Ai Ling remained sitting with the book in her lap. Its weight on her legs did not compare to the thoughts which weighed on her heart. After a few moments, she rose, placed The Book of Making on her writing desk, blew out the lantern, and slipped into bed.
Rest did not come quickly that night. When she finally drifted into slumber, her dreams were of couples etched in black, moving in jerky motions, passive smiles painted upon their faces, an emptiness within their eyes. Ai Ling jostled against the plush silk cushions of the sedan seat. Father had hired it for the occasion. She had suspected her parents’ intention when Mother shared The Book of Making last month, but she wasn’t prepared for a betrothal so soon. She would be given away, traded off like cattle, fortunate to see her parents perhaps once a year—if her future mother-in-law allowed it.
Her empty stomach turned. She wished she wasn’t alone, being presented as if royalty, under just as much scrutiny. What would her betrothed look like? With her luck, he’d have squinted eyes and not reach past her chin.
Despite it being in the tenth moon, the days were still hot. She fanned herself, feeling stifled, wishing protocol allowed her to draw aside the heavy drapes. Muffled shouts from vendors offering their wares reached her ears. Ai Ling peeled back the corner of the drape and peered out, spying a cobbler bellowing from his stand. A mother pulled her toddler son by the hand past the sedan, promising a candied fruit if he behaved. Ai Ling was whisked down the main street and allowed the curtain to drop once more, isolating her in a hot muted red.
The sedan stopped too soon. She wasn’t ready. She brushed a nervous hand over her hair, where Mother had placed the delicate jade hairpin from her betrothed among the coils piled on her head. She had always worn braids until today. As a married woman, she would never be able to wear loose braids again. Her stomach clenched, and she fisted her hands tight to gather courage.
“Mistress Wen arrives!” shouted a deep sonorous voice.
Ai Ling wilted against the cushions. They had hired a master of ceremony? The Goddess of Mercy help her.
The curtains were swept aside, exposing her to the harsh light of midday. She blinked a few times and saw her mother and father, along with, she assumed, Master Wong, Lady Wong, and her betrothed, Liao Kang.
The master of ceremony, a rotund man with a fringe of hair circling his scalp and plump red cheeks, bowed low with surprising grace and proffered one hand. She took it and stepped into the empty street. She dared not look around but wondered if they had somehow cleared the area. She walked past her parents and immediately went to Lady Wong, her future mother-in-law, as protocol dictated.
The petite woman raised one arm, clad in a lavender silk sleeve banded in gold. Ai Ling took the woman’s cool hand and pressed it to her lowered brow.
Not a bad-looking girl. Good hips.
Her stomach seized as if someone had hurled a rock at her middle. She nearly reeled but managed to remain standing. Ai Ling lifted her head in shock, felt the blood drain from her face; but no one else indicated they had heard Lady Wong’s comment.
Lady Wong regarded her with calculation. A palpable sense of disdain poured toward Ai Ling. The woman flicked her gaze up, then down.
Too tall.
She heard it as if it were spoken aloud, but Lady Wong’s rouged lips remained pursed, never moved. Her future mother-in-law inclined her head, and Ai Ling quickly dropped her hand. The tightness within her immediately eased. Had she heard the woman’s thoughts?
She fought to quell her trembling as Liao Kang stepped forward and extended his hand. He was a bamboo of a boy, the barely green type, with large almond eyes in a pale face. Would this boy see her hair unbound on their wedding night? Her mind flitted to The Book of Making. Heat suffused Ai Ling’s cheeks. She took his hand, feeling the damp of her own palm, and allowed him to lead her into the restaurant.
The three-storied restaurant opened into a lush courtyard filled with orchids and fruit trees. Liao Kang led her to a round lacquered table with six matching chairs. He stepped to the space across from her. They remained standing, waiting for their parents. The men seated themselves first, next to each other, followed by their wives, also side by side.
The master of ceremony stood behind their table, announcing in his deep voice the names of both families and the betrothed, wishing them fortune, marital joy, and seven sons in seven years. After what seemed like an hour, the plump man bowed and retreated. Only then did Ai Ling and Liao Kang seat themselves. The server immediately placed the first dish on the table, cold cuts of beef tongue, pig ears, salted silver river fish, and marinated quail eggs. Ai Ling’s mouth felt dry, as if stuffed with raw silk.
She sipped on the cool tea and pretended to eat.
It was after much laughter and reminiscing, when a contented silence fell between the two men, that Lady Wong spoke. “We want to make sure that Ai Ling is a good match for our Liao Kang. He is a sensitive, intelligent boy—our baby.”
Ai Ling caught the smile about to break on her lips. She sneaked a glance at Liao Kang, but he was intent upon pushing the meatball pearls on his plate with his silver eating sticks.
“I’m concerned about your family’s reputation, Master Wen.” Lady Wong’s pleasant tone did not match the menace of her words. “My husband withheld information from me when we accepted Ai Ling as a daughter-in-law.” She cast a cutting glance at her husband. “Weren’t you thrown out of the Emperor’s court in disgrace?”
Master Wong slammed his wine cup on the table. Hot anger rose within her, and she looked toward her father. But he appeared unmoved by the accusation.
“I served the Emperor well, Lady Wong. For many years.”
The woman sniffed. Master Wong lifted an open hand to his wife in appeasement. “Dear wife, Liao Kang and Ai Ling are betrothed. We’re almost family. Master Wen and I are longtime colleagues and friends; we couldn’t possibly find a better match for our son.”
Her defiant look made her husband sigh too loudly. “The final decision is up to Liao Kang,” Lady Wong said.
The server placed a deep dish of sizzling scallops before them, bowed, and retreated.
“The food is delicious. If only I knew the recipes,” her mother finally said after an awkward silence.
“Our chef’s dishes are far superior,” Lady Wong replied, actually turning up her nose.
“You’ve come a long way, Lao Wong, from eating rice porridge and pickles at every meal,” Ai Ling’s father said, patting his old colleague on the back. But Master Wong stared at his dessert, a strained smile on his face.
Avoiding her father’s eyes, Master Wong waved a server over. “More chilled wine here!”
Liao Kang had not spoken a word during the entire meal. Now his mother looked at him expectantly. After prodding the chilled yam in sweetened mare’s milk without taking one bite, he dropped a piece of sky blue satin on the table, took his mother’s waiting hand, and escorted her out of the restaurant.
Ai Ling’s face grew hot, then cold. A gift of gold was given, usually a bracelet or ring, in acceptance of the girl chosen. The piece of discarded satin meant the very opposite. She did not doubt that Lady Wong had orchestrated this public refusal.
She kept her head bowed as Master Wong sputtered apologies, waved his manicured hands, and assured them that everything would be sorted, that it was merely a small misunderstanding.
But it was clear to Ai Ling. Her family was not good enough. She was not good enough. She fought the shame mingled with anger that filled her. She had tolerated this farce to please her parents, abide by tradition, but she had only managed to bring disgrace on her family. Gossip would follow, for an unmarriageable daughter was a bad daughter.