The River's Bride: A Lesson

By the time I turned sixteen, I had developed a rather unfortunate habit.

I looked for Lin Yue whenever I entered a room.

I did not mean to. It simply happened. My eyes would search the familiar corners of the schoolroom, the garden paths, or the long corridors connecting the inner palace, and only afterward would I remember that I had no particular reason to expect her there.

It was an embarrassing habit for a Crown Prince to possess.

Unfortunately, I was not the only person who had noticed.

The culprit was a young noble lady who had entered the palace only three months earlier.

Her family had maintained a longstanding relationship with the Empress's household. Years ago, they had promised that their daughter would enter the palace to serve the Empress once she was old enough to assume the responsibilities of a young lady. Now that she had come of age, the promise had been fulfilled, and she had been placed among the women attending to my mother's household.

She was currently assigned to the youngest princess, which meant she spent much of her day in the Empress's quarters or accompanying the little girl to her lessons.

She was also, I had discovered, far too observant for her own good.

I first realized this when I encountered her in a corridor near my mother's residence.

She was accompanying the youngest princess, who had apparently decided that walking slowly was an acceptable way to delay returning to her lessons.

The young noble lady bowed when she saw me.

"Your Highness."

I acknowledged her and was about to continue walking when she spoke again.

"Your Highness has been visiting the schoolroom quite frequently lately."

I stopped.

"The imperial children require education."

"Of course."

Her answer was far too agreeable.

I looked at her.

She lowered her head, but I caught the small smile she was trying to suppress.

"Perhaps Your Highness is particularly concerned about the children's education."

"I should hope every member of the imperial family is concerned about it."

"Indeed, Your Highness."

She paused.

"Though I have noticed that Your Highness seems especially interested in the lessons taught by Consort Lin."

I stared at her.

Her expression became perfectly solemn.

It was the expression of someone who had just delivered an innocent observation and had absolutely no intention of explaining herself.

"Consort Lin explains certain matters well," I said.

"How fortunate."

"Her discussions are useful."

"Very fortunate indeed."

I could feel the heat creeping up my neck.

The youngest princess looked between us, apparently confused by the conversation.

I, meanwhile, was discovering that a sixteen-year-old Crown Prince could be rendered speechless by a noble lady who had barely spent three months in the palace.

"Attend to the princess," I told her.

"I am doing so, Your Highness."

"Then continue."

"As Your Highness commands."

I walked away.

Behind me, I heard the princess ask, "What is so fortunate about Consort Lin teaching us?"

The young noble lady answered, "Nothing at all, Your Highness."

I decided I disliked her.

Very much.

The difficulty was that she did not stop.

She never openly disrespected me. She was far too conscious of her position for that. Whenever I looked at her sternly, she bowed, apologized, and behaved as though she had never said anything unusual.

But the next time we met, she would find another way to make the same observation.

If I asked whether the children had completed their lessons, she would mention that Consort Lin had helped them understand a difficult passage.

If I happened to pass the schoolroom, she would remark that I had arrived just in time for the most interesting part of the lesson.

Once, when I left after a particularly long discussion with Lin Yue, I encountered the young lady waiting with the princess in the garden.

She looked at me.

Then she looked toward the schoolroom behind me.

"Your Highness seems to have enjoyed today's lesson."

"I have learned something useful."

"I am pleased to hear it."

She paused.

"Perhaps I should ask Consort Lin to teach me as well."

I narrowed my eyes.

She immediately bowed her head.

"Forgive me, Your Highness. I spoke carelessly."

I should have reprimanded her.

Instead, I walked away, which only made the matter worse. I could hear the princess giggling behind me.

For the rest of the afternoon, I was irritable with everyone.

The worst part was that the young lady had not entirely misunderstood me.

I did enjoy speaking with Lin Yue.

I liked the way she listened without rushing me. I liked that she could challenge my reasoning without treating me as though I were incapable of understanding a complicated matter. I liked that she remembered our previous conversations and occasionally returned to a question I had thought she had forgotten.

I liked her company.

There was nothing inherently wrong with that.

The difficulty was that I had begun to anticipate it.

And anticipation, I had discovered, could be considerably more troublesome than the actual conversation.

I had no claim upon Lin Yue's time. She was a consort of the Emperor, a woman six years older than I was, and heavily pregnant with a child who would soon join the imperial family.

She had never encouraged any inappropriate expectation from me.

If anything, she treated me with the same thoughtful attention she offered the other children.

It was precisely that which made my feelings so difficult to dismiss.

She was not trying to win me over.

I was the one who kept coming back.

And the more I understood that, the more determined I became to behave sensibly.

Which was why, on an otherwise ordinary morning, I decided not to visit the schoolroom.

I had other lessons to attend. There were reports awaiting my review and a discussion with my tutors that I had already postponed once.

There was no reason to see Lin Yue that day.

In fact, I thought it would be better if I did not.

Lately, even the smallest conversation with her had left me strangely restless. I would return to my quarters and find myself recalling the way she had smiled at something I said, or how she had tilted her head while considering a question.

I was tired of examining every ordinary interaction as though it concealed a meaning I ought to discover.

I was tired of feeling like a boy who could not control his own thoughts.

So I resolved to remain away from the schoolroom.

It was a perfectly reasonable decision.

It lasted until the middle of the morning.

I encountered the young noble lady again outside the eastern gallery.

She was accompanying the youngest princess, who had apparently been brought out for a walk after her lessons.

The young woman bowed.

"Your Highness."

I returned the greeting with the expression of a person who hoped to discourage conversation.

It did not work.

"I trust Your Highness has had a productive morning."

"I have."

"And no plans to visit the schoolroom?"

I stopped.

She looked innocent.

Far too innocent.

"Why would I visit the schoolroom when I have other matters to attend to?"

"Of course. Your Highness has many responsibilities."

She glanced toward the direction of the schoolroom.

"I merely thought the children might miss you."

"They will survive one morning without me."

"Undoubtedly."

She paused.

"Though Consort Lin is there today."

I looked at her.

She looked back at me with the composure of someone who had just delivered a perfectly ordinary piece of information.

There were moments when I understood why my father occasionally threatened to dismiss his entire court.

"Do you have some reason for mentioning Consort Lin to me so frequently?"

Her eyes widened.

"Your Highness, I would never presume to do such a thing."

"You are doing it now."

"I merely thought—"

"Then perhaps you should stop thinking on my behalf."

She lowered her head immediately.

"I have overstepped, Your Highness. Please forgive me."

I should have left it there.

Instead, I heard myself add, "And I have no particular interest in whether Consort Lin is at the schoolroom."

The young lady became very still.

It was the silence that betrayed her.

I had just supplied her with the most interesting piece of information she could possibly have received.

I turned and walked away before she could answer.

Behind me, I heard her murmur to the princess, "We mustn't keep His Highness from his important duties."

I refused to look back.

I would not visit the schoolroom that day.

I would not.

I lasted another hour.

Not because I wanted to see Lin Yue.

That was what I told myself, at least.

I had intended to review a set of reports in the eastern study, but one of the documents required information that had been discussed during a previous gathering of the imperial children. I could have sent a servant to retrieve the relevant notes.

Instead, I decided it would be quicker to ask Lin Yue.

It was an entirely practical decision.

I repeated that explanation to myself while crossing the courtyard.

The schoolroom was quieter than I expected when I arrived.

A few children sat around the central table, while two attendants stood near the windows. Lin Yue was not there.

I felt an absurd mixture of relief and disappointment.

Then I saw the young noble lady near the far end of the room, helping the youngest princess arrange her books.

She noticed me immediately.

For one terrible moment, neither of us spoke.

Then her gaze shifted toward the empty seat Lin Yue usually occupied.

"Your Highness."

"Do not."

She pressed her lips together.

"I have not said anything."

"You were about to."

"Then I shall be grateful that Your Highness has saved me the trouble."

I closed my eyes briefly.

The woman was impossible.

"Where is Consort Lin?"

The question escaped before I could stop it.

Her eyebrows rose.

I wished the floor would open beneath me.

"She stepped away a little while ago, Your Highness. I believe she went to speak with one of the senior servants."

"Very well."

I should have left.

Instead, I remained by the table, pretending to examine a book that I had no intention of reading.

The young noble lady watched me for several moments.

Then she said, more quietly, "Your Highness, may I offer a thought?"

"No."

"It concerns the responsibilities of the future emperor."

I looked at her suspiciously.

She had finally found a weapon more effective than teasing.

"What is it?"

"A ruler must learn to distinguish between what he wishes to do and what he ought to do."

I stared at her.

She bowed her head.

"I only thought it might be a useful lesson."

For the first time, I had no immediate answer.

Perhaps she had intended the remark as another joke. Perhaps she had grown concerned that her teasing had become excessive. Or perhaps she had simply recognized that the Crown Prince was struggling with feelings he did not yet know how to name.

Whatever her intention, the words remained with me.

I was the Crown Prince.

I had responsibilities.

And Lin Yue was not someone whose kindness I had the right to mistake for a promise.

"I know," I said at last.

The young lady looked at me for a moment before lowering her eyes.

"Then I have nothing more to say, Your Highness."

For once, I believed her.

The door opened before I could leave.

Lin Yue entered with one hand resting beneath the curve of her belly, her steps slower than they had been a few weeks earlier.

She looked tired.

Not unwell, exactly, but burdened by the final days of her pregnancy. Even so, she smiled when she saw the children.

"Have you finished your lessons?"

Several of them answered at once.

Then she noticed me.

"Your Highness."

I straightened.

"Consort Lin."

Her eyes moved briefly to the book in my hand.

"Have you come to study with us today?"

It was an innocent question.

It should not have made me feel as though I had been caught doing something embarrassing.

"I came to ask about a matter discussed during the previous lesson."

"Then let us hear it."

She settled into her seat with some care. An attendant moved to help her, but Lin Yue thanked her and adjusted her position herself.

I watched her more closely than I intended.

She was overdue, or very nearly so, according to the reports circulating among the palace physicians. My father had already instructed the attendants to ensure that she rested, and I knew that several people had advised her to stop coming to the schoolroom.

Yet here she was.

Still helping the children.

Still asking them about their lessons.

Still behaving as though the most natural thing in the world was to spend her time making sure everyone else was well.

I wanted to tell her to rest.

I wanted to ask why she insisted on doing so much when she was carrying a child who could arrive at any moment.

Instead, I asked the question I had come to ask.

She listened to my explanation, considered it, and answered with the same calm attention she had always given me.

We discussed the matter for several minutes.

At one point, she disagreed with my interpretation of an earlier decision made by the court.

I challenged her reasoning.

She challenged mine.

The children watched us with growing interest, and the young noble lady quietly withdrew to the other side of the room.

For a little while, I forgot to be self-conscious.

I forgot the years between us. I forgot that I had intended to avoid her that morning. I forgot the uncomfortable awareness that had made every visit to the schoolroom feel increasingly significant.

We were simply having a conversation.

Then Lin Yue smiled at one of my arguments.

"You have thought about this carefully, Your Highness."

I felt absurdly pleased.

"I had a good reason to."

"I can see that."

She returned her attention to the book.

And I was left wishing, once again, that I were older.

My father arrived shortly before noon.

I heard the announcement from the doorway and immediately stood with the others.

The Emperor entered without ceremony, though the room seemed to grow smaller around him. He greeted the children, asked briefly about their lessons, and then turned his attention to Lin Yue.

His expression changed.

It was subtle, but I noticed it.

My father could be severe with ministers and impatient with officials who wasted his time. Yet when he looked at Lin Yue, the tension in his face eased.

"Why are you here again?"

Lin Yue looked up.

"Your Majesty?"

"The physicians told you to rest."

"I have been resting."

He glanced at the table, then at the children.

"Is this what you call resting?"

A few of the children lowered their heads to conceal their smiles.

Lin Yue appeared entirely untroubled.

"I have been sitting down, Your Majesty."

My father looked as though he was struggling to decide whether to be annoyed or amused.

"Lin Yue."

There was a warning in his voice, but no real anger.

She smiled.

"Your Majesty, the children were almost finished with their lesson."

"And when they are finished, you will return to your quarters."

"Of course."

He looked at her for another moment.

"You said that yesterday."

"And I did return yesterday."

"After I sent someone to fetch you."

She laughed softly.

My father shook his head, though I noticed that his own mouth had begun to curve.

"Must I personally escort you everywhere?"

"That would be terribly inconvenient for the empire."

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

The sound surprised me enough that I forgot to look away.

Lin Yue's expression softened further, and for a moment, the two of them seemed to occupy a world entirely separate from the rest of the room.

I had seen my father show affection before. I had seen him comfort my mother, offer reassurance to the children, and reward those who had served the imperial family faithfully.

But there was something different about the way he looked at Lin Yue.

He did not seem to be considering her usefulness. He did not seem concerned with the obligations attached to her position.

He simply looked at her as though her well-being mattered to him.

And Lin Yue looked back as though she knew it.

I felt something tighten unpleasantly in my chest.

It was not anger.

I had no reason to be angry.

My father was her husband. The child she carried was his. Whatever tenderness passed between them belonged to a life I had no right to envy.

Still, I envied it.

I envied the ease with which she spoke to him. I envied the familiarity in his voice when he addressed her. I envied the fact that he could reach for her shawl without wondering whether the gesture meant too much, and that she could laugh with him without either of them having to pretend their conversation was merely a lesson.

I had spent months imagining what it might be like to have a woman beside me who understood me.

My father already had one.

And she was Lin Yue.

The realization made me feel very young.

I looked down at the book in my hands.

Suddenly, I had no desire to continue our discussion.

The children were dismissed shortly afterward.

My father insisted that Lin Yue return to her quarters, and this time she did not argue. He offered her his arm, and she accepted it with a smile.

I stood aside to let them pass.

As they reached the doorway, my father said something too quiet for me to hear.

Lin Yue laughed again.

Then she leaned slightly toward him, and he slowed his steps to match hers.

It was an insignificant moment.

No one else appeared to notice it.

I noticed everything.

I had spent so long trying to understand what made Lin Yue different from the other women in the palace that I had never fully considered the possibility that she was not waiting for someone to recognize her worth.

Someone already had.

My father had.

And whatever I felt about it, I could not fault him for loving her.

I could only wish, with the helplessness of someone who had not yet reached adulthood, that I might one day find something like that for myself.

"Your Highness?"

The young noble lady had approached me.

I looked at her sharply.

"Not a word."

She pressed her lips together.

For once, she seemed genuinely sympathetic.

"I was only going to ask whether Your Highness had finished the book."

I glanced down.

I was still holding it.

I handed it to her.

"I have finished."

She accepted it solemnly.

"Then I shall return it to the shelves."

"Do that."

I turned away before she could look at me again.

I was determined to leave the schoolroom before Lin Yue returned from the corridor, before I could find another excuse to speak with her, before I embarrassed myself further by wishing for something that was not mine to wish for.

I had taken only a few steps when I heard my father's voice behind me.

"Lin Yue?"

I turned.

She had stopped near the doorway.

One hand had tightened around his arm. Her other hand was pressed against the front of her belly.

For a moment, she said nothing.

My father turned toward her.

"What is it?"

Lin Yue drew a careful breath.

"I think—"

She stopped.

Her face changed.

It was not the expression of someone who had merely become tired. I had seen her tired many times. This was different.

She looked startled.

Then she gripped my father's sleeve.

"Your Majesty."

He immediately turned fully toward her.

"What is wrong?"

She opened her mouth to answer.

Instead, she bent forward slightly, a sharp breath escaping her.

My father caught her before she could lose her balance.

"Lin Yue!"

The schoolroom fell silent.

I stood frozen.

Then she straightened, her face pale, and looked down at the floor.

There was a moment when nobody seemed to understand what had happened.

Then Lin Yue whispered, almost incredulously, "I think the baby is coming."

Everything changed.

My father called for the attendants. Someone ran toward the door. Another hurried to summon the physicians. The room, which had been filled with the ordinary sounds of children and books only moments earlier, erupted into urgent movement.

And Lin Yue—

Lin Yue, who had spent the morning insisting that there was nothing to worry about, looked suddenly overwhelmed by the force of what was happening to her.

She clutched my father's arm as another contraction seized her.

He held her firmly.

"Look at me," he said. "Lin Yue, look at me."

She lifted her face toward him.

"I'm here," he told her. "I am right here."

I had never heard my father speak in that voice.

It was not the voice of an emperor issuing an order. It was the voice of a man frightened for someone he loved.

Lin Yue nodded, trying to steady her breathing.

Then she made a small, distressed sound and pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

My father held her closer.

I could not move.

I had imagined, in the abstract, that Lin Yue would eventually give birth. The physicians had discussed the expected date. The attendants had prepared her quarters. The imperial household had made the necessary arrangements.

I had known it was coming.

But knowledge was different from seeing her stand before me, suddenly vulnerable, while the palace struggled to respond to something no imperial command could prevent or control.

She was no longer the woman sitting among the children, patiently explaining why an answer was correct.

She was not the woman who had uncovered a traitor's plot or helped my father's household through its troubles.

She was simply Lin Yue.

And she was in pain.

"Your Majesty," one of the attendants called, "the physicians are on their way."

"Then tell them to hurry!"

My father did not release her.

Lin Yue drew another breath, her fingers tightening around his sleeve.

I took a step forward before I knew I had moved.

"Father—"

He looked toward me.

For one brief instant, I saw the fear he was trying to conceal.

Then he looked back at Lin Yue.

"Send for the senior physician," he ordered. "And clear the corridor. No one is to delay her passage."

The attendants hurried to obey.

I moved toward the doorway to make room for them, my heart beating so violently that I could scarcely hear the voices around me.

Lin Yue lifted her head again.

Her eyes met mine.

For a moment, the commotion seemed to recede.

"Your Highness," she whispered.

I approached her.

"Do not speak," I said, more sharply than I intended. "Save your strength."

She gave me the faintest smile.

It was the same smile she had offered me when I struggled with a difficult lesson, when I argued with her over history, when she listened to questions I had not known how to ask anyone else.

That familiar expression, appearing in the midst of such distress, nearly undid me.

Then another contraction came.

Her smile vanished.

She gasped and clutched my father's arm, and he immediately gathered her against him.

"Lin Yue. Breathe. Look at me."

She tried.

The attendants returned with the physicians, and the room filled with hurried instructions. My father remained beside her, refusing to leave even when they told him they needed to move her.

I stepped back to make room.

Someone took Lin Yue's other arm. My father supported her as they began guiding her toward the waiting sedan.

She was still trying to walk when another wave of pain stopped her.

A cry escaped her.

My father caught her weight.

"Enough," he said. He carried her instead. 

The attendants rushed to accompany them.

I stood at the edge of the room, unable to take my eyes off her.

Only an hour earlier, I had been irritated by my own feelings, embarrassed by a young noble lady's teasing, and jealous of the affection my father showed his wife.

Now none of those things mattered.

I did not care that Lin Yue was my father's beloved consort.

I did not care that I had spent months wishing I were older, or that I had never understood what I wanted from her attention.

I only wanted her to be safe.

I wanted the child she carried to be born safely.

I wanted the palace physicians to arrive in time, the attendants to do everything they could, and my father to stop looking as though the world might end if Lin Yue slipped from his grasp.

they running reached the corridor leading to her quarters.

I followed for several steps before the young noble lady gently caught my sleeve.

"Your Highness, the birth chamber is being prepared."

I stared after the procession.

Her teasing was gone. She looked pale, too, and I realized that she was just as frightened as the rest of us.

For a moment, I wanted to tell her to let go.

Then I saw the concern in her face and stopped myself.

She had not meant any harm. She had been curious, perhaps a little too bold, but she had never intended to hurt anyone.

And now she stood beside me, watching the woman we both cared about disappear behind a succession of palace doors.

I said nothing.

Neither did she.

The palace had survived conspiracies, political disputes, and the ambitions of men who believed they could control the future.

Yet I had never felt so helpless as I did standing in that corridor, listening to the hurried footsteps carrying Lin Yue away from me.

For years, I had watched her as though understanding her would somehow make the world easier to navigate.

I had thought her kindness was a mystery. I had thought my own feelings were a problem I could solve by keeping my distance.

Now, for the first time, I understood the difference between watching someone and being afraid of losing them.

I could not follow her into the birth chamber.

I could not help her.

For the first time in my life, I prayed not as the heir to a throne, but as a boy who had come to care deeply for a woman whose life was unfolding somewhere beyond his reach.

Please let her be safe.

I did not know how long I stood there.

I only knew that, when the first distant cry came from beyond the closed doors, I stopped breathing.

And then another voice rose in the birth chamber.

My father's.

I had never heard him sound so desperate.

"Lin Yue!"

I moved toward the doors.

The attendants tried to stop me, but I caught a glimpse of the physicians rushing inside, of servants carrying fresh water, and of my father standing beside the bed with Lin Yue's hand clasped between both of his.

She was crying out again.

He bent over her, speaking to her urgently, telling her he was there, telling her to hold on.

I had seen my father command armies.

I had watched ministers bow before him.

I had grown up believing that the Emperor's will could move the world.

But there was no command in his voice now.

Only love.

And fear.

I stood outside the doors, my hands clenched at my sides, listening to the woman who had taught me more about patience and kindness than any tutor ever had.

Then the Empress arrived and entered. I saw how she argued with Father and put Father's face rather in agony but he still. He rushed coming out from birth chamber. 

He saw me. 

"Come, my son. Accompany me to my court. "

"Yes, Father. "

I had once wished I were older.

At that moment, I wished only that I were powerful enough to protect her.

And for the first time, I understood that one day I might rule an empire and still encounter things that no throne, no title, and no amount of authority could make easier.

The more I walked with the Emperor, as the chamber getting far, I could still hear Lin Yue cried out louder.

My father even stopped, as I also stop my steps. Yet, father still and didn't turn back. 

He then walk again. 

In my head, I just thought what's the last thing I said to Lin Yue? Will she be alright?