Shen Qingci woke to pain.
No, she should have been dead.
The burning sensation of poisoned wine sliding down her throat still lingered in her esophagus. She remembered all too clearly the agony of her internal organs being consumed by fire. She had watched Pei Yuanjing, her lofty emperor of a husband, standing outside the hall, the yellow hem of his robe perfectly still, like a soulless statue.
He had said, “Give her poisoned wine. Leave her body intact.”
Leave her body intact. What a merciful favor.
Shen Qingci had thought she was bound to die, but now she was not only alive; the back of her head had also struck something hard.
“Ugh...” She groaned and opened her eyes.
Instead of the mottled beams of the Cold Palace, she saw a brand-new red silk canopy. It was bright red, embroidered with mandarin ducks playing in the water, the stitching so fine it could only be Suzhou embroidery.
Shen Qingci froze.
She stayed perfectly still as memories surged into her mind like floodwaters bursting through a dam.
Shen Qingci, the legitimate daughter of the Marquis of Yongchang, age sixteen. Today was her wedding day.
Her husband was Pei Yuanjing, heir to the Prince of Xin’s estate.
Pei Yuanjing.
That name again.
Shen Qingci closed her eyes and clenched the wedding quilt beneath her. It was scattered with red dates, peanuts, longans, and lotus seeds, digging painfully into her palm, but it also confirmed one thing:
She had been reborn.
Reborn eleven years earlier, on her wedding night with Pei Yuanjing.
“...”
