Chapter One #2
Both pieces — the ru, a blouse with long sleeves, and the qun, a voluminous skirt — had been adjusted favourably.
The sleeves were draped, but had been fitted tightly at the wrists, ensuring no slip of the material which might reveal the scars of a damaged prince, while the skirt was cinched lightly for easy breathing when the tempo increased, and had far more layers than a regular qun; giving it a volume that would enhance his movement.
Over the top of both was a sheer white silk coat with long, draping sleeves, its intricate russet and silver embroidery heavy with designs of deer and butterflies and chrysanthemums. If he lifted his arms, the drape of the sleeves would touch the floor.
A wondrous sight on the dance floor, but here in the gardens, a terrible hazard.
No matter how he bundled the layers in his arms, their multitude seemed intent on trying to escape his hold and sweep against the dirty ground.
His heart thumped with his daring, and his stupidity.
This was an ill-timed dash, but now that Xian had set his mind to seeing Mercy, he’d not turn around. At least he was warm. The afternoon was turning cold already, and they had not long finished the noon meal.
Xian tripped over an uneven stone in the path, sending his heart pounding at the back of his throat, and the decorative veil slapping at his face.
He edged off the path and slipped in behind the row of whitebark pines near where a guard tower sat up high on the manor’s outer west wall.
There were two guards on duty, stationed to keep an eye on those approaching the manor; the home of the Governor, Marquess Tian Wenlie, who ruled Kunming along with his heavy-handed wife, the marchioness.
The guards would not stop Xian if they glimpsed him, but they might send word to their master, who would inform his wife. That alone was enough to have Xian slinking close to the walls, wishing he were as small as a fox so he could better conceal himself.
The sprawling residence of Kunming’s Governor had been Xian’s home for over ten years; since his father, the Daoguang Emperor, cast him out of the Imperial Palace at just ten years old, handing him into the care of the sister of his Noble Consort Jing.
As a grieving, motherless child, Xian had held a delicate hope that the newly appointed Marchioness Shen might welcome him with kindness and provide some comfort as he struggled with the great loss he’d suffered so early in life.
But he’d learned within days of his arrival that his guardians had no intention of trying to take the place of his mother.
She had given her life to protect Xian, but the Marquess and Marchioness barely gave him the rice needed to survive a day.
He should not have expected any less; Noble Consort Jing and Xian’s mother had been rivals for the emperor’s affections. But only Xian’s mother had borne the emperor a son that lived.
No shouts followed him as he stepped out of sight of the guard tower.
Breathing a little easier, Xian moved deeper into the extensive gardens, resettling the layers of his gown for the hundredth time.
His shoes, a sand-coloured silk, would have to be changed before he headed to the Reception Hall for the ceremony; set to begin in an hour and a half.
These parts of the gardens were not so well tended as the rest, and furrows and gutters weren’t cleared to ensure last night’s rainwater did not flood the soil.
Xian exhaled, his breath faintly white in the cool mid-January air. Already he was soothed, just by setting out on this well-worn path to his friend. A visit with Mercy would lift his mood, he was certain.
He stepped carefully, watching out for the droppings of the plethora of large birds the marquess had acquired for the gardens; swans and cranes, and a peacock that was heard often but rarely seen.
His fingers were aching with the cold, and his grip on his gown, by the time he finally reached the meandering pebbled path that sloped towards the heart of his sunken garden. He sent up a quick prayer to the Seven Maidens, muttering the names of each of the Emperor of Heaven’s daughters quickly.
‘You are gracious, holy daughters,’ he whispered. ‘I pray you have time to watch over me and send me your luck so I don’t mark my clothes, or slip in this mud.’
The slightest stain on his clothes would be noticed by Marchioness Shen, and she knew which of his bruises were from her.
Xian moved through the caressing boughs of a weeping willow tree, one of many that circled his garden like sentinels.
He exhaled into their yellowed light. Willows had been his mother’s favourite.
When she’d taught him to dance, she’d shown him the swaying branches and encouraged him to mimic their carefree way.
At such a young age, he doubted he’d looked anything but amusing as he’d wiggled his small hips and snaked his arms overhead.
Xian shrugged his shoulders, and his ruqun snagged against the roughness of the skin beneath. His burns seemed to tighten whenever he thought on his mother.
He hurried through the willow, taking a shorter route than the steps would allow, as they swept around the garden’s edge before circling back towards the pond.
The beads struck his face, stinging where his skin was smooth and clear, but causing no pain where scars on his left cheek rendered him numb.
The left side of his body was the most ruined; from the top of his thigh, along his torso to his shoulder, a patch at his neck, and the unfortunate burn on his cheek.
Those areas his mother could not protect when she tried to shield him from the blaze.
Small good fortune had kept his eyes undamaged, his sight unhindered; a violet gaze deemed rare, and adding to the whispers of sorcery that plagued him.
Xian crooked his finger and hooked it into the dangling strands, opening a hole for his troublesome gaze to fix upon the fishpond up ahead; a wide circle of stones, built waist high, surrounding a smaller unused and long-dried well that had been flooded.
Home to his dearest friend in all the world. The only one who listened when Xian whispered of his hopes, his loneliness, and his grief.