We sit on the steps of an apothecary to marvel at the golden sculptures, almost too beautiful to eat. My candy tiger roars in mid-pounce, while the dragon in Bo’s hand twines sinuously skyward. The sweetness of the malt sugar tingles as it melts against my tongue.
“I could eat this every day,” I tell him, and he chortles in response and agreement.
“When I was a child, I once stuffed as much candy as I could into my mouth, until I was sick,” he admits.
“What was it like, growing up in the palace?” I ask him.
“It was—” He then stops himself, looking at me sideways. “Clever indeed. I won’t fall for your tricks.”
I grin back at him, pleased that I almost got him to slip up. “You did grow up here, in Jia. Within or very close to the palace, and yet you don’t like to talk about it.”
“I grew up in a soldier’s household.” He chews on the dragon’s tail, sugar making his lips shine. “My father was very disciplined. Candy was a treat only permitted at the New Year Festival.”
“My father, too, but my mother loved sweets and would sneak us treats.” Snacks from Auntie’s household would somehow find their way into our house for me and Shu to furtively devour when Father was away. The tongue needs a little sweetness, she’d say. It teaches the heart how to love.
Bo brushes his hands on his thighs. “I would have liked to know if my mother loved sweets,” he says, looking into the distance. “She died when I was very young.”
I look up at him and think about the past few months without my mother. What it would have been like to live without the years of her patient guidance. What it would be like to not only live in a world devoid of her laughter, but to have never heard it at all.
But when he turns to me, his face is open and without sadness. He stands and extends his hand to me, smiling, when I take it.
“Only good things today,” he declares.
And with sweetness still lingering on my lips and fingertips, I follow him.
* * *
Jia in Bo’s eyes is a place that would thrill a small child. He is an attentive guide as we make our way through the city center, on the inevitable path to the teahouse. I find myself walking slowly, wanting to savor the journey, but eventually Bo is true to his word and we enter the district where the teahouses are located.
I wonder how my parents could have ever left this place, so filled with color and light—so much more than what my mother ever told me.
Lanterns hang at the entrances, with the names of the establishments written in calligraphy. Lotus. Peony. Magnolia. Flowers seem to be a common theme.
Beside the entrance to Lotus House, a covered stall is crowded with children. We stop and watch when the curtain flies open, and paper puppets arrive onstage to thunderous applause.
“Once, an emperor in his prime died of a sweating sickness and left two princes, both too young to rule,” an unseen narrator begins. “But his mother, now the dowager empress, emerged from her palace and sat behind the elder prince at court. Guided his hand and taught him to be wise and just. When he was twenty-two he became worthy of the throne, and when he was thirty-two he threw a great hunt to celebrate his tenth year as ruler.”
A white stag flits across the stage, and the emperor on his horse follows. But a stray arrow crosses their path and strikes the emperor in the shoulder. Several children in the audience gasp, and I’m so startled I grab Bo’s sleeve.
He laughs. “Steady there. Puppets can be deadly.”
I shove him lightly, surprised by how comfortable I feel around him after not long in his company. As if we’d known each other in another life.
“Deep in the forest,” the narrator goes on, “an accident such as this could have cost him his life, but the emperor was lucky that a shénnóng-shī lived not far away.”
At the mention of the shénnóng-shī, Bo’s eyes sweep toward me for a brief second, wanting to see my reaction, then turn back to the puppets.
“The shénnóng-shī mended his wound and drew out the infection and told him his future.” The shénnóng-shī puppet has long streaming hair made of strands of silk. Something knots up in my throat as I watch.
The crowd of children joins in—it is a prophecy that every child in Dàxī knows: “Your child will bring you great sorrow and great joy. They will walk a path of starlight, but shadows will follow.
“The emperor scoffed at this, for his empress had not produced any heirs for his line. But a few months later … his daughter, the princess, was born.”