Cindy Pon: Silver Phoenix

Ai Ling yelped as a gray blur streaked into the room, winding itself around her ankle.

“Taro!” She swept the purring cat into her lap, her heart filling with a bittersweet joy, unable to believe she was home at last. Five long weeks passed before Ai Ling received a letter from Chen Yong. She had refrained from writing herself, unsure of what she would say, afraid of all she wanted to say. The Li family was in mourning for the loss of Li Rong, but he would visit soon. Her father had promised to tell Chen Yong the story of his birth. Surprised, Ai Ling asked her father. But he refused to divulge anything, saying she would learn the story at the same time Chen Yong did.

Ai Ling read Chen Yong’s letter each day until she knew it by heart, the curves and lines of his calligraphy, the parchment folded and unfolded so many times it wore and softened beneath her fingers. On the promised day, Chen Yong arrived at the Wen manor in the early afternoon. Ai Ling ran to the door before the house servants could respond, stopping abruptly to slow her breath. She ran her hands over her green tunic, the color of new grass, embroidered with cherry blossoms, before pulling the heavy door open.

Chen Yong stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in elegant clothing, a formal robe in dark blue with silver embroidering and matching trousers. His face was clean shaven, his amber eyes clear. He seemed taller, his frame filling their doorway.

He smiled, the lines of his cheeks turned boyish, and Ai Ling resisted the urge to throw her arms around him. Instead she reached out her hand and he clasped it, his skin feeling warm and rough all at once against her damp palm.

“How was your journey?” she asked, her voice squeaking before she cleared her throat.

“Much easier than the last.” He released her hand too soon. “I had the luxury of a carriage this time. My father insisted.”

They stared at each other until Chen Yong grinned. “May I come in?”

She pulled the door open, blushing. “Mother and Father are waiting for you in the main hall.” They walked through the courtyard side by side, the autumn flowers in full bloom against the walls and within the stone urns, offering bursts of orange, gold, and red.

“Who cultivates the flowers?” Chen Yong asked, studying them with admiration.

“I do.” She could not refrain from smiling with pride. “It’s a task Mother passed on to me. Our courtyard is small, but I find peace here. I paint here often.”

“I can see why.”

She entered the main hall to find her mother and father standing beside the round tea table. Chen Yong made an informal bow. “Thank you for inviting me to your home, Master Wen, Lady Wen.”

Her mother stepped around the table to draw Chen Yong into an embrace. “I had hoped my husband would find you one day, to tell you your story.”

Two bright spots colored his cheekbones. Ai Ling sat down on one of the lacquered stools in an attempt to hide her astonishment. Her mother already knew Chen Yong’s history; that much was obvious. Why did no one ever tell her anything?

Their late midday meal consisted of fresh steamed fish—a luxury that was only served during New Year’s, usually—along with deep-fried squash from the garden coated in a rice-paste batter. Ah Jiao served small savory dishes of pickles and salted meats, along with a large crock of rice porridge simmered with sweet yams.

The conversation between them was lighthearted and easy, much to Ai Ling’s relief. After the meal, her father retired to his study, asking them to join him as soon as Chen Yong felt ready.

Ai Ling led Chen Yong to his bedchamber, a room they used for sewing. Overnight guests were a rarity in their household. He placed his knapsack on the low bed while she eased the lattice panels open to bring in the crisp autumn air.

“Would you like to rest awhile?” she asked.

He did not appear at all travel worn and seemed even more alert after the meal. Ai Ling felt the heaviness of her limbs and could have done with a nap herself.

“No, thank you. I’d like to see your father, if it’s not too soon?”

“He’s anticipated this meeting for weeks,” she said. They walked through the courtyard again, weaving between the potted chrysanthemums, gold leaves crunching beneath their footsteps. She veered onto a narrow pathway by the side of the house, and Chen Yong followed a step behind.

“I see why you found it hard to leave your family. It’s obvious you are close to your parents.”

“We aren’t traditional by any means. I’m an only child; my father did not take on any other wives.” One of the gnarled branches of the wisteria plant climbing up the manor wall caught her hair, and she jumped, startled.

“But your parents are content with each other. They love each other,” Chen Yong said, freeing the twig from her braid.

Flustered, Ai Ling’s hand flew to her hair. She half turned to find his gaze on her. “Yes, they do. They married for love.”

“I believe my parents love each other too—they grew to love each other. Their marriage was arranged before they turned three years.”

Joy filled her, to have him here, in her home. Safe. “That’s fortunate. I would not want a marriage without love,” she replied.

Chen Yong nodded, looked away.

They arrived at her father’s study, which had its own private garden and entrance. It was Ai Ling’s favorite part of the house, and she went there often, even when her father was not there.

They passed through the round moon gate and entered an intimate courtyard. Silver fish darted in a deep, clear pool. Two pine trees provided shade, and large rocks were arranged for casual seating and contemplation.

“How unexpected,” Chen Yong said, glancing around the small garden.

Ai Ling breathed in the pungent tang of pine. “Come, Father is waiting for us.”

It was not a big study; the room was bright and cozy. A long rectangular desk was set beneath the paneled windows, allowing whoever sat there a view of the tranquil garden. Two walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. The last wall had a low ancestor altar set against it. Her father had just lit new incense, and the subtle scent of sandalwood curled through the air.

Her father turned his wooden chair and smiled at his visitors. “Bring the stools. I’m afraid I don’t have anything more comfortable here.” Chen Yong pulled two wooden stools from under the large desk.

“Chen Yong, it’s so hard for me to believe you’re the same infant I smuggled out of Palace grounds.” Her father poured tea and offered a cup to each of them.

Ai Ling stared wide-eyed from Chen Yong to her father.

“How strange the fates of human lives,” her father said. “I feel you were destined to journey with my daughter to the Palace, so we could find each other again.”

“Master Wen, what do you remember about my mother . . . about that night?” Chen Yong’s eyes gleamed with emotion. Now it was her father who held the key to his past. Father took a sip from his wine cup and leaned back against his chair before beginning his story.

The sharp rap at the door startled me. I was unsure I even heard it, but there was no mistaking the three taps that followed after the pause. It was the signal. I never slept in a dark room in those days. I never truly slept during my last two years at the Palace. To be one of the Emperor’s most trusted advisers came at a price. Zhong Ye and I did not look square in the eyes. He despised me.

I pulled on a robe, hurried to the secret panel, and pressed the concealed button, a pearl clutched in the claws of a lion. The door opened. I hardly knew what to expect. Surely, Jin Lian would not come in person. Jin Lian was your mother’s name.