Zaichun stared at her. No one in his life had ever given him a direct order. To him, it was more shocking than the slap, as she intended. It sharply brought his attention back to their position.
“Yes, Mother,” he said, both sullen and meek, and neither of them spoke of it again.
They finally arrived in Peking through the peasant’s gate, the ill-kept one that was open for only a few hours a day and for which there was no charge, but which carried with it a long wait on the hot, dusty road. Cixi carried the sack now, unwilling to let it out of her sight. It would require money to take back the throne, lots and lots of money, and she would need every tael.
They walked down the streets of Peking, among the market stalls and braying donkeys and oozing sewage and press of people. News of the emperor’s death two weeks ago had reached the city, and everywhere Cixi looked, people who could afford it wore white. A constant parade of mourners made a wailing train of ghosts through the city and would continue for a full hundred days after Xianfeng’s death. No musicians performed in the streets, no acrobats or tumblers, no singers or dancers. Theaters bore padlocks. All the men looked strange-their heads and faces were covered with untidy fuzz because for one hundred days they were not allowed to shave as proper men did. The emperor died; performers and barbers starved.
A number of buildings lay in ruins from the war, though as Cixi had predicted, people were already rebuilding, and the city echoed with the sounds of hammering and sawing and the thud of stones being set. A nobleman on a horse trotted down one byway, causing everyone to dive out of his way. The horse kicked up manure that spattered Cixi’s cheek. She wiped it away with her dusty sleeve and pulled Zaichun along. He followed like a wax doll, dull with fear and hunger. She felt the same but didn’t dare give in to it.
After what felt like hours of walking, Cixi and Zaichun finally arrived at a luxurious mansion compound with red peaked roofs and gutters surrounded by a high wall. The front gate was actually a section of wall that had been pulled back to create entrances to the left and right-demons and evil spirits traveled in straight lines, so gates into houses forced a turn to deflect them. A pair of brass lions stood guard.
“The emperor is dead. There is no work,” said one of them said in a rumbling voice. “The emperor is dead. There is no work.”
“I have a delivery,” said Cixi, holding up the sack. “It is for Prince Kung.”
“Deliveries are at the back gate,” said the lion. “There is no work.”
Peasants did not enter at the front gate. She had forgotten. Cixi took Zaichun’s hand. The mansion grounds were enormous, and it took a long time to walk around to the back. The sun was setting, and the alley was already growing dark. Here there were no lions, but bars forbade entry through the gate into the courtyard beyond. Cixi pulled a cord and heard a bell ring inside. Moments later, a plump woman rushed to the bars. She wore a white tunic that made her look like a snowball.
“The emperor is dead. There is no work,” she said.
“I have a delivery for Prince Kung.” Cixi held up the sack again.
“Of course you do,” the woman said. “Everyone has a delivery for Prince Kung.”
Cixi set her mouth. This woman had no way of knowing who Cixi was and was only doing as she was instructed. Still, Cixi wanted to order the cow beaten. “Nevertheless, it is true. I must present this to him personally.”
The woman eyed Cixi’s filthy clothes and Zaichun’s filthy face. “Hm.”
“Tell him,” Cixi said through clenched teeth, “the Little Orchid is waiting to see Devil Number Six and that she has a gift from the Jade Hand for him.” Here she glanced left and right to ensure the alley was empty and opened the sack so the woman could see the Ebony Chamber. The woman would never have seen the object in her life, but she would recognize the richness and beauty of the box and would know that such a thing must be highly important. She wavered a moment, then produced a key and unlocked the gate.
“Wait here,” she said when they were in the stone courtyard. “Do not move from this spot.”
She bustled away.
“I remember Prince Kung,” said Zaichun. “He is my uncle. I rode his horses.”
Cixi clutched the bag to her chest, darting uneasy looks in every direction. Prince Kung was Xianfeng’s half brother, though Cixi knew they weren’t close, and his home occupied the largest and most luxurious compound within Peking. The compound covered hundreds of acres that included ponds, bridges, trees, gardens, and elaborate fountains that gave the illusion of country life in the middle of the world’s most magnificent city. The luxury was lost on Cixi. Now that they weren’t moving, she felt exposed and vulnerable, like a piece of meat on a butcher’s chopping block.
The snowball woman returned. “The prince will see you, Orchid. Though first,” she continued with a small sniff, “you will have to be prepared.”
Cixi was never so glad for a bath and fresh clothes in her life. There was even a maid to help her, though throughout the process she never took her eyes from the grubby sack and the treasure within. Zaichun was bathed in another room, and although she was sure he would be safe, she insisted the doors between their chambers be left open so she could hear everything. They were even brought small plates of food, which Cixi forced herself to eat with proper decorum and manners. Zaichun gobbled his down. Their borrowed clothes were simple and white, the color of mourning.
At last they were ushered in to see Prince Kung. He was sitting at an elaborate writing desk, murmuring to a spider, which painted his words on rice paper with blurry speed. He wore a white robe he seemed to have thrown on quickly. To Cixi’s surprise, there were no soldiers or other servants in the room. The servant who showed Cixi and Zaichun in bowed and withdrew. Prince Kung touched the spider. It shut down, and Kung turned to face them. Cixi bowed, still clutching the sack with the Ebony Chamber in it. Zaichun did not bow-he had forgotten himself already. Cixi kicked his leg. He started, then bowed as well.
Kung was a worried-looking man who was not yet thirty. The pouches under his eyes and his slender build made him look older than he was, and his unshaven head beneath his round cap gave him a disheveled look. Cixi, newly bathed and dressed, felt better-dressed than he, though her clothes barely amounted to more than a white sheet. Kung’s tired eyes widened when he recognized Cixi and Zaichun.
“What-?” he began, so startled he didn’t even touch formalities.
“Who is listening?” Cixi interrupted, necessity also forcing rudeness.
Kung shut his mouth and pursed his lips. Then he reached under his desk and pulled a hidden lever. There was a cranking, grinding noise, followed by a series of small thumps. When they ended, Kung said, “The spy holes have been stopped up. We can talk freely.”
“Not even the emperor has such power,” Cixi said, impressed.
“I am not the emperor. Nor do I wish to be.” He gestured at a laden table. “Please, sit. There is food. You will have to feed yourself, I’m afraid. Even food spiders may carry messages. And you are safe here, Orchid.”
Cixi almost wept with relief at those words. She and Zaichun gratefully sank to the pillows and took up chopsticks. It felt so fine to be clean and sitting down, with food on a table and fresh clothes on her back. In that moment, if Kung had requested it, she would have offered herself to him as a concubine in his household.
“Please tell me what really happened at the Cool Hall in Jehol,” Kung said as they ate. He clearly wasn’t hungry, but he nibbled a cake and sipped tea to be polite. “I only hear official stories, and my spies are giving me conflicting information.”
Cixi obeyed, omitting no details. To her surprise, she found herself choking a little as she described the death of the emperor. She hadn’t realized she felt enough attachment to him to grieve. Zaichun stared fixedly into his lap, and a tear dropped onto his knee. Cixi ignored this breach, trying to keep herself under control. But as she told the story, her sorrow dissolved into an anger that hissed like a serpent, and then roared like a dragon. At one point, there was an odd snap, and she realized she had broken an ivory chopstick in two. Embarrassed, she set it aside and stopped eating.
“You acted with admirable forethought,” Kung said when she finished. “I can think of no concubine who would do what you have done.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprised at the praise.
“You may know that I have long felt that the empire’s policy of antagonism and isolationism toward the West has been a bad idea.”
“One has heard,” she murmured. Kung’s ideas about peaceful contact and exchange of ideas with the West were actually considered scandalous by Xianfeng’s advisers, and they had convinced Xianfeng to push his half brother to the margins, leave him with a largely administrative post in Peking, and all but banish him from the
