The gold brocaded curtains were drawn, the wide bed covered with cushions in satins and silks of deep plum and red, emerald green and sky blue. Crimson sheets embroidered with the dragon and phoenix motif were draped across the bed. The edges of the coverlet were sewn with the character for eternal happiness, woven between peaches, lotus, and pearls—all symbols of happiness or fertility.
The banquet master untied the same-heart sash. “Your heart is one,” he said, bowing.
The song girls parted. Zhong Ye offered a hand, which Ai Ling did not refuse, and helped her climb the carved steps into the massive bed. She knelt down, facing away from the door of the bedchamber and the crowd that had followed them in.
“The husband unbinds his wife’s hair out of love and service,” the banquet master chanted.
“He’ll unbind more than that tonight!” someone shouted, and everyone burst into rowdy laughter.
She closed her eyes.
Zhong Ye kneeled behind her. He pulled the first pin from her hair. Then another. Her locks began to unfurl across her shoulders. She kept her head bowed. Her cheeks burned. This was just the beginning. Her mind wandered to what she could remember of wedding rituals—all she had read in The Book of Making.
Zhong Ye’s fingers brushed against the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. She steadied herself. Don’t react. Don’t give them the satisfaction. The song girls cast red and white flower petals on the bed; the banquet master threw grain. Her hair was entirely loose.
“Make her a woman tonight, Master Zhong!” The crowd cheered and laughed, whistled loudly and stomped their feet.
“May she be soft and pliable! She certainly looks it!”
Zhong Ye turned her around to face the crowd. She navigated across the bed on her knees. Her fury blazed, and she feared what she would say if she saw their faces . . . what she would do. She too had a role to play, for now.
The noise grew until Zhong Ye raised a hand. The hush that followed was immediate. “Thank you for joining us in this celebration, esteemed friends and family. . . .”
What family could he possibly have? He was an ancestor, ancient.
“I ask now to be alone with my bride,” Zhong Ye said.
The whistles and foot stomping began again. The crowd was in a frenzy. But the last of the ritual words had been spoken by the new groom, and the inebriated well-wishers retreated quickly, knowing there was more food and drink waiting for them in the banquet hall.
Six guards stayed behind, standing at attention. Zhong Ye waved a manicured hand. “Leave us. I hardly need your protection tonight.”
Zhong Ye was beside her, his long hands resting on his thighs. She did not move. He finally rose and inclined onto the thick cushions of the bed, resting casually on one elbow.
“We’re alone at last, love. I’ve waited for this night for so long. Too long.” He reached for her hand, brushed her fingers with his. His skin was smooth, flawless.
“I know how you’re feeling. But you will grow to love me, Ai Ling. Just as Silver Phoenix did.”
She blanched. Silver Phoenix could never have loved him.
He wanted her to meet his gaze. She refused, and he sighed.
“I became a eunuch when I was twenty years . . . centuries ago. Most were forced, sold, or bought. But I chose my path.”
Ai Ling swallowed hard. He wasn’t whole. A thin thread of hope wound through her.
He continued to stroke her fingers. His gaze was tangible; it touched her brow and traced her cheekbone and jaw, fluttered against her lips. He was attempting some sort of sorcery. The white rage within her crackled, expanded, grew taut again. She remained still.
“You’re more strong-willed than I realized, my pet. I shouldn’t be surprised.” He sounded amused. Perhaps even pleased. “You’re my match indeed. We’ll rule together through all the dynasties. We’ll always be here. Our love will last forever.”
He released her hand. Repulsed, she clutched them together. He was delusional—a madman.
“Come now, don’t play games. Look at me. Let me see the lovely face of my new bride.” She finally met his gaze with a defiant tilt of her head.
“Fiery eyes, just as I remembered them. You may have a different face, a different body, but yes, I do remember the spirit behind those eyes.”
He must have been handsome in his youth. His true youth. His strong cheekbones lent boldness to his face. But he lacked color now. His lips were wide, drawn thin. Whomever he may have been when he was born—that person no longer existed—was long gone. He climbed off the bed and moved to a low chest in the corner.
“Would you like some wine?” He poured himself a cup. She shook her head.
“Please stop kneeling at least, Ai Ling. I grow tired just looking at you.” He made his way to one of two woodcarved chairs in the room and sat down, stretching his long legs before him. “I’ll enjoy my wine here. You have the bed all to yourself.” He laughed.
Ai Ling did not argue. She stretched out her legs as well. Both feet were asleep and tingled painfully. She sank back into the pillows, bone weary.
She lost herself in the bright lanterns strung across the ceiling as she waited for his next move. Her mind kept returning to the drawings in The Book of Making. Not all of them involved . . . Her neck grew hot, and she wrenched her thoughts away.
If the man chose to talk, she would listen and rest—gather her strength and energy. It was not yet the right time to touch his spirit. He was too strong. She needed to distract him.
Zhong Ye poured himself a second cup of wine and downed it. “I remember the day so clearly. Not the pain, the pain is just a distant memory. But how does a man ever forget the moment his manhood is taken from him?” Zhong Ye rose and began pacing the room, making Ai Ling think of a caged creature, lithe and restless.
“I swore in writing and by word that I gave myself to the Emperor of my own volition.” He poured a third cup of wine, drank it in gulps. His pale face began to color. The more wine, the better, she thought.
“After all the paperwork, the talk, they took me into the back room to perform the ritual.” He stood by the side of the bed now, looking down on her. She felt exposed, regretted lying down, but met his gaze without wavering. Ai Ling did not want to hear his story. What would he try next?
Zhong Ye sat down on the edge of the bed. “They tied me down with leather straps. My arms. My legs. And gave me another piece of leather to bite down on.”
She heard a distant roar from the banquet hall. It surprised her. The crowd was celebrating still, probably more drunk than ever. Father. Chen Yong. O, Goddess of Mercy, let them be safe.
“They washed me with hot pepper water, to help numb the pain. But I think that was a ruse. The pain from that merely made the agony from the actual act seem less so.”
Music now, muted singing and drumbeats from afar.
“The remover gripped me in one hand. All of it. And I watched him raise the curved knife, cut everything away in one motion.” Zhong Ye stared into his wine cup.
“Why are you telling me this? Do you expect my sympathy?” Ai Ling spoke softly, controlling her voice. She did not show fear or anger—refused to show anything to him.
“I tell you, beloved wife, to demonstrate how far I will go to gain power. I risked everything to enter the Palace, worked my way up from latrine boy and kitchen sweeper to the Emperor’s most trusted confidant. Every Emperor’s trusted confidant. I have guided dynasties for enough centuries that the people do not even know me as a eunuch—do not realize what I sacrificed. . . .” He spoke in a quiet voice, too. Ai Ling tilted her face away, studied the carvings on the bedpost instead. Two golden cranes wound themselves among the blooming lotus flowers and buds.