She reached for the glass vial hidden in her tunic. Her movement caught the handmaid’s attention.
“What’s that, mistress?”
“A good-luck charm,” she said.
Zhen Ni wrung her hands. “Master Zhong would not allow it.”
Ai Ling clutched the vial. “It’s nothing, Zhen Ni. A trinket. I want to please him as much as you do.”
The handmaid’s tense shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Please make sure everything is moved to the bridal bedchamber for me,” Ai Ling said.
Zhen Ni inclined her head. “Yes, mistress.”
One of the handmaids retreated and returned with a red silk binder, identical to the one Zhong Ye had drawn from his tunic—the one Silver Phoenix had hung herself with. Was it the same one? What was she thinking when she had killed herself? Had Zhong Ye forced her to marry too?
Ai Ling raised both arms without being asked. Her scalp crawled as Zhen Ni bound her breasts with the fabric. She forced herself to be still, fought the urge to scream and slap the girl away. It was the custom for every virgin on her wedding night. A married woman was required to have her breasts tightly bound at all times, except within the privacy of her own bedchamber. The Book of Making, presented by her mother so long ago, had explained the ritual in detail.
She tried to draw a deep breath when Zhen Ni was finished, having wrapped the silken fabric around her chest with expertise. She couldn’t.
“You’ll adjust to it, mistress,” Zhen Ni said as if reading her thoughts. “The silk is forgiving.”
Zhen Ni helped her into a red silk undergarment, fastened it around her waist with a gold braided cord. Ai Ling gasped when she saw two handmaids approaching with the wedding gown. They carried the gold-and-red gown carefully between them.
“It may not fit perfectly. But we can make quick alterations,” Zhen Ni said.
Two handmaids stepped up behind Ai Ling, slipping the crimson-and-gold gown onto her bare shoulders. The weight of it surprised her, the material cool on her skin. Two golden phoenixes as well as the symbol for eternal happiness were embroidered across her chest. The handmaids moved in front of her, one standing and one kneeling, fastening with deft fingers the hidden clasps running down the center of the gown.
Ai Ling lifted one hand and saw, edged along the wide sleeves, bands of dragons with fierce expressions staring at her. After fastening every clasp, the two handmaids retreated and Zhen Ni leaned in to button the stiff collar across her shoulder. Then she stepped back.
It was as if they all waited for her approval. Ai Ling forced herself to look in the mirror. The blush that had colored her cheeks from the bath seemed muted against the expanse of gold and red that swathed her. She felt boxed in, claustrophobic from the weight of the formal gown. She stared into her own dark, slender eyes, and thought she looked too young to be dressed like this.
Wasn’t this the fate of most girls? Ai Ling inclined her head. She couldn’t breathe. Despite Zhen Ni’s reassurances, the binding was not at all forgiving. Slowly she nodded to Zhen Ni’s reflection.
“It fits near perfectly, mistress. True, the length of the gown doesn’t reach the top of your feet”—Zhen Ni bent down to tug the bottom band edged with silver symbols—“but it is hardly noticeable.”
She stood again and regarded her with a pleased flush on her face.
“Now we make up your face.” She put a gentle hand on Ai Ling’s arm and guided her to a chair before the black lacquered table.
Ai Ling closed her eyes as Zhen Ni and another girl fluttered about her with brushes and pencils, lining her eyes and darkening her brows, rouging her lips and cheeks, dusting her entire face with scented, powdery plumes.
She ignored the urge to sneeze and instead tried to cast her spirit toward her father. Could she find him? Somehow tell him she was all right? How far could she travel from her own body? She flung the cord beyond her quarters, but it wavered and dissipated.
Chen Yong. Ai Ling pictured his face in her mind, felt her heartbeat quicken. The cord did not latch but brushed against his spirit, far away. How . . . Ling . . . at . . . help . . .
She jumped when a light touch grazed her shoulder, her heart lurching from the faint scent of spiced cologne. Zhong Ye. She looked around. He wasn’t there. Every handmaid was busy putting away makeup and straightening the room. Zhong Ye had reached her somehow, reminded her of his power and presence. She shivered. Had he sensed her? Did he know?
She turned to face the handmaids. “Thank you. Thank you all for this,” Ai Ling finally said.
She had been transformed into a woman with a few strokes of pencil and brush. Her eyes were wider now, more potent. The pale powder on her face accentuated the rouge on her lips, making them more sensuous. Seductive.
A handmaid approached her with slippers in her hand. “Your shoes, mistress.” She held up the pair to Ai Ling, as if for her inspection.
The shoes were exquisite—slightly arched with a pointed toe and made of a rich crimson silk. Deep purple lotus flowers with golden leaves wound across the sides. At the center of each lotus bloom nestled a dainty emerald. Unopened buds in a pale pink blush peeped from among the blooms. The short heels were made of ivory.
“I’m not sure if they’ll fit.” She nodded toward her long, narrow feet.
Zhen Ni stooped down and slipped one shoe on her foot. Ai Ling winced as her toes jammed together. The handmaid struggled briefly. It fit. She did the same with the other slipper, then leaned back and smiled, obviously relieved.
“She had smaller feet. I don’t believe she was as tall,” the handmaid said.
“Who?” Ai Ling whispered, the hairs on her neck rising.
“Silver Phoenix, mistress. These are her wedding gown and shoes.”
Ai Ling wanted to retch.
“Bring the veil,” Zhen Ni said. Pearls were sewn along the hem, which helped to weigh down the gossamer red silk. She could see through the material, but her vision was shrouded in a red haze. The edge of it brushed just past her collar.
The loud bang of firecrackers from the courtyard startled her. Drums thumped and cymbals crashed outside, followed by the sound of many women in song. “The bridal sedan is here, mistress. Let us help you to your feet,” Zhen Ni said.
Ai Ling felt a gentle hand on each elbow. She rose from the stool, then tottered on pinched toes. “I’m not sure if I can walk in these,” she said through clenched teeth.
“We’ll help you to the sedan, mistress. You’ll not have to walk far.”
This was true, Ai Ling thought wryly to herself. Being a new bride required much sitting, kneeling, and lying on one’s back. Firecrackers popped again. The acrid smell of the smoke infiltrated the chamber as Ai Ling took slow steps forward.
They finally emerged into the open courtyard, where a red sedan with a sloping gilded roof awaited her. Men dressed in red with golden dragons embroidered on their tunics surrounded it. The entire courtyard was lit by giant red and pearl white lanterns, strung on the end of long wooden poles held by servant boys.
The singers wore sky blue gowns with sheer embroidered sleeves flowing to the ground. The air swirled with color as their arms circled in unison.
Ai Ling bit her lip as she was helped into the sedan. The taste of the berry rouge prompted her to lick her teeth. The gold bangles on her wrists tinkled as the attendants lifted the sedan and the procession made its way, she assumed, to the banquet hall. Both sides of the sedan were heavily curtained, and sounds came to her muffled.
Ai Ling wished for more time, even if it were in this stuffy dark box, with the scent of her creams and body powder overpowering her senses. She uncorked the vial and placed it to her lips.
The tiny crystal tears hit her tongue and melted into bitterness, grief, and anger in her mouth. The same feelings she felt the day they were collected—when Li Rong was slain. Her heart thudded against the breast binder. She clutched at the magnificent wedding gown and willed the attendants to move faster. To carry her with speed toward a fate she did not choose, but one she would accept in exchange for her father’s life. In exchange for Chen Yong’s.