The Princess's Death

Princess Jinhua fell ill in the eleventh year of his governorship. At first, it was nothing more than persistent weakness. She’d always been frail, and the royal physicians said she was simply worn out and needed rest. She would lie in the governor's mansion garden beneath the myrtle trees, watching her children run about, and tell everyone she was getting better.

But she was not. The weakness deepened day by day. She lost her appetite and could no longer sit upright. Color faded from her cheeks. Those hands that once moved so quickly with embroidery now lay motionless atop her coverlet. Chunyu Fen dragged his own bed into her chamber and tended to her himself, something he’d never done for anyone before. Only then did he realize how much of his own life was bound up in hers.

The king sent letters every week and dispatched his personal physicians from the capital. The doctors followed their usual routine: they felt her pulse, mixed remedies, and shook their heads. She faded slowly, just like a flower wilting away. In the autumn of the twelfth year, she passed away.

Chunyu Fen refused to leave her side. He sat beside her bed for three full days and nights. The provincial officials, who held him in fond regard, dared not disturb him. On the fourth day, the princess’s younger brother traveled down from the capital to escort her coffin back home. Only then did Chunyu Fen let others lead him away.

The princess was buried with full honors on a hill overlooking the river. Chunyu Fen built a small shrine right next to her grave and visited it each morning. For those months, he was a broken man. He had once been governor, a husband, a father. Now, it felt as if he was nothing more than a man stuck inside an empty house.

In the year after her death, his governance fell apart. He often neglected his duties at the yamen. He started drinking again each evening. Sometimes he forgot the names of villagers who came to bring their complaints. The province, which had flourished under his rule, began to grow restless. The king’s letters, once warm and gentle, turned cold. The court officials who’d admired him started whispering behind his back.

There were men at court who had never liked him. After all, he had risen from nothing, married a princess, and been handed rule over a whole province, yet he had never won any spectacular military victory. They sent petitions, using the careful, polished language of court accusations. They claimed the Governor of Nanke had grown arrogant, that he surrounded himself with poor advisors, and that the kingdom deserved better from him.

The king did not act immediately. He was a fair ruler. He had loved his daughter and pitied Chunyu Fen. Still, the whispers kept pouring in, and there were far too many of them. A king could not ignore the voices of his court forever. After a year of chilly letters and unresolved petitions, a royal edict arrived in Nanke: the governor must return to the capital to answer for his office.

Chunyu Fen read the royal order. Part of him had been waiting for it, yet it still caught him off guard. He settled his official affairs as best he could, said farewell to his children. His sons were old enough to stay behind, and his daughters were already betrothed. With a small group of guards, he rode north toward the capital.

As he traveled, his thoughts turned to his wife. He pictured her not as she had been on her deathbed, but as she was when they first met: quiet and young, in that hall made of dark timber. The road stretched long ahead of him, and the autumn wind cut sharp and cold. He still had no idea this moment marked the start of the end for the kingdom, and for those twenty years he had lived within it.