Come down!"
"Almost reached."
I leaned my body forward, fingers pinched the osmanthus flower's stem, gently pulled. Picked it. But the branch swayed once, my foot slipped from the fork—whole body falling. Wind rushed past my ears, osmanthus flew up before my eyes, golden yellow, piece by piece, like stars scattered by wind. I saw him standing below, looking up, eyes wide. I saw him extend his hand, saw his hand was much larger than last year, fingers long, joints distinct. I saw him step forward one step, steadily, as if he had known this would happen.
Back hit his chest, shoulders caught by his arms, whole body held in his embrace. He stepped back one step, steadied, didn't fall. His heartbeat came through clothes, dong-dong-dong-dong, very fast, very heavy, like someone knocking on a door. Osmanthus fell all over our heads and faces, golden petals sliding down from his hair, landing on my eyelashes.
"You—" his voice somewhat hoarse, chest vibrating, "are you crazy?"
I raised my head. He lowered his head to look at me. Very close. Close enough that I could see his lashes—long, slightly upturned, one osmanthus flower stuck on them. His nose bridge was straight, light shone from the side, casting a sharp shadow on his cheek. His lips were pressed tight, pressed very hard, jawline taut, Adam's apple moving up and down once. He was half a head taller than me, but now he lowered his head, bangs hanging down, sweeping across my forehead. His eyes were very bright, not that brightness from being praised, but another kind—like light in deep water, shining up from below, bright and dim. His arms still held my shoulders, not releasing. His palm was very hot, coming through clothes, hot enough to make my chest tighten. My back pressed against his chest, could feel his heartbeat, very fast, same as mine.
"I caught you," he said. Voice very light, as if speaking to himself. His breath swept across my forehead, hot, carrying a bit of that particular to youth, green warmth.
"Mm. Caught."
He lowered his head looking at me. I also looked at him. That osmanthus flower on his lashes trembled, about to fall but not falling. I reached to catch it, fingers touched his face. His skin was very hot, thin layer of sweat on his cheekbones. His eyes blinked once, that osmanthus flower fell down, landing between my face and his. Very close. Close enough that I could see my own reflection in his pupils, small, looking up, hair full of osmanthus. His breath stopped for a moment. Very short moment. Then he lowered his head, lips touched my forehead. Very light, like osmanthus falling on water surface. His lips were very hot, pressed against my skin, only one touch then left. Fast as wind passing, fast as if it never happened. But when he lowered his head, lashes swept across my brow, tickling. He straightened up, ears red. From ear tips all the way red to neck, like dyed by osmanthus.
"You—" his voice even hoarser, "you have flowers in your hair."
He reached out to pick the osmanthus from my hair, movement very fast, fingers slightly trembling. He placed that flower in his palm, together with that big one. His palm had a thin layer of sweat, sparkling.
"You're still holding the flower," he said.
I opened my fingers. That osmanthus flower lay in my palm, petals pressed with a mark by my grip, but still there, golden yellow.
"Picked it," I said.
"Don't climb next time. I'll have someone bring a ladder."
"Climbing trees is faster than ladders."
"What's the use of fast? What if you fall?"
"Didn't you catch me?"
He paused. Then smiled. That smile started from the red of his ear tips, flooding across his cheeks, across his mouth corners, finally stopping in his eyes. His eyes curved, like osmanthus just blooming in August, reflecting light inside, also reflecting me.
"What if I didn't catch?"
"You caught."
"I mean what if."
"No what if." I raised that osmanthus flower before him, "For you. Didn't you watch it for several days?"
He lowered his head to look at that flower. Golden yellow, small, lying in my palm. He extended his hand, didn't take the flower, held my wrist. His palm was very hot, fingers long, encircling my entire wrist. His thumb pressed on my pulse, paused once.
"Your heartbeat is very fast."
"Scared from falling."
"Lying. Not afraid now."
"Then what is it?"
He said nothing. Looked at me. There was light in his eyes, shining up from below, bright and dim. He released my wrist, took that osmanthus flower, placed it in his palm, together with that one he just picked from my hair. Two osmanthus flowers, small, golden yellow, lying in his palm, like a small piece of moon falling into a lake.
"Don't climb next time," he said.
"Good."
"Agreed?"
"Agreed."
He nodded, carefully tucked those two osmanthus flowers into his sleeve. With those notes.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"The way you climbed the tree just now, very much like—" he thought, "very much like a monkey."
"Monkey?"
"Mm. A monkey climbing trees. Movements very nimble."
"You're the monkey."
"I'm better looking than monkeys." He lowered his head, leaned closer, mouth corners raised, "Right?"
His eyes were bright, reflecting osmanthus inside, reflecting light, also reflecting me. His face was very close to me, close enough that I could clearly see the direction of his eyebrows—thick, slightly upturned, ends a bit messy, that particular to youth, not very obedient kind of messy. His nose bridge was straight, nose tip slightly upturned, like him, carrying a bit of that not very obedient, ready to smile out at any moment. His lips were thin, mouth corners naturally upturned, not smiling also looked like smiling. He stood there, half a head taller than me, shoulders much broader than last year, jawline hard, Adam's apple protruding, casting a small shadow in the light. All over him was that just grown from boy to youth, green, not very self-aware, clean and pure handsomeness.
"Yes," I said.
He smiled. Smiled with complete satisfaction, as if he had already reserved the entire autumn. He reached out to pick the last piece of osmanthus from my hair, placed it in his palm, together with those two.
"Let's go. Go give flowers to the Empress Dowager." He pulled my sleeve toward behind Funing Hall. Steps large, walking fast. I followed behind, watching the osmanthus stuck on the back of his head, golden yellow, small clusters, like scattered gold.
That night, I wrote today's events on a note. After writing, looked for a long time, tucked beneath my pillow. With those old notes. With that jade. With that wheat ear. And that osmanthus flower, the one he picked from my hair, pressed between notes, golden yellow, thin. When I wrote the note, fingers touched my own forehead. There was still the temperature of his lips there, very faint, but still there. When he lowered his head, lashes swept across my brow, tickling. His heartbeat was very fast, same as mine. He asked what it was. I didn't say. He knew. He knew.
Moon outside the window. Round, bright. I closed my eyes. When he caught me, heartbeat was very fast. Mine too. When he lowered his head to look at me, eyes were very bright. Mine too. He said don't climb trees next time. I said good. But I knew, if that flower he couldn't reach, I would still climb. Because that was the one he watched for several days. Because he was below, he would catch. He caught. No what if.
That osmanthus flower pressed between notes, golden yellow, thin. Tomorrow, it will dry, become brittle, lose color. But it doesn't matter. Tomorrow, new osmanthus will bloom. Tomorrow, he will still come. He will still be half a head taller than me. When he smiles, eyes will still be curved. His heartbeat will still be very fast, same as mine. I know. He knows.
[End of Chapter 20]