The unknown woman reached toward Minyi, tender as a mother.
She could not see her face, but Min felt she recognized her nevertheless. Deeply, down to her bones. She closed her eyes in the warmth of the stranger’s arms. The woman’s white silks were soft against her fingers. She smelled clean, like spring winds—but beneath it, Min sensed something unsettling. Sulfur and burning, like a candle that had just been snuffed out.
When she looked up, the woman’s face was a chasm of writhing light and fire, horrible to behold.
Cold fear seized her, but the sensation quickened into an unbearable heat. The woman’s robes turned to living flames, scorching Min’s arms and neck and setting her hair ablaze. She opened her mouth to cry out and the stranger bent over her, sucking the scream out of her with a cruel, searing kiss—
Min awoke with a start violent enough to chase the nightmare away. Even as she blinked the sleep from her eyes, it seemed to fly from her grasp like a pale gray bird, leaving only a lingering trace of dread.
She shivered, feeling both cold and hot.
Not today. I can’t be ill today of all days. Their mother would be livid if she missed her sister’s Betrothal Ceremony. Min sat up.
And felt a hot surge between her thighs.
She cried out at the sensation, already deadening into a cold, heavy wetness.
Across the room, Butterfly sat up. “Are you all right, Princess?” she asked drowsily. Beside her, Snowdrop’s small feet poked out from beneath the sheets; she smacked her lips in her sleep but did not rouse.
Min just shook her head wordlessly and stumbled out of bed, grabbing at the silken hem of her nightgown.
Butterfly was up in an instant, kicking Snowdrop in her haste to assist Min.
“Princess, what’s the matter? Are you hurt?”
Min slapped the nuna’s hands away and hiked up her hem to her waist.
A bright scarlet spot was staining its way through her under wrappings.
Red. So red.
She thought of the first flame, no doubt crackling away in the courtyard at that very moment. In her mind’s eye she saw a flash of white silk burst into flame. She blinked; where had she seen that before?
But the thought vanished as her body gave another involuntary contraction and yet more blood spilled forth.
She screamed.
Amma Ruxin rushed into the room, followed by the rest of her nunas.
“What’s happened?” demanded the amma.
“It’s all right. She has her first blood.” It was Butterfly who answered. Who understood, even before Min herself.
Relief flooded Min’s body, quickly chased by hot, diffuse embarrassment. She wasn’t dying—only stupid.
Amma Ruxin was clucking at the nunas to refill Min’s tub and fetch clean undergarments. “Hurry,” the older woman snapped.
They did their best to tidy Min—scrubbing her thighs raw in the bath, then swathing her up in clean, lightly perfumed white wrappings, as though her body were a wound. Even when they’d finished, she felt ill.
Of all days to let this happen, she thought miserably, tears welling up in her eyes. Bad enough that she should embarrass herself looking a sweaty, repulsive mess in front of the whole assembled court, let alone in front of her cousin Set and his Hana entourage, too.
“It’s all right, Small Princess,” said Amma Ruxin, laying a firm hand upon her shoulder. “No tears,” she added, wiping at Min’s face with a handkerchief produced from deep inside the sleeves of her robes. “You’re a woman now.”
The empress was having her long black hair styled for the Betrothal Ceremony when Min shuffled into her quarters. Her mother’s ammas flitted about her like hummingbirds around a trumpet flower. She was a beautiful woman: tall and graceful, with a stately elegance wrought through good breeding and years of practice. Today she looked especially striking in robes of deep cerulean embroidered with gold thread, and makeup that accentuated her high cheekbones, full lips, and gray Hana eyes.
Min curtsied as best she could in her stiff new robes.
“Mother,” she said.
The empress cocked her head slightly to one side—no easy feat given the weight of her hair, dripping with jeweled pins and topped with a gold diadem. There was apprehension in her face—disappointment perhaps? Is it the robes? Min fretted, feeling the cold prickle of panic. It’s not fair. She’s the one who picked the lilac . . .
Min herself had favored a bolt of malachite green silk, but the empress had quickly dismissed it, reminding Min of how badly dark colors washed out her already pale face.
Her mother was correct, of course. Min did have a pale face—soft and round and bland as an uncooked dumpling. Her sister Lu could wear bold colors to striking effect, the jeweled tones intensifying her sharp, lively eyes and quick grin. But then, it seemed Lu could do anything she wanted.
Except be emperor, a little singsong voice inside Min whispered. Her gut clenched at the cruelty in it. Where had that thought come from?
Her mother held out a hand. “Come here, my sweet.” When Min stepped forward, the empress enveloped her in a brief, perfumed embrace. The sharp smell of mandarin blossoms lingered in the air, and Min breathed in deeply to savor it.
“Amma Ruxin tells me you are a woman now,” said the empress. She cocked her head, and the faint lilt of a smile strained her lips. Her face went soft like love. Just for a moment. “You look pretty. All grown up.”
In spite of herself, Min felt a bloom of pleasure and relief in her chest. She indulged it for a cautious moment before forcing it back down. The empress was in a good mood this morning.
Her mother turned back to her mirrors. She frowned slightly at her reflection, touching a loose loop of hair. “This is out of place,” she informed Amma Inga, a reedy woman whose head reminded Min of a lumpy turnip.
The empress cast a sidelong look toward Min as Inga sorted out her hair. “The robes will do. But I daresay you’ve grown since we had them cut—outward, if not upward. A hazard for anyone at your age, I suppose.”
The relief she’d felt earlier flinched and contracted behind her breastbone. “Yes, Mother,” Min agreed.
“You should take care to eat less, but don’t worry about it too much,” her mother continued, carefully watching the ammas work in the reflection of her mirrors. “When I was your age I tended toward stoutness myself; it is only a phase. And it means you will be plump in the correct places when you’re a bit older.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Min secretly wondered if there could be any truth to the empress’s words. All her life she had been told she would be beautiful one day—one day, one day—and all her life it had never happened.
“And for the time being, at least you have our Hana eyes—no, no!” The empress broke off to scold Amma Inga, yanking the hank of hair from the frightened woman’s hands. “This is atrocious. Ailin, come here and fix this savagery . . .”
Min bit back a sigh, sitting at her mother’s dressing table as the ammas hurried forth to tend to the empress. There was a large polished mahogany box atop the vanity, gaping open to reveal a bounty of jeweled hairpins.
Min selected one and turned it over in her hands. The pin was yellow gold, adorned on one end with a fist-sized lily of mother-of-pearl.
She looked up and her face gazed back from the mirror. It was true she had the famed gray eyes of the old Hana Family Li—her own vague like vapor, while her mother’s were bright and unyielding as wet stone. Apart from that, Min looked every bit like their father: the same round cheeks and anemic complexion. The full, downturned lips that should have been attractive but somehow lent her an anxious, dour air.
Not for the first time, Min wondered if her mother so emphasized her Hana eyes because she wished Min looked more like her—as though calling attention to that token similarity could eclipse the chasm of difference between them. Or perhaps it was simply that her eyes were the only feature pretty enough to comment on.
It was small comfort that Lu had not inherited their mother’s particular beauty, either—she little resembled either of their parents. Instead, she was often described as their first uncle Hwangmun returned from the heavens in the body of a girl.
Hwangmun had been killed in a rock slide while on a tour of the northern front, along with their second uncle Hyomun, shortly before either Lu or Min were born. But Min had seen the uncanny likeness to her sister in Hwangmun’s gilded portrait in the Hall of the Ancestors. The close resemblance was considered auspicious—their uncle had been a man of legendary grace and intelligence. Min couldn’t think of anybody more graceful or intelligent than her sister.
Hwangmun had also been—rather unfairly, Min thought—very comely. So Lu possessed not only Hwangmun’s caliber of character but also his lively copper-flecked eyes, canny face, and elegant build.
“Min!”
She sat up with such a start she nearly stabbed herself through the palm with the hairpin in her hands.
“Rise at once! What are you thinking, sitting in that gown?” Her mother gestured angrily toward her ammas. “Idiots! All of you! Allowing her to crush silk like that.”
The ammas bobbed in staggered supplication, like flowers in a strong wind. “Your servant deserves death, Empress,” they recited in apology.
“I am unworthy of your forgiveness, Mother,” Min mumbled. She knew her lines, too.
The empress closed her eyes tightly as though the light were hurting them. A slight line materialized between her brows—the one mark of age upon her otherwise firm face.
“Min,” her mother said softly. “You are a woman now. Do you understand what that means?” Before Min could respond, she continued. “You must act in accordance with your duties, and recognize and perceive those duties as they arise, without needing to be told what is expected of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother,” Min said miserably. Stupid, she cursed herself. She’d gone and spoiled the empress’s mood. Tears burned her eyes. But truly, what had she done? It wasn’t her fault; she’d just wanted to sit.
It’s not fair, another voice hissed, and with it came a flare of anger so strong Min jerked with it.
“Stand over there,” her mother waved a hand at her, turning back to her mirror. “We can go to Kangmun Hall together once my hair is done.” She frowned as one of the ammas stabbed a braid in place with a silver and jade pin.
“No, not that one, Wei. Bring the mother-of-pearl lily. That one is from my girlhood and bears craftsmanship local to the Family Li region. The Hana retinue will recognize it, no doubt . . .”
Wei went to the dressing table, breezing past Min as though she did not even exist. The amma rooted around gingerly in the pin box. “Empress,” she said with some hesitation. “I do not see it here.”
“Then look harder,” her mother commanded, her voice taking on a sharp edge.
But again Wei came up empty-handed. “It is not here, my lady.” She turned to the other ammas. “Have any of you seen it today?”
The other women shook their heads and Wei returned to the box, digging through it with renewed concern.
Min looked down at her hands and realized with a jolt she was holding the exact pin Wei sought. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, as though her feet belonged to someone else, she drifted over to a richly upholstered chair in the corner. As the ammas gathered around the vanity in concern, Min bent slightly and stabbed the missing pin through the plush underbelly of the chair.
“Forget it for now. We are late,” her mother snapped finally. “Bring me the gold pin with the pink jade drops. But find the other later—it is my favorite.”
Min glanced about; no one was even looking her way. She felt the pressure in her chest ease.
Lu was late.
The ceremony was set to begin, and all the guests in place, but for the bride-to-be. Min cast about for her sister anxiously but still found her missing. Had something happened? It wasn’t like Lu to be late.
Min’s legs trembled with the strain of her blood cramps and high ceramic shoes. She hugged herself about the middle helplessly. She felt sore and emptied out. Surely by now she must be bleeding through her wrappings. She imagined a red stain spreading across the backside of her robes; at any moment someone would point it out in disgust and horror. She felt almost too feverish to care.
It was too hot to care. Even beneath the red silk canopy hanging over the dais, the midday light was punishingly strong.
Perhaps if I stand still enough, the sun won’t notice me, she thought. Her knees buckled in response, as though her own body were chiding her for her foolishness. Butterfly broke from the ranks of nunas stationed behind her and took Min by the elbow until she regained her balance.
“Will you be all right?” the nuna asked softly.
Min flicked a nervous glance toward her mother, but her mother was looking for Lu—still conspicuously absent. The empress’s normally full mouth set in an angry red line as she glared at the second, higher dais before them, as though trying to force Lu to appear, draped in modest black and gray betrothal silks, by sheer will alone.
Min had always thought the symbolism of the Betrothal Ceremony beautiful: the bride-to-be swathed in dull robes of gray and black, embodying the cold, unawakened state of unused tinder; the plain white dais upon which she was presented forth to her husband-to-be representing the transitional space she occupied, no longer belonging to the family she had left behind her, nor yet to the man come to claim her. The woman had to mount the dais alone and of her own accord—no family, friends, or servants could assist or even touch her. Once upon it, she belonged to the heavens alone.
And then—most beautiful of all, Min thought—came the moment when the groom-to-be mounted the dais with her. There, he would remove the betrothal robes to unveil the covenant gown beneath: deep, warm gold, like a new flame, to represent the heart that has begun to kindle. On the day of the wedding, she would come to him in the same gown, only now with a cape of brilliant scarlet—a fire stoked and burning and beautiful for him alone.
The line of servants behind them parted, interrupting Min’s thoughts. A eunuch bowed low beside her father. Min heard him murmur to the emperor, “The ammas checked her apartments. There is no sign of the Princess Lu or her nunas.”
“Tell them to look harder,” snapped the empress, shooting the hapless man a furious sidelong glare. Then, after a moment, “Check the abandoned shamaness temple.”
Min blinked in surprise at that—no one ever went into the old shamaness temple, except perhaps the odd page boy on a dare. But, she supposed, that would make it an excellent place to hide.
“We have people searching everywhere,” the attendant assured the empress.
Her mother huffed. “I swear to the heavens if the girl’s run off, I’ll flog her myself—”
“She won’t have run off,” her father interrupted, looking thoughtful. “What she could possibly be doing, though, I wonder.”
At that moment, a ripple went through the crowd, beginning in the far west corner of the courtyard. Min craned her neck to see the cause of the commotion, for once grateful of her high-bottomed shoes. A group of monks was emerging from the Hall of the Ancestors. Only the monks wore robes of gray and white, and these figures were dressed in the warm orange silks of nunas . . .
“The princess!” Snowdrop squealed from behind her. The little nuna had all but clambered onto Butterfly’s shoulders to afford herself a view.
Min looked to the front of the party and saw her sister, tall and magnificent in a new robe of scarlet silk. Not her betrothal robes.
“What does she think she is doing?” her empress-mother seethed between clenched teeth. “Daagmun, stop her. Stop this at once—Amma Ruxin . . . someone find Ruxin! Heavens above, what is she wearing?”
Min squinted toward where her sister was making her way—slowly, deliberately—toward the dais of betrothal. Her sister had many clothes of red silk, which favored her ink-black hair and copper-flecked eyes in addition to celebrating their Hu heritage, but Min had never seen her wearing these robes before. They were, she thought, rather ill-fitting—far too big, almost as though they had been cut for a full-grown man—and the silk ran thin and nearly threadbare at the elbows. Nevertheless, there was something familiar about them . . .
“The robes of Emperor Kangmun,” her father murmured softly. “She must have taken them from the Hall of the Ancestors.”
“Heavens have mercy,” Butterfly whispered behind her.
“You,” the empress hissed, pointing at a pair of her ammas. “Fetch the princess. Escort her back to her apartments and change her into the betrothal robes. Have the guards drag her if you must—”
Min didn’t dare laugh—not in a situation of this gravity, not with her mother in such a state—but she nearly did anyway. They should have known her sister would not take her fate lying down. “It’s too late,” she heard herself say.
“What?” Her mother whirled on her, but Min pointed to where her sister was mounting the white betrothal dais. Lu’s nunas knelt reverently against the stone floor of the Heart in two neat rows as the princess made her ascent.
Her fathered chuckled then, unexpectedly. “The little one is correct. Lu belongs to the heavens alone now. We must see what she does.”
Her sister raised an imperious hand and the chatter in the courtyard evaporated. The only remaining sound was the omnipresent crackle of the First Flame.
“Open the gates. Let me look upon my suitor.”
Princess Lu’s voice rang out loud and clear over the hushed crowd. The guards started at her order, then hesitated. They exchanged glances before turning helplessly toward the emperor.
Her mother started forward, but the emperor grabbed her wrist and she froze in place, staring in disbelief at where they touched. She recovered quickly, though. “Stop this foolishness at once!” she hissed, yanking her arm away. The cold-burning fury in her voice made Min flinch, as though it had been aimed at her.
But her father ignored his wife, looking instead toward the waiting guards. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. There was a breathless moment, and then the courtyard gates parted with the sonorous wail of iron.