There was, of course, no groom, no real parade of family to accompany her, unless Silver Snow could count Willow, who sat beside her in the ox-cart, her green eyes downcast, and her nurse. Then there were the household guards whose patched uniforms and aged horses made such a poor showing alongside the uniformed half troop riding glossy mounts, with their necks proudly arching, breaths steaming in the winter dawn.
Still, custom had to be followed as far as possible, which, in this case, was not all that far. Save for Willow and the nurse, Silver Snow was the only woman in the party; and certainly the only lady of rank. She had no bevy of ladies, no elder go-between, to escort her to the capital and instruct her in the ways of the court; only a week out of Ch’ang-an, the Lady Lilac intended for the post of mentor had fallen ill on the road and had had to be left at an estate along the way. The official had almost deigned to apologize to her father for this lack of proper company, which a noble who was not in disgrace would be certain to regard as an affront. Her father, of course, did not dare to take offense. Silver Snow, while regretting the slight to her father and her house, was relieved. There would be enough strangeness in simply traveling without the need to adapt quickly to the ways of a great lady of the court.
Because Silver Snow rode in a cart, not a chair, she could not be locked from sight. Nevertheless, her father solemnly presented a key to her escort as a token of their obligation to guard her, then bowed for the last time. The official gestured imperiously to his groom, and Silver Snow, peering from behind the curtains, saw her own driver prod his oxen.
She drew a deep, shaky breath. To leave her home, her land, all she had ever known, for what might mean forgiveness for the House of Chao, or just as likely leave her sequestered within the palace women’s quarters forever, a prisoner of exalted rank! It was frightening! The torchlight swam in a rainbow haze as she blinked quickly Willow grasped her mistress’ hand reassuringly The oxen lumbered forward, and with many a shake and many a giddy sidewise swing, the cart rolled down the familiar hill that she would never again see on the first leg of the journey to Ch’ang-an. Dawn wind cast a delicate spume of snow against her face as it brought her the last words that her father spoke before he, leaning heavily upon his stick, entered his now-daughterless house.
After several nights on the road, the train of official and soldiers transporting Silver Snow toward Ch’ang-an stopped for the night in a town where they could seek more comfortable shelter in the home of a magistrate, who appeared, bowing double at the gates, in a frenzy of apology lest the thrice-honored official from Ch’ang-an find his hovel (for thus he spoke) and his First Wife’s untutored efforts beneath contempt.
Silver Snow’s nurse, who had been ill throughout the journey, promptly fainted; and her mistress sighed with relief as the old woman was carried within. Here, she might be tended and might rest until someone might be found to return her to her home. Her young mistress glanced at Willow, who nodded and pulled her hood farther down upon her head. How strange Willow looked! At the last halt, she had vigorously rubbed her hair with lampblack lest its ugly, ominous red hue draw comment among the ladies of the magistrate’s inner courts.
“That is not necessary,” Silver Snow had protested, but Willow had been silent, stubborn. Even the old nurse, from her swathings of sheepskins, had spoken (between moans and sneezes) a brief word of approbation and relief.
They were waiting for her now, judging from the hisses and giggles that she heard from outside the circle of torch- and lamplight. This far from the capital, they too must be eager for news, more eager still to see a lady who might, one day, be the most honored among all women. Straightening her furs as best she could, Silver Snow stepped down from the cart, resting her hand for the briefest of moments on the arm of a guard. Then she walked quickly toward what looked like an inviting circle of light and warmth—into a new world.
She had expected courtyards much like her own, old, shabby, and relatively bare, either of furnishings or of people. Here, however: light, colors, and smells erupted so she blinked, bewildered, glancing from elaborate hangings to wall paintings to what seemed like a veritable army of high-born ladies. Most seemed to be regarding Silver Snow with pursed lips and incredulous eyes beneath high-arched brows. Each, from First Wife to youngest concubine, wore new, intricately wrought silk garments, their full sleeves nearly brushing the matted floor. All of the robes were embroidered with flowers; and each lady wore the scent of the blossom stitched upon her robes. Now they bowed, each as befitted her own rank, until the play of color and scent made them resemble a garden in a spring breeze.
Overwhelmed by colors and scents, as well as the unfamiliar warmth of these courts, Silver Snow stepped backward—just in time to miss the ceremonious greeting of the First Wife. She recovered almost the instant thereafter, and bowed the more deeply to make amends; but, as she realized with a sinking heart, it was too late. Gossip had already begun: rustles of silk as hidden hand plucked gleaming sleeve; a gleam of moonbright cheek laid against powdered cheek; a hiss of sympathy for the slight to the First Wife; and, above all, the whispers, like the sighing of a bleak wind.
“Did you see, she strode into the house as if she had done no more than walk from one court to the next? She neither wept nor swooned. How robust! How very coarse.”
“At least, the crone, her nurse, had to be carried in. I know that I would be prostrate, were I forced to make such a journey ...”
“Such a strange appearance: no proper go-between, and only that ugly maid ...”
“Keep her shadow away from me!” squealed one of the concubines. “I am with child; I would not have our master’s son born lame.”
Foolishness, Silver Snow wanted to cry as Willow shrank back into her mistress’ shadow.
“Look, how the ugly wench glares at you. Do you think she heard?” A faint giggling followed that question, and the concubine and her friend flounced away.
“/ do not think that the Emperor will even look at this one,” announced an elder wife to the First Wife. “Country-bred, rough, and appallingly healthy. Who knows if she is truly a lady of the Han? You know, they say that her father married among the Hsiung-nu ...”
“That would explain her repulsive hardiness, if she were half ...”
“Hush!” commanded the First Wife, who approached Silver Snow with a glittering smile in which the girl could discern nothing of welcome.
Nor did the bath, more elaborate than any she had ever known, warm or refresh her. She took no pleasure in the robes in which they wrapped her, with many comments on her weathered hands, callused from bowstring and blade, and her browned face. Willow’s mirror might show her to be lovely when she sat alone at home; here, however, she saw herself as she was: lacking the insipid prettiness that made each lady resemble the others as one plum resembles its companions on the branch. Where they minced and tripped, she walked; where they fluttered lashes and sleeves, she moved quickly, decisively; her brows, though finely, naturally arched, were •too thick, and her mouth far too generous. Even here, she thought, chin raised and with a flash of anger, she was not ill-favored: just very different, very much a lady of the northern frontier.