Empress Jiang
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 2
The Forbidden City, Beijing, Winter, 1420 - Spring 1421
Age 4-5
Three months after her arrival, the girl who had no name learned her first Chinese character.
不 - bù - No. Not. Cannot.
Madam Liu made her trace it one hundred times on rice paper, her small hand cramping around the brush. The character was simple—four strokes—but getting the balance right took her all morning.
“Again,” Madam Liu said each time the strokes were uneven. “A character poorly written is a thought poorly formed. You are learning to think properly.”
By afternoon, her fingers were black with ink and her wrist ached. But the character was finally acceptable.
Madam Liu examined it with critical eyes. “Adequate. Tomorrow you will learn 是 - shì - to be, to exist.”
The girl set down her brush. Three months in the Forbidden City had taught her to measure her words carefully before speaking. “Shifu, how many characters must I learn?”
“To be considered literate? Three thousand.”
Her heart sank.
“To be considered educated? Ten thousand.”
Impossible. She would die of old age before learning ten thousand of these strange symbols.
“The Empress Dowager’s ladies are expected to know twelve thousand characters, compose poetry in three forms, recognize two hundred varieties of plants, identify court officials by their seals, and recite the Four Books and Five Classics from memory.” Madam Liu’s expression didn’t change. “You have twelve years. Begin.”
The days developed a rhythm as relentless as a drum.
Hour of the Rabbit (5-7 AM): Rise. Wash in cold water—always cold, even when ice formed on the basin. Dress without assistance. Practice kneeling one hundred times while Mei counted silently, her lips moving. Any imperfection meant starting over.
Hour of the Dragon (7-9 AM): Breakfast—rice congee, pickled vegetables, sometimes a preserved egg. Eat with perfect chopstick form. Madam Liu watched every bite. Dropping food meant going hungry.
Hour of the Snake (9-11 AM): Chinese characters. Stroke order. Brush technique. The endless repetition of symbols that refused to stay in her memory.
Hour of the Horse (11 AM-1 PM): Chinese history. The dynasties, the emperors, the wars and marriages and betrayals that stretched back thousands of years. She learned that China was the center of the world and all other kingdoms—including Korea—were merely tributaries, lesser peoples blessed to bask in Chinese civilization.
She learned not to flinch when Madam Liu called Korea a “backward peninsula.”
Hour of the Sheep (1-3 PM): Poetry. The Classic of Poetry, the works of Li Bai and Du Fu. She didn’t understand half the words, but she memorized the sounds. Madam Liu would recite a line and she would repeat it, over and over, until the rhythm was carved into her bones.
Hour of the Monkey (3-5 PM): Deportment. How to walk—small steps, head level, hands folded. How to bow—depth determined by rank, never too shallow, never too deep. How to sit—back straight, knees together, never fidgeting. How to gesture—economical, graceful, never crude.
Hours spent learning to move through space as if she were made of water and air instead of flesh and bone.
Hour of the Rooster (5-7 PM): Dinner. Then practice for the next day—reviewing characters, reciting poems, perfecting her calligraphy.
Hour of the Dog (7-9 PM): Preparation for bed. Mei would brush her hair one hundred strokes—she counted silently now in Chinese, the Korean numbers long forgotten. Then the wooden pillow, the darkness, the loneliness.
And every night, the struggle to remember her mother’s face.
Every night, it faded a little more.
Six months after her arrival, she witnessed her first palace execution.
She was crossing the courtyard with Mei, returning from a calligraphy lesson, when she heard the commotion. Guards. Shouting. A woman’s screams.
Mei grabbed her arm, tried to pull her away, but the girl planted her feet and watched.
A servant—young, perhaps sixteen—was dragged into the courtyard by two guards. Her clothes were torn. Her face was bleeding.
An official in crimson robes read from a scroll: “The servant Lian has been found guilty of theft. She stole a jade hairpin from Lady Chen’s chambers. The punishment for theft from the imperial household is death by beating.”
The girl’s breath caught.
The woman—Lian—was forced to her knees. She was crying, begging, but the words didn’t matter. One of the guards raised a heavy wooden rod.
“Don’t watch,” Mei whispered in Chinese, pulling harder.
But the girl couldn’t look away.
The first blow landed across Lian’s shoulders. She screamed.
The second blow. The third. The fourth.
By the tenth blow, Lian wasn’t screaming anymore.
By the twentieth, she wasn’t moving.
By the thirtieth, there was blood spreading across the courtyard stones.
The official rolled up his scroll. “Let this serve as a lesson. Theft from the imperial household will not be tolerated.”
The guards dragged the body away, leaving a dark stain on the red stones.
Servants appeared with buckets and brushes. Within ten minutes, the blood was gone.
As if nothing had happened.
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