Shen Weishuang woke up due to the bitter taste.
It wasn't a dream, it was the real, bitter smell of rust mixed with grass ash in her throat. As soon as the medicinal soup was poured into her mouth, she instinctively tightened her jaw, but Aunt Zhao's hand as skinny as an eagle's talons pinched her chin tightly, and her thumb pressed hard into her cheek flesh, forcefully opening her teeth.
The warm brown concoction slid down the base of her tongue, bringing with it the unique numbing sensation of nightshade root, draining away the strength from her limbs inch by inch.
She was slumped on the carved red sandalwood couch, like a piece of soft bamboo that had been cramped. Only her eyes were still shockingly bright, reflecting the dazzling red outside the window.
The drums are coming.
Boom--boom--boom--
Heavy, blunt, and sickeningly festive.
The sound passed through three layers of curtains, two whitewashed walls, and a red lacquered door, but still hit her eardrums one after another, making her temples throb.
She turned her head and moved her gaze with difficulty to the rhombus window covered with plain white Korean paper - a thin slit in the window paper was opened by the wind, and she could just glimpse the scene in the courtyard: on the two-foot-high red lacquer door lintel, scarlet satin was tied into a huge wedding knot, which was blown by the early wind;
And her wedding dress was folded on the red sandalwood table in the east.
