The silk is heavy, cold, and smells faintly of the elderberry perfume Meixiang always wore. Lian stands motionless while her father, Wen Guozhi, pins the lace veil to her hair with hands that tremble from debt rather than devotion. He does not look at her eyes; he looks at the way the fabric hides the mole at her jaw. Under her feet, a single silver cufflink glints on the hardwood, dropped in the chaos of her sister’s flight.
Guozhi shoves a crumpled piece of vellum into Lian's gloved palm. I won't be the sacrifice, the note reads in Meixiang’s looping, effortless script. Let the shadow have the light. Lian’s throat goes dry as the ink smears under her thumb. She is the shadow, the back-office bookkeeper suddenly thrust into a dynasty's spotlight. The Wen shipping house is a ghost, and she is the offering meant to appease the Cheng creditors.
Her father’s grip on her shoulder is iron as he marches her toward the sound of the pipe organ. He leans in, his breath smelling of stale tea and desperation, whispering that the Chengs will not break a blood-sealed alliance over a signature. Lian steps onto the marble, her heart hammering against the rigid corset of a dress made for a woman who isn't there.
The heavy double doors of the chapel begin to groan open, revealing only a silhouette.
