Tanglong Year One, November 25th. Luoyang.
The cold night wind of Luoyang poured in through the window, making the candle flame flicker wildly. I reached out to adjust the lamp shade; the fire stabilized again, casting a small patch of warm yellow light on the wall.
He returned from court when it was already dark.
I was sitting in the study organizing medical records when I heard footsteps and looked up. He stood at the door, wearing the Crown Prince's court robes—black upper garment, reddish lower garment, a belt of gold and jade, and a distant-traveling crown on his head. Handsome as he was, those clothes weighed on him like a mountain.
His complexion was poor. A tight furrow was knitted between his brows; the dark circles under his eyes were deeper than yesterday. His lips were pressed tight, his jaw clenched—the exact same expression he had when suffering from a toothache. But this time, it wasn't his tooth that hurt.
"Qingyan." He walked in, sat down in the chair, and rubbed his temples with his hand.
I poured a cup of warm water and handed it to him. My fingers trembled slightly as they touched the handle of the cup; I couldn't tell if it was out of heartache or something else. He took it, drank a sip, placed it on the desk, and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes.
"What happened today?" I asked.
"Nothing. Those people in court are just repeating the old tune," he opened his eyes and looked at me. "Saying 'the eldest should be established,' saying 'ulterior motives.'"
He spoke very calmly, as if recounting someone else's story. But looking at the furrow between his brows, I suddenly thought of that small bar in Vancouver—the night after finals week, when classmates raised their glasses, laughing and making noise, soaking a semester's exhaustion in alcohol. What he needed wasn't warm water; it was a drink that could loosen that furrowed brow.
"Your Highness," I began. "Do you drink?"
He paused. "What?"
"Drink alcohol," I said. "Does Your Highness want to have a drink?"
He looked at me, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "You drink?"
"Occasionally, when I was in Changzhou."
He looked at me for a long time. Then he smiled, the smile reaching his eyes. "Good. I will drink with you."
I went to the kitchen and searched around. The Crown Prince's kitchen was large and had everything. I found a jar of osmanthus wine, a jar of grape wine, several jars of honey, and some dried fruits. Winter in Luoyang was too cold; I asked Qingyuan to help warm a pot of osmanthus wine and mix a few simple drinks—osmanthus wine with honey, warm and sweet; grape wine with a bit of crushed dried fruit, sweet and sour. The scent of alcohol spread through the kitchen, mixing with the sweetness of honey, warm and cozy.
Qingyuan watched from the side, her eyes wide. "Third Lady, you know how to mix drinks?"
"Yes. I learned before."
I brought the drinks to the study. He had already changed out of his court robes into a moon-white casual robe. His hair was let down, no crown, loosely tied with just a hair ribbon. Moonlight from outside the window fell on his shoulders and hair; he didn't look like a Crown Prince, but like an ordinary young man.
"Qingyan, try this." I handed him the osmanthus wine.
He took it and drank a sip, slightly stunned. "It's sweet."
"Yes. I added honey. Afraid your tooth would hurt, so I used less."
He took another sip and leaned back in the chair. "Delicious."
"Never had this kind before?"
"No." He looked at the amber wine in the cup. "When I was young, no one in the palace dared to give me alcohol. When I grew up, no one drank with me."
He said this lightly, but I could hear it—the loneliness of never having anyone to drink with, to talk to, to do anything with since childhood. I lifted my own glass of grape wine and raised it to him.
"Your Highness, cheers."
"Cheers?"
"It means clinking glasses."
He mimicked me, raising his glass and gently clinking it against mine. The sound of porcelain colliding was crisp and pleasant, especially beautiful in the quiet study. He took a sip and suddenly smiled. "Interesting."
"Your Highness, want to play a game?"
"What game?"
I took out several dice from my sleeve—found in the kitchen, probably used by the servants in their spare time. I placed the dice on the table and pushed them toward him.
"The simplest way to play: guess big or small. Three dice. Below four points is small; above ten points is big. Your turn, Your Highness."
He picked up the dice and weighed them in his hand. Those hands had held bows, held knives, held brushes, but never dice. The first shake was clumsy; the dice scattered, rolling all over the table. He frowned; I couldn't help but laugh.
"Slower, cup them in your palm."
I reached out and covered the back of his hand, guiding him to shake slowly. His fingers were slender, knuckles distinct, his palm warm. The dice collided gently in his palm, making a fine rustling sound.
"Okay, release."
The dice landed on the table, rolled a few times, and stopped. Four, five, six—fifteen points. Big.
"Your Highness wins," I smiled. "Your Highness learns everything quickly."
"Of course." The corners of his mouth lifted; his eyes brightened somewhat, completely different from when he first entered. He shook them again himself. Two, two, three—seven points. Small.
"Your Highness loses."
He lifted his cup and drained it in one gulp.
After a few rounds, more than half the jar of wine was empty. His face turned red—a thin flush from his earlobes to his cheeks, like a light layer of rouge. His eyes were brighter than usual, watery, as if tempered with moonlight. My face was also hot; I couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or something else.
"Qingyan," he suddenly spoke.
"Hmm?"
"You just said you learned to mix drinks in Changzhou. What is Changzhou like?"
I thought for a moment. I hadn't thought of the real Changzhou in a long time. But another "Changzhou," that small Jiangnan city I occasionally remembered while in Vancouver, suddenly became very clear.
"Changzhou is in Jiangnan. There is much water, many bridges. In spring, peach blossoms bloom along both banks of the canal; when the wind blows, petals fall onto the water surface, drifting everywhere. Winter isn't too cold, unlike Luoyang where the wind is full of ice shards."
He listened without interrupting.
"And there is Tianning Temple. A very, very large temple; the sound of its bell can travel several li."
My voice gradually lowered. Those memories didn't belong to this "Gu Qingyan." They belonged to another me. To Gu Qingyan, the nursing student at the University of Vancouver.
"Qingyan?" He looked at me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I lowered my head and took another sip of wine. "Your Highness, what was it like for you growing up in the palace?"
He was silent for a long time. Moonlight from outside the window fell on the table, into the cups, onto his hands. He held the wine cup, his knuckles turning slightly white.
"When I was eight, my mother was summoned to the palace and never returned."
His voice was very light.
"I didn't know what happened. I only knew she left and never came back. Later I found out—she was ordered to commit suicide. By my grandmother. I didn't even get to see her one last time. No coffin, no tomb, nothing. I don't even know where she is buried."
He lifted his cup and took a sip. The osmanthus wine was sweet, but as he spoke these words, everything must have tasted bitter.
"That is why I am not afraid of those people in court," he put down the cup and looked at me. "They scold me, harm me, want to kill me—I am not afraid. The thing I fear most has already happened."
The study was extremely quiet. The wind outside stopped, the moonlight stopped; the whole world seemed to halt.
"Your Highness." My voice was somewhat hoarse.
"Qingyan." He looked at me. "Do you know why I like you?"
My heart skipped a beat.
"Because you are never afraid of me. Not afraid of my identity, not afraid of my temper, not afraid of my past." He leaned back in the chair, a slight smile on his lips. "You are the only one who doesn't stand before me and say 'Your Highness should do this or that'."
"And?" My voice was very soft.
"And—" He looked at me, his gaze becoming soft. "You are the only one who makes me feel like I am still an ordinary person. When my tooth hurts, I look for you. When my wound splits, I look for you. When I'm tired and want to drink—I also look for you."
He paused.
"You are my doctor. Not just for teeth."
I looked at him. Those eyes were very deep under the moonlight, like a bottomless well. There was light in the well—the kind of light that had been buried for a long time and finally dug out by someone.
"Your Highness." I took a deep breath. "I also have a secret."
He looked at me, saying nothing.
"I am not from Changzhou. No—I am from Changzhou, but not this Changzhou. I come from a very, very far place. So far you wouldn't recognize it, so far I cannot return."
He said nothing, just watching me.
"That place is called Vancouver. On the other side of the sea. It takes a very, very long time to get there by ship. I studied medicine there—learned how to treat teeth, how to suture wounds, how to keep people from getting sick."
My voice was trembling. This secret, I had never told anyone. From the first day I traveled to the Tang Dynasty, this secret had been like a thorn, stuck in the deepest part of my heart.
"In that place, I also drank. Drank after exams, drank after finishing papers, drank after working a big night shift. There was a bar next to the school; the owner was Greek, and he made excellent Mojitos—"
"Qingyan." He interrupted me.
"Hmm?"
"That place you mentioned... are those things you taught me—bacteria, dental plaque, genetics—all learned there?"
"Yes."
"Do you miss going back very much?"
I paused. He didn't ask "Are you lying to me?" or "What kind of person are you really?" He asked—Do you miss going back very much?
My eyes suddenly grew hot. "Yes. But I can't go back."
"Then don't go back," he said. "Stay here. Treat my teeth. Teach me to mix drinks. Teach me to play dice."
He reached out and held my hand. His palm was warm, warmer than wine, warmer than moonlight.
"Stay here. I will support you."
I couldn't help but laugh. "Your Highness, I am the Medical Doctor of the Eastern Palace; I receive a salary. I don't need Your Highness to support me."
"Then I will support your clinic," he said. "Your clinic will in the future open throughout the entire Great Tang. From Chang'an to Luoyang, from Yangzhou to Guangzhou. I will open them for you."
"Your Highness—"
"I keep every promise I make to you," he looked at me, his gaze serious unlike someone who was drunk. "Qingyan, do you believe me?"
"I believe you."
"Then I have something to tell you."
"What?"
"I—" His voice became very light, so light it seemed meant only for me. "I like you."
Moonlight streamed in through the window, falling on the table, into the cups, onto his hands. Half a cup of osmanthus wine remained, glowing amber in the moonlight. The dice were scattered on the table, three of them: four, five, six. Fifteen points. Big.
He held my hand; the warmth of his palm traveled from my fingertips, warm. Just like every time before. But this time, he didn't let go.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Do you know when I started liking you?"
"When?"
"The first time you examined my teeth." The corners of his mouth lifted. "You put your finger in my mouth, and your hand didn't tremble at all. I was thinking—how is this woman so bold?"
I couldn't help but laugh. "Your Highness likes me because I am bold?"
"Not just that." He looked at me. "It's because your hand doesn't tremble. Whether in the clinic, in piles of dead bodies, or being chased in an alley—your hand never trembles. I have never seen such a person."
He paused.
"I have seen many people. Those who fear me, respect me, want to harm me. But no one—no one's hand remains steady before me."
"Except you."
Under the moonlight, his eyes were very bright. Not the brightness of drunkenness, but another kind—like someone who has walked in darkness for a long time and finally sees the light.
"Qingyan." He suddenly leaned closer. The scent of alcohol mixed with the agarwood on him, warm and stuffy, making one's head spin.
"Your Highness, you've had too much to drink."
"No. I'm not drunk."
"Drunk people always say they aren't drunk."
He laughed. That smile—the same as when caught stealing cherry pastries in the clinic, the same as releasing river lanterns by Qujiang Pool on the Festival of Xia Yuan, the same as pulling me to run in the alley tonight. Not the smile of a Crown Prince, but the smile of a youth.
"Qingyan, are you willing to stay by my side?"
His voice was very low, so low it seemed to roll out from his chest.
I looked into his eyes. Moonlight fell between his eyebrows and eyes; his eyelashes were long, casting a shadow on his face. The alcohol made his gaze soft, like a pool of spring water rippled by the wind.
"I am willing."
He moved closer. Very slowly, slowly enough for me to dodge. But I didn't.
His lips landed on mine, lightly, tentatively, as if confirming something. The taste of osmanthus wine, sweet.
Moonlight from outside the window fell on the overlapping shadows of the two of us. The dice lay quietly on the table, three of them: four, five, six. Fifteen points. Big.
His lips were very warm. Like him, looking cold but actually warm.
He pulled back slightly and looked at me. His eyes were very bright, brighter than the moonlight, brighter than the crushed silver of the Luo River.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"I'm not drunk."
"Mm."
"I know what I am doing."
"Mm."
He smiled. Then he lowered his head again.
This time it wasn't tentative. It was confirmation. It was two drifting hearts finally finding a harbor to dock.
That night, he drank a lot. The osmanthus wine was finished, the grape wine was finished. We played round after round of dice; he lost more than he won. Every time he lost, he drank a cup; every time he drank, he smiled.
"Your Highness, you're drunk."
"No. I can still drink."
"You've already lost eight times."
"Then one more drink."
He lifted his cup; his hand was somewhat unsteady, spilling a little wine onto the table, gleaming in the moonlight. I pressed down on his hand.
"Your Highness, that's enough."
He looked at me and suddenly smiled. That smile was different from before—not the smile of a Crown Prince, not the smile of a youth, but a deeper, softer smile, like a child's.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"I haven't been this happy in a long time."
My eyes suddenly grew hot.
"In the palace, no one drinks with me. No one plays dice with me. No one—" His voice grew lighter and lighter. "No one treats me the way you do."
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Moonlight fell on his face; his eyelashes trembled slightly, like two small fans.
"Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Don't go."
"I won't go."
"Stay with me always."
"...Alright."
He smiled. Then his hand dropped, landing on the armrest of the chair, fingers curling slightly. His breathing gradually steadied.
He fell asleep.
I sat beside him, looking at his face. When asleep, he didn't look like a Crown Prince. Not the heir apparent who battled wits with Princess Taiping in court, not the young war god who fought five men alone in an alley. Just a young man. A young man who had been tired for a long time and could finally close his eyes.
I stood up, took a blanket, and covered him. He moved slightly but didn't wake; he just curled further into the blanket, like a cat that had found its nest.
Moonlight streamed in through the window, falling on his face, shoulders, and hands. His fingers were slender, knuckles distinct, nails trimmed neatly—he had promised me he would brush well, take care of his teeth, and look after himself. He had kept all his promises.
I sat beside him and did not leave.
The dice were still scattered on the table, three of them: four, five, six. The wine cups were empty, the wine jars empty. The moon outside the window was very round, very bright, illuminating the entire study in white.
It wasn't just the alcohol that made one drunk, but this rare sense of peace.
I reached out and gently held his fingers hanging on the armrest. He didn't wake, but his fingers curled slightly, holding mine back.
Only candlelight and moonlight remained in the study. The night breeze gently caressed the large cloak he had draped over my shoulders—I knew that no matter the wind and rain in the future, tonight we could both sleep in peace.
(End of Chapter 9)