Page 2 of The Cinders

‘Thank you,’ he said.‘Would you leave me now please.’

‘But…your highness, I…I am to take you to Her Grace once you are dressed.’She was frightened of him, he knew, with all the talk of being cursed, but like so many in the household she was far more fearful of her mistress.He understood that trepidation all too well.

‘You have done your job admirably and in good time,’ he said.‘I would like a few moments to pray…and prepare myself for the proceedings.’

He’d not be praying.He’d not be staying in this room, with its pressing walls and orange blossom incense.

‘Highness, I am instructed to tell Her Grace the moment you are ready.’

‘And you shall.’His whole body vibrated, his lungs tight, with a plan that was both mad and necessary.Xian longed to see the only companion he trusted without reserve.Her calming presence would ease his troubled mind.‘I will not be long, I promise you.A quarter of the hour, if not less, then we shall go.Wait in my library, I will come and find you there when I am done.’

Her silence stretched thin before she replied.‘Yes, your highness.I’ll wait for you, for the quarter hour.’

Not a moment more, he thought, and she’d be running to the marchioness with word of a prince’s pathetic rebellion.But he could not breathe properly in this room any longer.

He waited, listening to her footsteps, the slide of the panelling as she left the room, the soft padding of her feet down the hall.

When she was far enough away, Xian was on his feet, hurrying to put on his slippers, sliding back the door that led him out onto the low veranda, and down the short flight of steps into the garden.He moved beneath the late winter sun, taking deep gulping breaths of cold air, and took the path running in the opposite direction to the shrine he’d claimed to need.Xian wasn’t sure which he was more terrified of; performing under the glare of nobles and dignitaries, or being found in his finery amongst the nanmu trees and punished for it.

He moved carefully around an old-blush rose bush, pruned and bare of flowers, but its gnarled branches still more than capable of tearing at the copious layers of his gown.Within a few paces he realised the danger posed to his pristine clothing; not only from the reaching limbs of the foliage, but from a garden touched by overnight rain.He bunched up his skirts, the swing of the beading at his face as frustrating as a swarm of gnats.

Xian moved quickly, furtively, feeling much more like a sly fox.And looking like one, too.

His ceremonial clothing was dyed a shade of russet with black trim.The colour was to honour the Marquess and Marchioness’s guests; a trade envoy who had travelled from Manhao, a port city on the Red River.

The silk and chiffon high-collaredruqun, stiff with newness, had only been delivered to him that morning.The ruqun was mostly worn by women, its favour among men fading with past dynasties.Likely, the marchioness intended this as a subtle act of humiliation.

But the seamstress, one of the rare few in the manor who was not openly wary of Xian, had adjusted the ensemble to suit his dancing needs, and as he’d listened to her evident pride in her work, he’d felt anything but humiliated.

Both pieces — theru, a blouse with long sleeves, and thequn, a voluminous skirt — had been adjusted favourably.The sleeves were draped, but had been fitted tightly at the wrists, ensuring no slip of the material which might reveal the scars of a damaged prince, while the skirt was cinched lightly for easy breathing when the tempo increased, and had far more layers than a regular qun;giving it a volume that would enhance his movement.Over the top of both was a sheer white silk coat with long, draping sleeves, its intricate russet and silver embroidery heavy with designs of deer and butterflies and chrysanthemums.If he lifted his arms, the drape of the sleeves would touch the floor.A wondrous sight on the dance floor, but here in the gardens, a terrible hazard.

No matter how he bundled the layers in his arms, their multitude seemed intent on trying to escape his hold and sweep against the dirty ground.

His heart thumped with his daring, and his stupidity.

This was an ill-timed dash, but now that Xian had set his mind to seeing Mercy, he’d not turn around.At least he was warm.The afternoon was turning cold already, and they had not long finished the noon meal.

Xian tripped over an uneven stone in the path, sending his heart pounding at the back of his throat, and the decorative veil slapping at his face.He edged off the path and slipped in behind the row of whitebark pines near where a guard tower sat up high on the manor’s outer west wall.There were two guards on duty, stationed to keep an eye on those approaching the manor; the home of the Governor, Marquess Tian Wenlie, who ruled Kunming along with his heavy-handed wife, the marchioness.

The guards would not stop Xian if they glimpsed him, but they might send word to their master, who would inform his wife.That alone was enough to have Xian slinking close to the walls, wishing he were as small as a fox so he could better conceal himself.

The sprawling residence of Kunming’s Governor had been Xian’s home for over ten years; since his father, the Daoguang Emperor, cast him out of the Imperial Palace at just ten years old, handing him into the care of the sister of his Noble Consort Jing.

As a grieving, motherless child, Xian had held a delicate hope that the newly appointed Marchioness Shen might welcome him with kindness and provide some comfort as he struggled with the great loss he’d suffered so early in life.But he’d learned within days of his arrival that his guardians had no intention of trying to take the place of his mother.She had given her life to protect Xian, but the Marquess and Marchioness barely gave him the rice needed to survive a day.

He should not have expected any less; Noble Consort Jing and Xian’s mother had been rivals for the emperor’s affections.But only Xian’s mother had borne the emperor a son that lived.

No shouts followed him as he stepped out of sight of the guard tower.Breathing a little easier, Xian moved deeper into the extensive gardens, resettling the layers of his gown for the hundredth time.His shoes, a sand-coloured silk, would have to be changed before he headed to the Reception Hall for the ceremony; set to begin in an hour and a half.These parts of the gardens were not so well tended as the rest, and furrows and gutters weren’t cleared to ensure last night’s rainwater did not flood the soil.

Xian exhaled, his breath faintly white in the cool mid-January air.Already he was soothed, just by setting out on this well-worn path to his friend.A visit with Mercy would lift his mood, he was certain.

He stepped carefully, watching out for the droppings of the plethora of large birds the marquess had acquired for the gardens; swans and cranes, and a peacock that was heard often but rarely seen.

His fingers were aching with the cold, and his grip on his gown, by the time he finally reached the meandering pebbled path that sloped towards the heart of his sunken garden.He sent up a quick prayer to the Seven Maidens, muttering the names of each of the Emperor of Heaven’s daughters quickly.

‘You are gracious, holy daughters,’ he whispered.‘I pray you have time to watch over me and send me your luck so I don’t mark my clothes, or slip in this mud.’

The slightest stain on his clothes would be noticed by Marchioness Shen, and she knew which of his bruises were from her.