Silver Phoenix (5 page)

S I LV E R P H O E N I X

“I’m concerned about your family’s reputation, Master Wen.” Lady Wong’s pleasant tone did not match the men-ace 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 fi nal 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 fi nally 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.

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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.

She walked home that day in silence, trailing behind her parents, refusing to speak to them. The elaborate clothing made her feel foolish. She pulled the jade hairpin from her 8

S I LV E R P H O E N I X

hair and cast it aside on the deserted country road, just as her betrothed had cast her aside. But as she walked part of her thought—wasn’t this what she had wanted?

Five months had passed since the disastrous Wong betrothal.

It was the beginning of the third moon. The plum blossoms emerged early in the front courtyard, their delicate pink petals scented like rice tea. Ai Ling pressed her nose to the tiny buds. She loved the flowers for their scent as well as their herald of spring.

Her father had tried twice more to arrange a betrothal with prominent families, without success. She would either never marry or would be given to the butcher or cobbler, a family that didn’t have the pretenses of the scholarly class.

Shame and frustration welled within her. Her parents wanted the best for her, a good family to marry into and a comfortable life. Instead she’d been made to feel unworthy.

I’m not ready to marry anyway, she thought. But would she grow old as a spinster?

She heard their servant, Mei Zi, clanking away, preparing breakfast. Her mother was usually the first to rise, but she had not seen her in the main hall nor heard her voice in the kitchen. Perhaps she was resting.

She sensed someone and turned. Her father stood before her, dressed in royal blue robes. Ai Ling saw a hint of something she didn’t recognize in his dark eyes.

“What is it, Father?”

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“Ai Ling, there is something I must tell you.” He rubbed his face with one hand.

She didn’t like the tone of his voice. Even less so the look in his eyes. Was it worry? Resignation? She didn’t know, and it troubled her. Ai Ling usually knew her father’s moods like her own.

“I’m going on a short journey to the Palace,” he said. “It shouldn’t take more than two months.”

This was entirely unexpected. Her father had never traveled for longer than a few days—and never so far.

“Take me with you!” She realized it was impossible even as she said it. Her father may once have been a high official at the Emperor’s court, but she was no more than a country girl who could count on her fingertips the number of times she’d been outside their little town.

“You know your mother needs you here.” His smile was kind. “Keep her company. Don’t elope in my absence.”

She would have laughed any other time, the suggestion was so ridiculous. “But why do you need to go? Why for so long?”

“Difficult questions, daughter. I’ll tell you everything when I return.” Her father drew closer, retrieving something from the satin pouch tied to his gray sash.

“I have something for you. A small gift for my favorite daughter.” Ai Ling smiled for him. She was his only child.

He opened his palm, revealing a jade piece in the clearest green. The pendant nestled on a thin gold chain. “Father!

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S I LV E R P H O E N I X

It’s beautiful.” Her father had always been a man who gave gifts of books, paper, and calligraphy brushes.

“Let’s put it on.” He looped the delicate chain around her neck and closed the clasp. Ai Ling held the pendant in her hand.

“Spirit,” she murmured, recognizing the word carved into pristine green. The pendant was oval, shaped like a thumb-print, with the character carved on both sides in relief.

“It was given to me by a monk, years ago. Before I met your mother.” He took the jade piece between his fingers. “I helped him transcribe a book of religious text in exchange for board at his temple.”

He ran a fingertip over the raised character, his face pensive. “Before I left, he gave me this. He told me to give it to my daughter, if I should ever leave her side for long.” A small smile touched at the corners of his mouth. “But when I said I had no daughter, he merely waved me away.”

Ai Ling’s father let the pendant drop and patted her shoulder. “This monk was wise. He saw much.” Ai Ling met his gaze and realized the look she had not been able to identify earlier was sadness.

She blinked back the mist from her own eyes. “We’ll miss you so.” She threw her arms around his neck, and his body tensed for a moment. She had not embraced him like that since she was a little girl. He enveloped her with strong arms, but pulled away sooner than she was willing to let go.

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“We have had our difficulties over your betrothal,” her father said. Ai Ling looked down at her feet, not wanting these last moments to be about her failure as a daughter.

He lifted her chin with a gentle hand. “In truth, my heart was never in them either. They are fools not to see what a priceless gem I offer. People think I spoil you, dote on you. Perhaps I do. But I did not become one of the best-known scholars in court for my shortsightedness or poor judgment.”

He caressed her cheek for one brief moment. “You are special, Ai Ling. Beyond what you mean in my heart. Remember that.”

Her mother arrived late to breakfast, her black hair pulled back, impeccable as ever. But her eyes were red and swollen, even as she gave her daughter a reassuring smile.

Her father left that same morning.

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C H A P T E R TWO

Life slowed in Father’s absence. There were no more lessons, no more discussions of poetry, history, or philosophy. No patient teacher guided her hand, showing her the strength needed for the bamboo stroke or the delicate dance of orchid leaves on paper. Each day, Ai Ling practiced copy-ing her favorite passages from classical texts to improve her calligraphy. Often she sat in the front courtyard and found a muse—a peony in bloom, a bird pecking at seeds strewn before her—and painted, Father always in her thoughts.