I inhale so quickly, I’m afraid they might hear me. Hào’yáng freezes, yet there is a bewilderment to his gaze that has replaced his regular steady calculation, the cleverness and cunning of his court-taught negotiation skills.
An ache rises in my throat. I suddenly regret coming here, regret listening in, because the truth unspoken between us is better than the truth exposed with finality from Hào’yáng’s own lips.
That he doesn’t love me in a romantic sense. That he only needs me as part of a political alliance. That he cherished me as part of the strange bond we fostered through the jade pendant as children out of necessity. Only he’s been too kind to say it all to my face.
At last, so quietly that I strain to hear him, Hào’yáng replies: “Lady Hé, I do not deserve to love your daughter.”
I should leave. I should never have come.
Yet I find that I am rooted to the spot.Why do you care whether he loves you or not?a small voice whispers in my mind, and the question is the answer I have been searching for all along.
I care because Iwanthim to love me.
A ridiculous notion, one that has no place in our relationship. One that I can quash right now, when I hear the answer from Hào’yáng’s own mouth.
“Whether or not you deserve her is what others believe,” my mother replies. “It’s a simple question, Your Highness.”
Hào’yáng presses his lips together. His gaze drifts toward the window, and it feels as though he’s looking directly at me, though I know I cannot be seen. “I would love her, Lady Hé, as is the duty of a husband to love his wife. If that is what you and Àn’ying would wish.”
“Whatever we discuss stays between us today,” Ma adds gently. “It is not my place to reveal matters of the heart nor secrets one wishes to keep, Hào’yáng. And no matter your answer, you need not fear that I will stop you from what you need to win this war.” She leans forward. “I do not wish to hear what your duty would be. I wish to hear the truth from your heart.” Her voice grows soft. “Tell me, Your Highness. Do you love Àn’ying?”
Hào’yáng’s jaw tightens; his face is drawn. He stares at a spot on the table for several moments, his throat bobbing as he works through any tricks and traps to her question, the best and most diplomatic way to respond.
Then he exhales and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there is a sorrow on his face that I have seen before. It’s an expression I have seen when he’s looked atme.
One I didn’t know how to read until I hear his next words.
“Yes, Lady Hé,” Hào’yáng says quietly. “I love Àn’ying. I love her more than anything else in this world. More than my own life. I have for all of nine years.”
The world slows. The sunlight and shadows of my plum blossom tree imprinted against my walls blur, and suddenly, I am ten years old again, curled against my door with a dead father, a near-lifeless mother, and a baby sister not five years of age, and the only thing holding me together is my jade pendantand the guardian within, writing to me one golden stroke at a time. I can’t breathe, can’t think, as I stare at him now, seated in my kitchen, heir and captain and my boy in the jade.
For all of nine years.
The river in my chest surges to a roar.
I only catch the barest glimpse of my mother’s profile and cannot make out her expression as she says, “And have you expressed this to my daughter?”
Hào’yáng doesn’t look up. Won’t look up, perhaps because he knows I am standing here, invisible in the shadows, watching him confess a truth he has held to himself until now. “No,” he says at last. “I wished to give her time and her own choice. I promised your daughter the freedom to love as she wishes in this marriage alliance. All I care about is her happiness, whether it is with me or someone else.”
Someone else.
My chest burns. He knows about Yù’chén—of course he would. He was the captain of the immortal guard, tasked to protect the candidates of the Immortality Trials. I begged him, the night all hells broke loose, to let me see Yù’chén.
I recall the emotion that had crossed his face as I made that ask. I didn’t understand it then, but I understand it now, the deep sorrow that lines Hào’yáng’s expression in moments when he thinks I do not notice.
My mother listens in silence. “You are an honorable man, Your Highness,” she says softly. “You will make a fine emperor one day.”
Hào’yáng doesn’t lift his gaze. “You praise me too highly, Lady Hé.”
“Here is my second question: Do you love your kingdom?”
This time, Hào’yáng’s answer comes as straight and true as the strike of a sword. “Of course. My kingdom and my people are my duty.”
“Then, my third question,” my mother says. “Which would you choose, were you allowed to choose only one?”
Hào’yáng’s face is smooth, but I catch the tightening of his eyes as he realizes, as I do, what my mother means. “You speak as if they are mutually exclusive, Lady Hé.”
My mother sighs and leans back, turning to look out through the shutters of our living room. From the way her gaze shifts and the age-old grief that seeps in, I know she is gazing at our plum blossom tree.
