Chapter 16 A Maple Leaf in Autumn
The corruption case finally ended with “no solid evidence.” Those Wen Clan disciples, however, were all transferred from key posts and given idle assignments.
Father sat withered in the study for three days. A great deal of white hair had suddenly appeared at his temples.
When I went to see him, he was staring at a painting, “Fishing Alone on a Cold River.” The lone boat in the painting was moored in mid-river. The fishing rod pointed slantwise at the sky, like a string drawn to its limit.
“Wen Yan.” Father suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse as if ground by sandpaper. “Your grandfather once said that affection in the imperial house is as thin as a layer of window paper. One poke and it breaks.”
I refilled his tea. The steam hazed his brows and eyes.
“Father, rest assured. Your son understands.”
“You don’t understand.” Father turned, his gaze heavy on me. “The camphor box in your room. The way you look at the Crown Prince… Have you forgotten the winter of the twenty-fifth year of Changle, how you ran back crying from the Eastern Palace?”
The teacup trembled lightly on the desk. Scalding tea splashed on the back of my hand, yet I did not feel pain.
“Father.” I lowered my lashes, hiding the surge of feeling. “That time is not this time.”
Father sighed heavily and waved me out.
When I walked out of the study, I saw Xiao Huai An’s honor guard stopped before the gate of Wen Manor. He was looking up at the ivy on the wall.
The leaves had been dyed crimson by autumn frost, like countless open palms.
“What are you looking at?” I walked to his side.
He turned, a red leaf pinched in his fingers. “Doesn’t this leaf look like the geese you painted last night?”
I remembered “Wild Geese Alighting on Sand,” which I had painted under the candle last night. He had leaned in behind me to look, his breath brushing the hollow of my neck.
His lips were burning, and the sensation made me want to hide.
The moonlight then had been so fine. It fell through the window lattice onto the xuan paper and lit the two nestling geese into a blur.
“No.” I took the red leaf. The veins were clear as lines someone had carved. “Geese are meant to fly south. This leaf can only fall into the earth.”
He suddenly gripped my hand and pressed the red leaf into my palm. “When I take the throne, I will plant the imperial garden full of maple trees, so you can watch a whole winter of red leaves. Will they look like geese flying south?”
The promises inside these palace walls were indeed like maple leaves, red with heat, falling in haste.
Yet I still tucked the red leaf into my sleeve, as if tucking away a lump of fire that would burn.