The wedding candle was burning brightly, and with a crackling sound, the candle's tears rolled down and condensed into a puddle of scarlet wax.
Shen Qingci was sitting on the edge of the bed covered with a bright red brocade quilt. The heavy hijab on his head was made of fine Su embroidery, embroidered with lotuses and mandarin ducks playing in the water, but it was too wide to fit - this was the size of his sister-in-law Shen Qingwan.
In the narrow field of vision under the hijab, there was only her own hands folded on her knees, her fingers turning white from clenching hard.
She didn't cry.
What I can hear are the whispers deliberately lowered on the porch outside the house, like gnats in early autumn, buzzing and disturbing, but the words are clear: "... I am so happy... A concubine... I don't know if I can survive the night..." "Shh! Keep it down, it's bad luck..."
