It was as if they wanted to see right through me, inside and out, to see what I was thinking with this "restless" appearance, and whether I was coveting the crown prince position that rightfully belonged to him.
Whenever I wear the Seven Star Sword bestowed upon me by my father, its scabbard is made of sharkskin and inlaid with seven small pearls. It is a trophy that my father obtained when he pacified the northern border.
On the table lay a copy of "The Art of War" that he had only read halfway through. Whenever his gaze swept over it, there was always a hint of disdain hidden in it.
It's like looking at a misplaced piece of furniture: a gilded porcelain vase that should be on a boudoir dressing table is instead forced to be placed in front of the imperial study's meeting table.
It has an untimely and absurd feel to it, and is even a bit of an eyesore.
Once, I went to see my father with my policy essay in hand, and I happened to run into him coming out of the Imperial Study. He glanced at the manuscript in my hand and twitched the corner of his mouth.
"Your Highness is quite leisurely, having the time to ponder these 'useless things'." The disdain in her tone pierced my heart like a needle.
I became increasingly afraid to get close to him, even keeping a distance of three zhang (approximately 10 meters) from him when I paid my respects to him morning and evening.
Every time I went to his Chengqian Palace, it felt like walking on thin ice. The gold bricks under my feet were so cold and uncomfortable that I had to be careful with every step.
As I bowed, I glanced at the exquisite dragon pattern embroidered on the hem of his robe.
The dragon pattern was made using gold thread embroidery, and each scale was embroidered so vividly that it took a famous Suzhou embroidery master three months to complete.
The gold thread gleamed coldly in the light, making my heart pound and my breathing become lighter, afraid that any word or action might displease him.
The unease in my heart was like an unattended vine in the backyard, climbing up the wall and covering my entire chest, its branches even seeping into the cracks of my bones, yet I couldn't explain why.
He didn't scold me, didn't punish me, and even occasionally had palace servants send me some novelties.
The glass beads, a tribute from the Western Regions, refract seven colors of light under the sun and feel cool to the touch.
The brocade handkerchiefs woven in Jiangnan are as soft as cloud fluff to the touch, and are embroidered with patches of crabapple blossoms.
But these things no longer have the warmth they once had when he gave me the wooden bird. The indifference in his eyes hurt more than any harsh words.
Like a dull knife, it slowly cuts away at the friendships we shared, like picking peach blossoms together, building snowmen, and sharing little secrets, leaving us bloodied and bruised, and the pain making it hard to breathe.
Later, I slowly realized what it meant: what was hidden in those eyes was a deep-seated contempt for the word "woman".
He felt that I should be confined to my ornately decorated room, embroidering mandarin duck handkerchiefs with a fine needle, and speaking soft words like "May my husband be well and my parents-in-law be healthy."
She shouldn't have gotten herself all sweaty in the training ground, wielding her spear with such force, and even tucking her skirt into her waistband.
That was the method Ling Shuang taught me, saying that it would make practicing shooting more efficient. But in his eyes, it made me look like an unruly country girl.
He shouldn't touch those "men's affairs" concerning war and politics, as if turning an extra page of a military book or practicing an extra set of sword techniques would be an offense against his rules.
It is a negative example of "a woman's virtue lies in her lack of talent," and it is wishful thinking about things that do not belong to her.
Once at a palace banquet, after the dancers finished performing the "Rainbow Feather Dance," he looked at me and suddenly said, "If my royal sister could learn this, it would be much more dignified than wielding weapons."
I almost dropped the wine glass in my hand; the wine spilled onto the hem of my skirt, as cold as ice.
And yet, under his daily scrutiny, I quietly developed a sense of inferiority.
At night, I looked in the bronze mirror at myself, my hair styled in a man's bun—Ling Shuang had styled it for me, saying that this way my hair wouldn't come loose when I practiced shooting.
Wearing a dark, close-fitting outfit that allowed for easy movement, with calluses on his fingertips from practicing shooting and hard marks on his fingertips from drawing a bow, he suddenly felt somewhat embarrassed.
I couldn't help but wonder: Was I really going too far? Shouldn't a girl act like a girl?
Like the concubines in the imperial harem, she had delicately drawn eyebrows and wore a ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress) embroidered with lotus blossoms, the hem of which trailed on the ground, sweeping away the dust on the gold bricks.
She wears the words "gentle and virtuous" on her face, and even her walk is as light as if she's stepping on cotton.
Speak softly, dare not laugh loudly, dare not have your own thoughts, and dare not touch those things that "should not be touched"?
The scene of trying to learn needlework that day still makes my fingertips ache when I think about it, and even my heart feels heavy.
Wanqing found the best embroiderer in the palace to teach me. The embroiderer held up a piece of plain white soft satin and said, "Princess, since you are a beginner, embroider an orchid. It is simple and elegant."
My hands, which are used to holding spears and sword hilts, are naturally thicker than those of ordinary women, and my fingertips have calluses from archery practice.
Holding that embroidery needle as thin as a cow's hair, she trembled like a leaf falling in the autumn wind, and it took her a long time to even thread the needle.
As soon as the thread was threaded, her hand trembled, and the needle fell to the ground, rolling to the table leg. Wanqing squatted on the ground and searched for a long time before finally picking up the shiny needle.
After several repetitions, my fingertips were red and throbbing from the tight thread.
I finally started embroidering the orchid leaves, but the needle seemed to be targeting me, pricking my skin and flesh.
In less than half an hour, several beads of blood appeared on my fingertips. The seeping red blood fell onto the plain white satin, just like peach petals blown away by the wind in spring.
But these "peach petals" are not beautiful at all; they only cause excruciating pain.
Tears welled up in my eyes, but I stubbornly refused to let them fall. I didn't want the embroiderer to think that I couldn't even do this "thing a woman should do."
Just then, Wanqing came in carrying freshly made osmanthus cakes. When she saw my appearance, the tray in her hand fell to the ground with a clatter.
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