A Road of a Thousand Years. Part Three. Chapter Two

In the summer months, when lotuses blossomed in the garden behind the palace, Yeon-ju was often seen on the stone paths between the ponds.

She walked slowly, in a dress of the finest silk, the color of morning mist, and her every step was measured, like a movement in a dance. Sometimes she stopped by an old plum tree, gently touching the petals, as if checking whether it was a dream. Her fingers were thin, almost transparent, and in their movement there was something of a faience figurine, so fragile one dared not touch it.

Sometimes she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear — with a gesture that held neither coquetry nor fuss, only a habitual concern for order. Courtiers noticed: when she did this, a barely perceptible smile appeared on her face, like that of a person remembering something known only to them.

The Emperor came to the garden in the evenings. He was accompanied by eunuchs and guards, but upon entering the garden, he remained alone. He watched as Yeon-ju poured him tea — just as flawlessly as on the day they met — and how she, without raising her eyes, presented the cup, bowing slightly lower than etiquette demanded. There was neither fear nor haste in her movements, only precision and beauty.

The Emperor accepted the cup with both hands, his gaze lingering on her fingers, on the curve of her wrist, on the delicate line of her neck. Sometimes he held his breath, as if afraid to startle the fragile balance of that moment. He spoke no idle words, but a softness appeared in his face that the courtiers rarely noticed. Sometimes he nodded slowly, as if agreeing with something known only to him.

Servants and maids, standing in the shadows, spoke among themselves:

“The Emperor has become quieter, and visits the garden more often,” they whispered in the corridors. “He listens to her speak, as if her voice holds something no one else possesses.”

“He smiles when she serves him tea,” remarked the senior eunuch. “That is a rarity.”

“They say he has begun to linger longer in the garden,” added a maid. “Sometimes they simply remain silent, and yet it is clear he does not wish to leave.”

“She asks no unnecessary questions,” whispered one of the senior maids. “That is wise.”

In the garden, amidst lotuses and stones, Yeon-ju continued her slow dance. She touched the flowers, fixed her hair, looked at the water reflecting the clouds and the palace roofs. The Emperor watched her without intervening, as one watches a rare bird or the play of light on the water’s surface. In his gaze, there was neither passion nor anxiety — only quiet admiration and a peace that rarely visited his heart.

In the evenings, when the sun set behind the walls of the Forbidden City, the garden grew quiet. Only the rustle of silk, only the light chime of bracelets on her wrists, only the reflection of the moon in the water — and not a single word that could alter the order of things.

“They say she is with child,” meanwhile, whispers ran through the corridors. “The Empress is not pleased.”

“The Empress is never pleased,” someone replied. “But she knows how to wait.”

In the Empress’s chambers, this news was met with silence. The Empress did not change her expression, but that very evening, she ordered all the maids in the concubine’s chambers to be replaced.

Part Three. Chapter Three →
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