The Girl King (The Girl King #1)(17)
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.