Little Princes Fuguo and Kaitao had more than doubled their birth weights. They knew how to roll over, and when they were arranged to sit up they could stay in those positions without support. They reached for and sometimes held interesting things. They played and mimicked facial expressions. They rolled around on the floor, often with a woman rolling around with them.
And, despite how coarse and inelegant as it was, Miseo and Wen both had moments where they rolled around with the babies. Often, Miseo would bring her own little child to the Ginger Steam Palace, and she would also roll around with the babies.
Miseo even told Eunhe, "It's good to live well with your little brothers. Remember to protect them, and perhaps when they're older they'll be able to protect you."
Wen was absolutely thrilled. She could regularly see her children again. She was certain that they even recognized her face and voice. But what secretly repeated in her mind was the fact that the Emperor still didn't come to the Ginger Steam Palace. Whenever he wanted to visit the baby boys, he'd purposely tell Miseo to make sure they were at her palace.
Wen had no right to be upset that he didn't want to see her. But she worried that thanks to his personal insistence on not seeing her, the Emperor would spend less time with his little princes. It was a legitimate concern.
Certainly, she shouldn't be upset about not seeing the Emperor.
She shouldn't ...
And yet ...
On some hours, instead of practicing dancing or writing, instead or playing a zither or working on some embroidery, Wen stared out a window and held one of the Emperor's boots in her lap. She'd tug on the strings. She'd pinch the leather tongue. She'd run her thumb against the tough, ridged bottom.
And a peculiar aching was in her heart. Empty but not unfeeling, more like ... raw from scratching. She couldn't think of another way to describe her emotions.
She thought of the Emperor holding her hand. Putting his other one on her belly. Laughing at something she said. Walking with her somewhere. Asking about her writing. Tranquilly smiling down at her. Kissing her. Holding her. Whispering unbelievably inappropriate things. Moaning her name.
Wen knew she was now the sort of woman that pined and hoped, gazing out a window, waiting for what would never come.
Miseo once had a servant pull a chair near Wen, and she sat down. Closing and pinning a flap of her thin coat, Miseo looked out at the garden outside and said, "I remember when that shoe was fresh and crisp. I saw it on the Emperor's foot years ago."
A sparking kind of pain popped in Wen's chest and her face heated. But her back straightened.
"I suppose it's very sensible for that shoe to be haggard and forgotten," Miseo sighed out.
Wen nodded.
Haggard and forgotten.
Very sensible indeed.
It was going to happen eventually.
Wen had known it, had expected it, had accepted it.
And yet, there was a pressure in her fingers, visibly making indentations in the boot's material.
***
Miseo purposely invited the Emperor, the Empress Consort, and little Princess Masami to come to her Morning Dew Palace. Tea, cakes, music, and dancing on a patio, all that was the apparent lure. Miseo's adorable Princess Eunhe had grown a little bit this year. She was taller than Masami. That body was well suited for more dancing, and why shouldn't the guests enjoy Eunhe's cultivated refinement?
It was so terribly obvious to Miseo that the Empress Consort was highly, highly unnerved.
Her pretty little nostrils flared every few moments. Her breath would puff up her cheeks and then rush out like steam from a kettle. Her fingers drummed on tables and teacups, making near constant tapping and chiming noises. Her eyes would furiously fly to Miseo's face as if she was close to demanding an explanation for something.
Miseo was pleased to see this. She understood why she was so riled up.
This was the first time in a long time that Miseo agreed to see the Empress Consort aside from the monthly meetings. And during the monthly meetings she'd only speak when required. Miseo had been purposely avoiding and even ignoring her on occasion.
And here Miseo was, openly having them at her palace, silently bragging to the Empress that she was the one in control, she did what she pleased. The Empress couldn't do anything.
But something truly bothered Miseo.
Princess Masami was fidgeting in the Emperor's lap, even whining a little. The Emperor tried using gentle words to calm her, but that little princess was too fussy. Eventually, she slipped out of her father's arms and put her feet on the floor. Then, with a frown, she marched over to her mother, looked up at her, and asked, "Royal Mother, may I have a bowl of rice crackers?" She might've been hungry.
Miseo had been wanting to make the Empress Consort do something rash, but she hadn't been wanting the next event to happen.
Not even looking down at the child, the Empress Consort's fingers dug into Masami's shoulders, making her peep and whimper. Then, within a second, she'd thrown the small child across the patio, knocking her against a thick fence.
No more music. No more dancing. Everyone but the Emperor, the Empress Consort, and the dazed and crying Masami knelt down. The Emperor ...
Well ...
Enraged was a word that couldn't fully describe what Miseo saw.
Not only did his face turn red, but his ears and hands did too, fingertips included. His hollering sounded like a disarray of foreign words. He sprung out of his seat and rushed to Masami. He cradled the little one in his long arms and pressed his cheek to hers.
As if she was only just then beginning to realize what had happened, the Empress Consort's expression gradually changed from livid to emotionless, bit by bit. Her path from seated to kneeling down was just as slow. She looked as if she was traumatized by something.
When the Emperor started calling her every single filthy name he seemed to know. Some of those names were so vulgar, so obscene, that Miseo didn't even know what they were. She was surprised that he knew them, to be honest. One would normally have to socialize with the lowest of the low to have heard those words, or at least read something terribly coarse. Or that's what Miseo assumed.
