The Jade Lanterns of the Southern Palace

She crossed the world to study an empire—and stayed for the woman who changed her life. Li Mei’s Song for Hannah: 隔着玉海 - Across the Jade Sea - Mandarin 1. Arrival at the Forbidden City The first thing I noticed about the palace was the silence. Not the absence of sound—there were servants everywhere, the distant splash of fountains, silk brushing over marble floors—but a kind of reverent stillness, as though the walls themselves were listening. Our expedition had been invited to the imperial court for three days only. Professor Weiss called it “the greatest diplomatic opportunity of the century.” I called it exhausting. I spent most of those days translating formal greetings and answering endless questions about Europe—railways, telegraphs, Parisian fashion, military academies. The emperor himself watched me more closely than the others. “You speak Mandarin unusually well,” the emperor said in careful, measured Mandarin. I blinked in surprise before answering in the same language. “I have studied for six years, Your Majesty.” His gaze lingered thoughtfully. On the final evening, after a banquet lit by hundreds of hanging lanterns, I was summoned privately. The emperor’s study smelled faintly of sandalwood and ink. “My daughter wishes to learn about the West,” he said. “Languages. Customs. European philosophy.” He folded his hands. “I would offer you permanent residence here as her tutor.” I nearly laughed from shock. Permanent residence? In the imperial palace? The salary he named was more money than I could have earned in ten years in Vienna. Still, I declined. Politely. Respectfully. Immediately. “My expedition sails for Europe within the month,” I explained. “My place is with them.” The emperor nodded once, unsurprised. “As you wish.” I believed the matter finished. Until I met his daughter. 2. The Princess Two days later, before our departure from Beijing, the emperor hosted a final farewell gathering in one of the garden courtyards. That was where I first saw her. Princess Li Mei stood beneath flowering plum trees in pale green silk, her dark hair pinned with jade ornaments that shimmered whenever she moved. She looked younger than I expected—perhaps twenty-three—but there was a steadiness in her posture that made the entire court seem arranged around her. When she spoke to me in hesitant English, I forgot every prepared diplomatic phrase I knew. “Miss Adler,” she said carefully, “is Vienna truly as beautiful as they say?” Her accent was delicate, musical. “Yes,” I answered. “But not half so beautiful as this place.” A dangerous answer. She smiled anyway. The rest of the evening passed in fragments: her asking about snowfall in Austria, opera houses, women riding trains alone, bookstores in Paris. She listened with such earnest fascination that I found myself speaking too freely, laughing too easily. And afterward, back aboard the expedition vessel, I could not sleep. I lay awake hearing her voice. Seeing the lantern light against her face. Remembering the way she had looked at me—not as a curiosity, not as a foreign spectacle, but as though she truly wished to know me. By dawn I understood something terrible. I did not want to leave. 3. Choosing to Stay Professor Weiss was furious. “You are abandoning the expedition for a tutoring position?” “It is more complicated than that.” “No, Hannah, it is not.” The others tried gentler approaches. “You’ll be isolated there.” “You don’t know palace politics.” “You belong in Europe.” Perhaps they were right. But every argument dissolved the moment I remembered Li Mei smiling beneath the plum blossoms. By sunset I had made my decision. I remained in Beijing while the expedition departed without me. I watched the ship disappear through morning fog from the harbor and felt, for one brief moment, terrified by what I had done. Then a palace carriage arrived for me. And there was no turning back. 4. Lessons My chambers in the palace overlooked a koi pond lined with white stone lanterns. Servants attended to every imaginable need. Silk robes were prepared for me. Fresh tea appeared before I could ask for it. None of that unsettled me as much as Li Mei herself. Our lessons began formally. English grammar. French pronunciation. European etiquette. But within weeks they became something else entirely. She asked endless questions. “Why do European women dance with strangers?” “Why are love marriages considered romantic?” “Is it true women in Vienna attend universities?” I answered honestly. Sometimes she would remove her court jewelry halfway through lessons and sit cross-legged beside me like an ordinary young woman desperate to glimpse another world. And slowly, impossibly, she became my world instead. 5. The First Kiss It happened during the summer rains. Thunder rolled over the palace roofs while we sat near an open window translating poetry together. Li Mei was reading slowly from a French novel when she paused. “In Europe,” she asked quietly, “may women choose their own futures?” “Yes.” “And their own loves?” My heartbeat stumbled. “Yes,” I whispered again. She looked at me then—not as a student. Not as a princess. Simply as a woman. Rain hammered the courtyard tiles outside. “I envy them,” she said. Before I could answer, she touched my hand. A tiny movement. Barely anything. Yet it shattered whatever restraint remained between us. When she kissed me, softly and uncertainly, I should have stopped it. Instead I kissed her back. 6. Midnight Lanterns For weeks afterward we tried to behave sensibly. We failed completely. At first we avoided being alone together after lessons. We spoke more formally. Kept proper distance in the library. Pretended not to notice how our hands lingered too long whenever she passed me a book. It lasted perhaps three days. Then, one rainy night, I heard the faintest knock against my chamber door. When I opened it, Li Mei stood there holding a lantern beneath a dark silk cloak, moonlight silvering the loose waves of her hair. “You should not be here,” I whispered immediately. “I know.” Neither of us moved. Rain murmured softly beyond the courtyard rooftops while the lantern light trembled between us. Then she smiled—that quiet, dangerous smile that had already ruined whatever remained of my caution—and stepped inside. After that, she came often. Sometimes after midnight. Sometimes only for an hour before dawn. Always silently, escorted by no one. She would arrive wrapped in dark cloaks to avoid recognition, though once inside my chambers she discarded every trace of imperial formality. Heavy jewelry vanished. Court robes gave way to soft silk sleeping garments. Her elaborate hairstyles loosened until dark hair spilled freely over her shoulders. I loved those moments most. Not when she looked like the emperor’s daughter. But when she looked simply like Li Mei. Some nights we spoke until dawn. About Vienna. About opera houses beside snowy streets. About Parisian cafés and women who attended universities. About freedom. Always freedom. She listened with her chin resting against my shoulder while I described trains crossing Europe beneath winter skies. “Do women truly walk alone there?” she asked once quietly. “Yes.” “And no one stops them?” “Sometimes they are judged,” I admitted. “But they still walk.” She fell silent after that. I think both of us understood we were no longer speaking merely about Europe. Other nights words abandoned us entirely. Rain would drift against the lattice windows while we lay together beneath embroidered blankets, listening to the distant echo of palace bells through the darkness. Those nights frightened me most. Because happiness had begun to feel real. And real things could be taken away. 7. Morning Light The mornings were somehow even more dangerous. Night belonged to secrecy. Morning belonged to tenderness. Golden light would spill through carved windows onto tangled blankets and scattered books while Li Mei remained beside me far longer than she should have dared. In daylight she seemed softer somehow. Less guarded. The careful composure demanded by court life dissolved inside these rooms. Sometimes she sat before my mirror while I attempted to arrange her hair according to European fashions. I was terrible at it. Utterly terrible. “You are pulling too hard,” she complained one morning, laughing as I struggled with a ribbon. “You have impossible hair.” “My hair is perfectly obedient.” “It has declared war against me personally.” She laughed again then—a genuine laugh, unrestrained and bright enough to make me forget for one dangerous moment where we were. I paused simply to watch her. No court jewels. No formal robes. Only loose dark hair falling over pale silk and morning sunlight touching her face. Beautiful in a way no imperial portrait could ever capture. When she noticed me staring, her expression softened. “What?” “Nothing,” I lied quietly. But it was not nothing. It was everything. Sometimes she would steal my books and attempt dramatic readings in heavily accented German while I collapsed into helpless laughter. Other mornings we spoke very little at all. Those were my favorite. Just the quiet warmth of her beside me while the palace slowly awakened beyond the windows. Footsteps in distant corridors. Birdsong over the gardens. The soft rustle of silk sheets as she rested against my shoulder. It felt impossibly domestic. Dangerously ordinary. As though we belonged to each other in some simpler world where women were allowed to love openly and mornings like these required no secrecy at all. I had never known happiness could feel so fragile. Or so worth destroying myself for. 8. A Proposal to the Emperor Autumn arrived golden and cold. One evening Li Mei summoned me to the western gardens, where maple leaves burned scarlet around the ponds. She seemed nervous. “My father has agreed,” she said. “To what?” She smiled slowly. “I asked permission to travel to Europe.” I stared at her in disbelief. “He approved?” “He believes I should continue studying Western customs.” Her eyes softened. “And he trusts you.” The realization struck me all at once. She had planned this. Every lesson. Every conversation. Every careful request to the emperor. Not merely for education. For us. “When do we leave?” I asked. “In spring.” She took my hand beneath the falling leaves. And for the first time since arriving in China, the future no longer frightened me. It felt wonderfully, impossibly open. Li Mei’s Song for Hannah: 隔着玉海 - Across the Jade Sea - Mandarin