The year she entered the Chu palace as his bride, the King of Chu asked her, “Are you willing to speak?”
She said nothing.
In the first year, he gave her pearls and jade. She did not wear them.
In the second year, he dismissed his harem. She did not thank him.
In the third year, a peach blossom grotto was carved into Mount Zijin. He took her to see it and asked, “My lady, are you willing to speak to me?”
She watched the peach petals drift down from the ceiling of the grotto and remained silent.
He thought she hated him.
He didn’t know she was simply afraid,
afraid that if she opened her mouth, she would no longer be able to hate him.
Later, he led an expedition in person. On the night before he left, she fastened his armor in their bedchamber.
He suddenly asked, “If I die in battle, you...”
Her hands paused as she tied the straps.
It was the first time in three years he had seen her lose her composure.
He died that autumn.
When she received the news, she was reviewing memorials. Her brush stopped midstroke, and ink soaked through the bamboo slips.
She did not cry.
On the night their eldest son ascended the throne, the palace attendants found the Dowager Queen sitting alone beneath a lamp, an old suit of armor spread across her knees.
It had belonged to the King of Chu.
The armor plates were rusted.
She was wiping them clean, one by one.
In all her life, she had spoken only one sentence.
It was not, “I do.”
It was not, “I’ll wait for you.”
She asked:
“How many troops do you have?”
She had kept silent for three years. The first thing she said was a question about his troops.
In all her life, she gave him only that one sentence.
