Empress pondered the reasons for the Cold Palace
My fingertips traced the raised embroidery on the spring-welcoming purse; the touch was so real it brought me peace. Yet, the faint, persistent beeping sound in my ear reminded me of the illusion of it all. I stared at the blurred patterns on the tent ceiling, and the scenes of the Empress targeting us in the past flashed vividly before my eyes once more—the eunuchs' sharp gazes during the searches, the aggrieved cries of the laundry maids as they were transferred, and the worry in Consort Su's eyes when she mentioned "investigating old accounts"—each scene carried a chilling sense of oppression. But now, recalling them, I tasted a different flavor.
I remember when I was a child, Aunt Sun would deliberately turn her stereo up very loud because we sang under her window, drowning out our voices. At the time, I only thought she was mean, until later I overheard her telling a neighbor, "The children's laughter is too noisy; it makes me feel empty inside." It turned out she didn't dislike noise, but rather feared that the noise would highlight her loneliness. Wasn't the Empress the same? Living in the Phoenix Palace, she was waited on hand and foot, yet she had no one to confide in. The image of us sharing a piece of osmanthus cake and embroidering handkerchiefs together in the Cold Palace was perhaps, for her, like the laughter Aunt Sun heard—both a temptation and a torment.
She sent people to search the Cold Palace, perhaps not just to "find fault," but also to see for herself: could we really be doing so well in such dire straits? When she saw that we weren't panicked by the search, but instead worked together to tidy up the mess and brewed tea to comfort each other, she was probably jealous—jealous that we could so easily have the companionship she longed for. Just like how Aunt Sun would later deliberately pass by when we were making desserts, pretending to be "on the way to buy groceries," but actually wanting to catch a glimpse of us busily working together.
And her suppression of the palace maids who brought us things, in retrospect, seems more like a clumsy form of "envy." Those palace maids were willing to risk their lives to bring us things because of the genuine friendship between us; while those around the Empress were more concerned with awe and calculation towards her, and no one truly cared about her. When she saw the palace maids' kindness towards us, it was as if she saw something she lacked, which is why she subconsciously stopped them—not out of malice, but out of fear that seeing that warmth again would make her vulnerable.
I suddenly recalled the way the Empress's gaze fell upon the Consort Xian when she first visited the Cold Palace. At that time, she said coldly, "The Consort Xian seems quite at ease," but a hint of envy lurked in her eyes. Although the Consort Xian was in the Cold Palace, she had us to keep her company, and things to care about; but what about the Empress? She possessed supreme power, yet she had no one to talk to, no one to listen to her complaints. Her investigation into the Consort Xian's family's past was perhaps just an excuse to stay in the Cold Palace a little longer, to experience a little more of the warmth and life here, even if this method was tinged with a sharp pretense.
Just like how Aunt Sun would later take the initiative to repair the clothesline that had been damaged by the wind, saying, "You're all so careless, always causing me trouble," but her hands were always exceptionally careful. The Empress's delivery of Longjing tea and fertilizer today is also a kind of "repair." She is trying to approach this warmth she has longed for in her own way, but years of surviving in the palace have made her accustomed to wrapping herself in a hard shell, even needing to find an excuse like "by the Emperor's decree" to express her concern.
I turned over, and moonlight streamed through the window cracks onto my pillow, like a small patch of silver frost. I remembered when the Empress left, she paused, turned back to look at the little peach tree in the yard, and the tenderness in her eyes was exactly the same as the way Aunt Sun looked at us flying kites—both with a cautious longing, afraid of being discovered, yet unable to resist wanting to look a little longer.
Perhaps all of the Empress's previous targeting was her way of "self-protection." She feared that if she got too close to this warmth, she would inevitably let down her guard, and in the scheming harem, letting down one's guard meant danger. So she could only use criticism and suppression to conceal her true feelings, protecting herself while also keeping us at a distance, thus avoiding the risk of "losing" us.
The "beep beep" in my ears gradually softened, and I clutched the spring-welcoming sachet in my hand, a sudden sense of peace washing over me. It turned out that behind the Empress's cold behavior lay a heart yearning for warmth but afraid to show it easily. Like Aunt Sun in my childhood, who used harshness to mask loneliness and criticism to express envy. They had both been worn down by life, forgetting how to be gentle, yet deep in their hearts, they still longed for unadulterated companionship.
The moonlight faded, and dawn was approaching outside the window. I closed my eyes, and the image of the Empress's trembling fingertips as she handed me the osmanthus cake earlier that day floated into my mind. No matter when this dream ends, I will remember that this seemingly cold Empress, like Aunt Sun from my childhood, was simply someone who needed to be treated gently. And our days in the cold palace, perhaps, were not only a reflection of my longing for warmth, but also a subconscious desire to offer that lonely "Empress," and to that lonely Aunt Sun from my childhood, a belated act of tenderness.
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