Chapter 1: The Fate Book at the Wedding Procession
The drumbeats and gongs rolled into the alley.
The sound cascaded from the east end, the crisp ping of bronze gongs mingling with the dull thunder of the big drums, so intense that even the stray cats crouched at the base of the walls leaped up and scurried away. The alley entrance was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, layers of bodies pressing in from all sides. Old Zhang, the *chuibi* vendor, stood at the very front of the crush, balancing her wicker basket on one hand and rising on her tiptoes. She didn't even notice two flat cakes rolling off the edge of the basket. Her neck stretched long, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far end of the alley, muturing under her breath, “They’re here, they’re here.”
“Shen Family produced a Zhuangyuan! Our alley produced a Zhuangyuan!”
“Which one is the scholar? Is it that Shen Nian'an who always reads outside the ancestral shrine?”
“Who else could it be? That poor couple of the Shen Family, they’ve finally seen the light!”
The crowd parted to form a path. A small sedan chair clad in blue brocade stopped in front of the Shen Family gate. The curtain was lifted, and a woman stepped out, wearing a deep red *beizi* jacket. A red gold and kingfisher feather hairpin trembled at her temple, and with every step, the pearls and jade on her person clinked and chimed.
Madam Liu had arrived.
Two maidservants trailed behind her, followed by the Shen Family’s second daughter, Shen Qinghui. Shen Qinghui was perhaps fourteen or fifteen, her makeup applied with meticulous care, her eyebrows arched high at the tails. Yet her eyes scanned the tattered wooden gate of the Shen Family house with undisguised disdain, the corner of her mouth twisted down, a sharp huff escaping her nose. Most of the paint on the doorframe had flaked away, exposing the gray, raw wood beneath, and it creaked in the slightest breeze.
The moment Madam Liu entered the compound, she began to weep, her voice loud and clear: “My child! Nian'an! You have brought great honor to the Shen Family!”
She opened her arms to embrace Shen Nian'an. He stepped aside half a pace, performed a respectful bow, waist bending and rising with deliberate, unhurried grace: “Thank you for your concern, Mother.”
Madam Liu’s hands stopped in mid-air, stiffening for a fraction of a second. Those delicate, well-manicured fingers curled slightly, then she plastered on a smile and reached for Concubine Su’s hand: “Sister, you’ve suffered enough raising Qinghe these past years. From now on, things will be better, and you’ll share in the good fortune.”
Concubine Su yanked her hand back, head bowed low, her voice barely a whisper: “I am not worthy of such kindness, Madam.”
“We are family, don’t stand on ceremony.” Madam Liu smiled, but her gaze swept over Concubine Su’s head, landing on Shen Qinghe, lingering for a brief moment.
That moment was short. But Shen Qinghe saw it.
It wasn’t the look one gives a legitimate daughter. It was the look one gives an obstacle.
***
Half an hour later, in the main hall.
A charcoal brazier burned inside, heat rising from the floor to melt the ice patterns on the window lattice, the water dripping down the glass. Madam Liu dismissed the servants, leaving only Shen Qinghe standing there. She slowly sipped her tea, the cup pausing at her lips before she finally spoke.
“Qinghe, on the day your brother’s street procession takes place, the wives of several prominent families in the capital will be coming to watch. The Zhou family, the Wang family, and even the household of Princess Yong'an's Mansion.”
Shen Qinghe lowered her eyes: “Yes.”
“Your mother was frail, and you,” Madam Liu set the tea cup down, the porcelain clinking against the saucer with a sharp, clear sound, “have been ill these past few days, haven’t you?”
“I’m not sick, mother.”
“If I say you’re sick, then you’re sick.” Madam Liu smiled, a warm expression that gathered the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, “On the day of the procession, you will stay in the rear courtyard. Do not come out. It’s better if no one sees you, so they don’t say the Shen Family lacks proper conduct.”
Shen Qinghe looked up: “Are you saying that the Zhuangyuan’s sister is not... proper?”
“Your brother is now a government official.” Madam Liu’s voice dropped, the embers in the brazier crackling loudly, “You are a concubine’s daughter. Do not bring attention to him. Also, I have something to discuss with you—Minister Wang’s second son. You are aware of this. His health is weak, and he is looking for a bride to break the illness. I think your calm nature makes you the most suitable match.”
Shen Qinghe said nothing.
Minister Wang’s second son. She had heard about him on her third day here, from the idle chatter of the kitchen maids—consumption. The imperial physicians said he wouldn’t survive until the spring. Marrying for a break-illness match wasn’t just a marriage; it was buying a medicinal ingredient.
“If you think it’s suitable, then it is suitable?” she asked softly.
“Naturally it is suitable. The Wang Family is offering a heavy betrothal gift. One thousand taels.” Madam Liu leaned forward, tapping her fingers lightly on the table twice, “Your mother’s medicine costs eighty taels a year. Think about it—how many years could a thousand taels cover for you two?”
“Long enough to last until I die,” Shen Qinghe said.
The smile faded from Madam Liu’s face: “Qinghe, I am doing this for your own good. Do not be so ungrateful.”
“I thank you for your kindness, mother.” Shen Qinghe knelt, her knees striking the brick floor with a dull thud. She bowed her head, and when she rose, her eyes were bright, “But matters of marriage are weighty. Father must make the decision, and we must consult the elder uncles in the clan. You alone likely cannot make that call.”
“Are you trying to use your father to pressure me?”
“I would never dare, mother.” She bowed slightly, “I am only thinking that my brother is the new Zhuangyuan. A Zhuangyuan’s illegitimate sister, presented to the world, is the face of the Shen Family. But marrying into the Wang Family as a break-illness bride—” she paused, “outsiders won’t say the Shen Family loves their concubine’s daughter. They’ll say the Shen Family is selling a concubine’s daughter for silver. Once word spreads, an impeachment memorial might be delivered to the throne. My brother’s reputation as an official has only just begun.”
The room fell silent. The flame in the brazier flickered, making a faint, crackling noise.
Madam Liu stared at her for a long time, then suddenly laughed: “What a sharp tongue. Who taught you that?”
“No one did.” Shen Qinghe said, “I’m afraid of dying, so I had to figure it out myself.”
***
The next day, more guests arrived at the Shen Family gate.
Minister Wang’s wife from the Ministry of Personnel came in person, accompanied by maids and servants. From the moment she entered the alley, she was quite the spectacle. Madam Liu rushed out to greet her, the muscles in her face straining as she forced a smile, her mouth stretched wide and eyes squinted into slits.
“Your Ladyship is a rare guest! Please come in, quickly!”
Minister Wang’s wife entered the main hall and got straight to the point: “Mrs. Shen, our lord has examined your third daughter. He says she is of decent appearance and proper character. Our second son’s marriage is settled on her. We will exchange the birth charts today.”
Madam Liu’s eye twitched. She glanced at Shen Qinghe standing in the corridor, a cold laugh forming in her mind—sick? How was she standing there? Well, fine. Better to settle it right now. See where she hides.
Just as she was about to open her mouth, the sound of footsteps came from the gate.
Shen Nian'an walked in. He wore a brand-new round-collared robe, still mud-spotted at the hem. Behind him were two men: a fellow examinee from the same grade and a clerk from the Ministry of Rites.
“Mother.” Shen Nian'an cupped his hands, his gaze pausing on the Minister Wang’s wife for a moment, “Who is this?”
“This is the Minister Wang’s wife,” Madam Liu rushed to explain, smiling, “She has come to discuss Qinghe’s marriage. A most joyous matter...”
“The Minister Wang’s household?” A flicker of appropriate surprise crossed Shen Nian’an’s face, “Which of the young masters is it?”
“My second son,” the Minister Wang’s wife nodded with dignified reserve.
“Is it the one who sat behind me during last year’s provincial exam, coughing blood until he was carried out?” Shen Nian’an’s tone was sincere, “I was right next to him, even helped him clean up his papers. I admire your filial piety, my lady. However—”
He turned to Madam Liu, his voice not loud, but audible to everyone in the room: “Mother, Father mentioned in his last letter that Qinghe’s marriage should be decided when I return to the capital. I am heading to the palace today to thank His Majesty for the honor. When the Emperor inquired about family matters, my answer was—All family affairs require proper protocol; I dare not make private decisions. If we exchange birth charts today, how shall I reply to the Emperor tomorrow?”
The Minister Wang’s wife’s face drained of color instantly.
For a break-illness marriage, the worst thing was ambiguity. If the Zhuangyuan’s words reached the throne, the Wang Family’s face would be lost throughout the capital.
She stood up, stammering awkwardly: “If it is so... I will think about it. Think about it.”
The group departed. Madam Liu stood frozen, her nails digging into her palms until two white marks appeared. She didn’t let go for a long time.
Shen Qinghe stood in the corridor, curtsying to Madam Liu, her voice low enough for only two people to hear:
“Madam, I think perhaps I’m not sick after all. On the day of the procession, I want to go watch my brother’s horse on the street.”
Madam Liu swept her sleeve and stormed into the inner chambers.
The door curtain crashed behind her.
***
That night, the third watch.
Shen Qinghe couldn’t sleep.
The applause and cheers from the day, and the sound of Madam Liu slamming the curtain, were still stuck in her ears. She gave up and got up, slipping on her robe and feeling her way into the outer room in the dark. The brick floor under her feet was hard and cold, the chill seeping straight through her soles into her bones.
On the table, the iron box was still open. The book lay where it had been, the small circles of tea stains dried and brittle at the edges; a touch of a fingernail and they crumbled into dust.
During the day, when her brother had been turning pages, she had caught a glimpse of three characters. Shen Qinghe. She hadn’t dared to ask then; her smile had stiffened just a fraction.
Now there was no one else in the room.
She brightened the oil lamp. The wick crackled, the flame leaping, making the shadows on the four walls dance chaotically. She flipped to the last page.
Three characters. The strokes were heavy, the ending of the last stroke trembling.
Shen Qinghe.
She stared at it for a long time, then reached for the water basin on the table, dipped her fingertip in, and wrote on the table surface. One “Shen,” one “Qing,” one “He.”
When she finished, her hand hung in the air.
The handwriting of those three characters—the hidden tip at the start of the first stroke, the slight slant of the horizontal lines, the pause and retreat at the end, even that tremble was identical.
It was her own handwriting.
Not the style taught by any scholar in this world. It was the signature she had practiced for twenty years in her previous life, signed on countless documents.
In this life, she had only been here for seventeen days. She had woken up in this body’s water the morning of her seventeenth day, when she didn’t even know the name of the body she was in.
But on this book, her handwriting was written.
Shen Qinghe slowly backed up until she reached the wall, her back pressing against the cold, earthen brick. The rough plaster scraped her neck.
The page was flipped by the night wind, *whip*, landing on a middle page. She leaned in, using the light from the lamp to read a very small annotation in the corner. The ink was older than the rest, as if it had been written long ago:
“The day she arrived is the same