Chapter 10: The Sacrifice of Beauty

Last night, a gentle wind and rain swept through the deep hours, mist blanketing the world. Yet as the sun rose this morning, the skies cleared, the air grew fresh and bright, and a warm breeze caressed everything—an omen, perhaps, for the return of order and the rise of the phoenix. How many rejoice, how many grieve, how many harbor resentment?

Within the palace, there is never a scarcity of those quick to hear and eager to spread news. The Empress awakening last night was already a tempest sweeping through the harem before dawn had broken. And as the inner court is always tightly bound to the outer court, the ministers learned of it the moment the palace gates opened.

The Central Palace is lively again, ready to weave through the loopholes of the noble clans—what a cause for celebration! So thought the faction of the commoner-born, led by the father of the Virtuous Consort, Minister Liu, relishing the misfortune of others. Calamity endures for a thousand years, and the Empress’s death is yet a distant prospect; to unseat her and elevate the Noble Consort is a distant, arduous task. The extended family of the Lü clan, headed by the father of the Noble Consort, Minister Lü, gritted their teeth in helpless, tearful self-encouragement.

A horse is a third of a dragon; and since our Daidai was born in the year of the horse, she is half a little female dragon herself. What a perfect match for the Son of Heaven—surely a harmony as flawless as zither and harp. Daidai, live as freely as you wish; our family will always support you. So vowed You Hai, and all the men of the You clan, determined to love and indulge You Daidai to the end, vowing to protect her even if it cost them their lives.

Yet all these sentiments were unknown to her—or rather, to it.

In the Palace of Sweet Springs, there is a rear garden, the only place in the palace where trees and flowers are planted. Through a moon-gate, a narrow path of lotus-patterned blue bricks winds toward a waterside pavilion at the lake’s center. On either side, rows of roses bloom in neat disorder; by the wall, clumps of emerald bamboo and a few Taihu stones pile up, forming an artificial hill that appears entirely natural. Within, a spacious cave is furnished with stone tables and couches; its walls are carpeted in lush moss, and yellow jasmine creeps in through cracks, filling the cool air with fragrance—a perfect retreat from summer heat.

The lake is small, no more than five acres wide, its water crystal clear so one can see straight to the bottom. Hundreds of scarlet and orange koi dart among the green lotus leaves, lively and restless, stirring endless ripples across the surface.

Amidst birdsong and floral scents, Miss Snake Daidai was at this moment sprawled lazily on the broad wooden platform extending from the pavilion, a spot perfect for sitting and fishing. Eyes half-closed, basking in the sun, her whole being (or snake?) seemed steeped in languor.

From afar, it was a cheerful scene: the sun beaming overhead, flowers smiling, birds chirping their morning greetings. Yet up close, the truth was rather different: the sun blazed above, the flowers smiled, the birds sang, but the snake lay listless and drooping—was the sunshine too much for her?

Indeed, this demon—this creature—felt thoroughly unwell. Her snake-life seemed to have collapsed, and the human fate awaiting her was noisy and perplexing; all of it began with the uninvited palace concubines who came early that morning.

More shocking than the Empress’s awakening was the news that the Emperor himself had left her bedchamber late last night, hair disheveled, clothing in disarray, face as dark as thunder.

No one could resist speculating. Some claimed the Empress had awakened with beastly vigor and tried to overpower the Emperor—unsuccessfully. Others whispered that, in a desperate bid to rouse the slumbering Empress, the Emperor had sacrificed his own dignity at midnight... (Here, the idle minds of the palace filled in the rest with wild imaginings.) What a moving, devoted man, they sighed. Yet others gossiped that the Emperor, overcome by desire in the dead of night, had tried to force himself on the Empress’s chief lady-in-waiting, only to be rebuffed by her steadfast loyalty, and departed the Palace of Sweet Springs in anger—though this last rumor was dismissed by the Virtuous Consort, who, given the Empress’s usual conduct, much preferred the first explanation.

The Noble Consort, for her part, favored the second version, savoring the Emperor’s supposed passion for her cousin.

To confirm their suspicions, the concubines, led by the Noble Consort and Virtuous Consort, arrived early that morning to pay their respects.

At that hour, dawn had barely broken, the birds had just begun to sing, and the great demon, lost in slumber on her bed, was about to experience her first ever early awakening.

Happily, You Daidai did not suffer from morning temper—nor did she. Eyes closed, she sniffed the air, found the flowers by scent, took a bite, and chewed dreamily—only to be startled fully awake by the shocked clamor of four women.

Baffled, she wondered if she had accidentally swallowed their inner cores; among demons, losing one’s inner core was a calamity. But no, these women had none. Hastily, she spat out the flower pulp and stammered, “I was just cleaning my teeth.” She was, after all, a very fastidious demon.

There was nothing for it but to submit to their ministrations: holding a mouthful of fragrant water, forbidden to swallow, forced to spit; gritty bamboo salt and a brush scoured her teeth up and down, side to side. Oh, this must be bamboo salt tooth-washing. Turning her rusty mind, she vaguely recalled having seen this before.

Cleanliness was worth enduring. Besides, she was being waited on by four lovely women—this new life had its charms.

She adored washing her face—plunging her whole head into a basin, hugging it and refusing to emerge. The four beauties shrieked in alarm. Then she discovered that teasing humans was far more amusing than tormenting field mice. Surfacing with a toothy, glinting grin, she caused Qiuyun to shiver; the maid hurried to dry her mistress’s face with a cloth.

After a morning of chaos, even the usually unflappable Qiuyun was flustered. The bed was a mess, water had soaked the floor, splendid robes were muddied, and her mistress lay bonelessly draped over Chunmo’s lap. Dongcang stood rigid, face taut, looking so foolish as to be almost adorable—though inwardly, she was on the verge of panic. After such a grave illness, had her mistress forgotten all the etiquette drilled into her since childhood?

Supporting their limp mistress, Chunmo was already weeping inside. Most surprising was Xiají, who accepted her mistress’s transformation with equanimity and wished she would remain this way forever.

“This one is lovely—wear it here,” Daidai said, pointing to her own forehead.

“Mistress, you have an excellent eye,” Xiají replied, positioning the ornament at Daidai’s temple, then hesitated. “But if you wear this vermilion hairpin, we’ll have to redo your hairstyle.”

“Then forget it,” Daidai replied regretfully, stroking the snake-shaped hairpin and gesturing for her to proceed as she liked.

“Very well,” Xiají answered promptly.

They had been fussing at the dressing table for an hour already, changing hairstyles six times. The mistress was obedient, letting her hair be styled as they wished, but as soon as it was done, she would stand, take a few steps, frown, and pull out the pins, undoing all their work. Disheveled and lopsided, she seemed unaware, but as soon as she felt comfortable, she would smooth her brow, wave her hand, and declare, “Let’s go!”

This, apparently, meant she was ready to meet the concubines. But could she go out looking so untidy—was she meant to set off their beauty by contrast?

As loyal and dutiful attendants, the Empress’s ladies could not permit her to leave in such a state, and so they pulled her back to redo her hair again and again. At first, they thought she found the styles insufficiently grand or intimidating; Qiuyun quickly arranged an elaborate “stars surround the moon” coiffure—cumbersome but undeniably regal. Yet the Empress, upon opening her eyes, frowned and pulled it apart. This scene repeated five times, each maid taking her turn until they were utterly at a loss. Asked for her preference, the Empress would only reply, “Whatever.”

But “whatever” proved most difficult of all. Meanwhile, in the main hall, the concubines waiting to pay their respects had begun to grumble, and the four maids were beside themselves with anxiety. It was then that Xiají gritted her teeth and took charge. Ignoring the others’ worried glances, she styled her mistress’s hair in the simplest fashion from the early Han, using no pins, hooks, or combs—just smooth, flowing hair secured with a jade clasp and a single hairpin at the back.

From ostentatious splendor to pure, casual elegance, the transformation left her attendants speechless. Chunmo stared, open-mouthed. Qiuyun murmured, half-dazed, “As a child, our mistress loved old-fashioned styles, from any era—so long as they were beautiful. She has always adored beauty.” Now, seeing her once more in such a style, tears sprang to her eyes for reasons she could not name.

For whom had she once adorned herself in riches? For whom did she now wash it all away?

“Let’s go,” Daidai said at last, now accustomed to the fine strands falling about her face. She yawned, rose, and strode out.