When the air began to warm and fill with intoxicating floral scents, at the very beginning of April, Prince Yu celebrated his birthday. Dorgon intended to visit the troops on the frontier — it had grown restless again there, and there were matters he preferred to see with his own eyes — but for the sake of his younger brother he remained in the capital for several more days.

  As usual, Dodo held a grand feast at his estate, and the guests were still drinking and singing when Dorgon departed. It was not that he disliked celebrations, quite the contrary! Somewhere on the steppe by a fire, or in a border town where the army had halted, he could drink without drying out for several days in succession. But in the capital the Prince Regent had too many duties, and half the invited guests glanced at him with unease, as though afraid to relax in his presence.

  He did not wish to spoil his younger brother’s celebration, so shortly after midnight he excused himself on the pretext of a morning council and took his leave.

  This time, however, his gift had been a success! Dorgon smiled with satisfaction and smoothed his long mustache.

  The others, as always, presented weapons, horses, and jewels that had long since lost meaning, so numerous were they. He, however, had given his younger brother an exotic dance from Joseon.

  Not even the dancer herself.

  If Dodo had taken a liking to the courtesan, he knew where to find her. But a dance — that was something ephemeral and elusive. A pleasure that could not be locked away in a treasury. That was its value and rarity, and Dorgon was certain that this gift would be remembered for many months, long after indistinguishable golden hairpins and pendants lay forgotten at the bottom of chests.

  Recalling the guests’ reaction and the satisfied expression on his brother’s face, Dorgon thought he had not brought that gisaeng with him in vain.

  He was not sleepy.

  Dorgon walked along the streets of Beijing, lit by paper lanterns, and breathed in the city. Fried oil, blossoming peaches and magnolias, stables, dampness from the river…

  When he turned toward the palace, on one of the smaller streets Dorgon noticed a plum tree whose blossoms had not yet fallen. A woman in an expensive cloak stood admiring the late flowers.

  He might not even have paid her any attention had a pair of her guards not leapt at him from the shadow of the neighboring house.

  They grappled hand to hand, apparently unwilling to shed blood in the middle of the city. The men were surprisingly skilled. Dorgon even decided not to kill them when he finished thrashing them.

  They exchanged several blows. The pair worked in harmony, attacking him from different sides and not allowing him to catch his breath.

  “Enough,” a woman’s voice sounded, and everything stopped at once. “What are you doing?”

  Dorgon wiped dust from his eyes with his sleeve and peered ahead.

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  Had he been mistaken?

  His heart began to beat faster with sudden anticipation. The lady’s bodyguards stood in tense stances, but did not attack again.

  “I did not expect to meet you here, Prince Rui,” she added, and Dorgon understood that he had not erred.

  “Your Majesty.” He ceremoniously folded his hands before him and bowed to the Empress Dowager. The bodyguards vanished into the shadows as swiftly as they had emerged. “A beautiful evening.”

  “These flowers are so graceful, yet no one admires them in this alley,” she adjusted her hood, allowing Dorgon to see a white wrist adorned with a golden bracelet. “I came out to correct such an injustice, if only a little.”

  She spoke, of course, of herself.

  Zhaosheng had married his elder brother when she had just turned twelve. She came from one of the Mongol tribes eager to strengthen an alliance with the rising Manchu emperor. All her life she had lived in the palace, speaking to no one but her maids, eunuchs, or relatives.

  Young Dorgon, the Emperor’s younger brother, recently returned victorious from Joseon, had been among those permitted to see the imperial consorts.

  How old had he been then? Seventeen?

  Zhaosheng had been a year younger, beautiful as a magnolia blossom in morning dew, and he had been unable to cast her from his thoughts either then or five years later, when she had already borne his brother three daughters and was regarded as one of the highest-ranking wives.

  She, of course, could not have failed to perceive his feelings.

  He, of course, could do nothing.

  To seduce his brother’s woman, the Emperor’s woman — there were simpler and more honorable ways to die. And yet there was little he would refuse her. The cunning woman continued to make use of this weakness of his, and he could not determine whether he still loved her after so many years or had long since begun to hate her.

  To be near her was painful. To be far from her was empty and lifeless.

  None of his numerous wives had ever managed to heal that old wound.

  “How fortunate that I turned into this alley,” Dorgon remarked, playing along. “And was able to behold these rare flowers.”

  “One might think you already knew the way, Prince Rui,” her voice carried a smile, though her face remained safely concealed by the hood.

  “They say fortune favors drunkards,” he replied lightly. “I was returning from Prince Yu’s banquet. I thought to admire the city, but I hardly expected such a meeting.”

  “Well. Perhaps it truly was a fateful coincidence,” she agreed. “I hear you will depart soon? Visit me before you leave. A new teacher has been recommended for Fulin. I think you should take a look at him.”

  “Thank you,” Dorgon nodded. He indeed wished to be involved in the upbringing of the young Emperor and valued that Zhaosheng did not deprive him of that privilege. “Perhaps you desire that I bring you something from the steppe?”

  “I have everything I need,” she declined as usual. “I value your friendship, believe me.”

  “No custom forbids me from transplanting a flower into my own garden,” Dorgon remarked. She had been his elder brother’s wife; that brother was dead. He could inherit her, and no one would oppose it. If common people did so, why did he still remain unhappy?

  “I value your friendship,” the Empress Dowager emphasized the final word. “Let us not create difficulties for Fulin.”

  In that she was right. If he took the empress as his wife, how many moments would pass before some well-wisher decided to seat him upon the golden throne in place of young Fulin? Another rebellion would have to be suppressed, his own supporters executed, and the Emperor’s safety endangered. Of course, she was right. Dorgon sighed somewhat louder than he had intended.

  “Of course,” he said. “Of course. Shall I escort you to the palace?”

  “I would be pleased,” she agreed and extended a graceful hand from beneath her cloak.

  The all-powerful Prince Regent of Great Qing, his heart faltering, offered his arm so she might lean upon it. Her touch was light as a petal fallen upon a sleeve, yet it was almost the greatest liberty she had ever allowed him.

  Perhaps he still had hope?