A gust of wind surged through the open doors. The pale blue curtains around my bed billowed, as soft as gossamer clouds. As the window panels rattled, I jerked upright . . . shivering from the loss of his warmth. My gaze shifted to the courtyard beyond. Anyone passing by could have seen what we were doing. Fortunately, it was still dark. The moon in the sky our only witness.
He sat up beside me, running his hands through his hair. “Xingyin, I’m sorry.”
His words were a splash of cold water, a rude awakening from my daze. Of course, he would feel regret! In the darkness of night, stirred by pity and the outpouring of my emotions—it was little wonder he felt obliged to indulge me. And I had been only too eager to take advantage of his kindness.
“You have nothing to feel sorry about.” My voice was light as I turned away, letting my hair veil my face. In his silence, I read agreement. “This was a mistake for us both. A moment of madness which will be forgotten by morning.” A clumsy attempt to salvage my pride.
He clasped my hand tightly, pressing it to his chest. “Madness? I’ve never felt so sane in my life. Do you want to forget this happened? I cannot.”
My heart beat wildly, as the wings of a bird against the bars of its cage. Yet fear and reason, ever vigilant, reared up. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
He tilted his head toward me. “Why?”
His question was startling in its simplicity. But it was not as easy as he believed; there were too many reasons against us which he knew nothing of . . . because I had kept them from him.
He lowered his voice, as though making a confession, “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time now.”
Heat suffused me again, gliding across my skin like I had lain in the sun. His words drove my doubts away as I reached out and pulled him close, as he bent his head to mine once more. My eyes widened and then drifted shut, lost in a languid haze of desire like I was floating on a river of stars. When we finally broke apart, our breathing was harsh and ragged as we lay entangled in the moonlight, until a stirring in the stillness heralded the approach of dawn.
Remembering the day, I scrambled to my feet, digging through the drawer for my gift. As I pressed the silk-wrapped bundle into his hand, I suppressed the urge to snatch it back again. What was a humble shell to the priceless treasures he owned?
He pulled the cloth away, staring at the shell within. I picked it up and blew gently into it, the shell glowing as my song filled the room. A joyous one, rippling with promise and hope—and yearning, I realized now. The song of my heart, before I had known it myself.
He did not move until it had finished. “It’s beautiful. What is it called?” he wanted to know.
I smiled, through the sudden thickness in my throat. “It’s yours to name. I composed it for you.”
He took the shell from me and lifted it again, but I caught his arm. “Listen to it when I’m not here.”
His body stiffened as he twisted around to search my face. “Are you leaving?”
“I didn’t mean it that way. It’s your birthday gift, not a farewell one.” My conscience pricked me at how I evaded his question.
He threaded his fingers through mine again, his tension easing. “Thank you. I’ve never received a more wonderful gift.” He added, with a teasing smile, “And now, I don’t have to plead with you to play me a song anymore.”
I drew away, glaring at him with mock anger. “Am I so easily replaced?”
“I never want to find out.” With a regretful sigh, he released me and rose from my bed. “I must leave before the attendants awaken.”
I gathered my courage, calling after him. “Liwei, we don’t have lessons tomorrow. Shall we spend the day together?”
He paused by the entrance, nodding once, his lips curved as he closed the doors after him.
Alone once more, my mind awoke from the spell I was under. Guilt assailed me, fierce and unrelenting. The Celestial Emperor had shown my mother no mercy, condemning her to eternal imprisonment. I recalled my mother’s fear of the empress, her terror stabbing me with remorse. How could I feel this way about their son? Was I so weak, to betray her so easily?
I pressed my fingers to my temples, shoving them through my hair. But this was no betrayal of my mother. Even in the depths of her misery, she had not spoken a word of spite against the emperor and empress. She would not hold this against me; all she ever wanted was my happiness. I was my own person, separate from my parents—as was Liwei. And he was nothing like them. After all our time together, I knew that better than anyone. He was my dearest friend, before . . . what he was to me now. And I would not hold him to account for these events long past and circumstances beyond his control.