Chapter 21: Choosing the Cloth

Storms might churn under the capital, but the surface never stopped singing.
The annual Chrysanthemum Banquet was near. Guangwen Hall's month-end review fell the same week, so this year the two events were merged.
Unlike before, the review would not be a school matter anymore—it would be a noble feast with every eye watching.
Early that morning Old Madam sent her girl Xi'er to the west wing: a dressmaker had come for banquet clothes. Fifth Girl should come choose.
Shen Miao agreed.
In past reviews she had worn whatever was handy. Tail-enders who dressed loud only invited laughter. With banquet and review combined, showing up in rags was no option either.
At the chrysanthemum feast ministers' wives came to shop for daughters-in-law. Any house with marriageable girls sent them painted and polished. Old Madam disliked the main line but cared for face—and Old Madam cared for gain. If Shen Miao could be traded for a useful match, she would sell the girl without blinking.
Bailu was pleased, walking her toward Rongjing Hall. "The banquet comes fast, miss. You always loved it—you'll have flowers to see."
She had loved it. Not for flowers.
At every such feast she drifted in soft isolation—Shen Yue and Shen Qing nudged that along, and her own dull temper and wrong clothes finished the job. She laughed behind her back and never heard.
She loved it for Fu Xiuyi.
A year ago he had been there. Mockery had ringed her again. The garden blazed red and gold; everyone crowded the brightest pots. She wandered to a corner and saw one white chrysanthemum.
White blooms meant funerals. People turned away. This one looked worse—petals beaten by rain or wind, one stalk alone, nobody looking.
She felt kinship. *Same as me—small, unseen.* While she stood there, a man in fine robes walked to the pot.
He lifted the branch and stroked the petals. Someone asked, "Ninth Brother, why stare at such a miserable flower?"
He smiled. "Pity it—fragile, with no one to lean on."
That one line—*fragile, with no one to lean on*—hooked her heart. When he turned, his face made the hook deeper.
Later the women told her: the ninth prince, Prince Ding, Fu Xiuyi.
Young love needs no reason. He had been talking about a flower; she heard her own life. *A man that gentle will cherish a wife the way he cherishes a lonely bloom.*
She had it wrong.
He cherished flowers, cherished the realm, cherished Lady Mei—never her. Everything she gave was "duty." The respectful days were him swallowing disgust to play husband.
He had not cherished the chrysanthemum either. A passing remark. She built a temple on it.
"Miss?" Bailu startled her at Rongjing's door. She followed Xi'er inside.
Shen Yuanbai was out. Old Madam wore long green-white brocade—past seventy, still dressed like a girl, face floating like a ghost's. She noticed nothing.
Shen Yue and Shen Qing stood by their mothers. Second branch had concubine daughters, but Ren Wanyun was too fierce to let them steal light at such feasts. Third branch had only Chen Ruoqiu and one maid—no extra children to speak of.
So only legitimate daughters held invitations.
Shen Miao bowed to Old Madam. Ren Wanyun smiled. "Little Five, come choose cloth. Mistress Li will measure us after."
Shen Qing chirped, "Second Sister and I already picked—we waited for you."
Xi'er had come late, yet the delay looked like Shen Miao's fault, the whole hall cooling its heels. She would not bite. She went to the cloth couch alone.
Mistress Li was a woman in her thirties; the Shen house bought yearly from her shop. She had trained under a palace needle mistress and cut well.
Five bolts lay out. Lotus-pink and smoke-pink sat aside—taken. Shen Yue and Shen Qing, obviously.
Last life's scene returned sharp. At the banquet Shen Qing in crabapple scatter-gauze—warm, bright, flower-pretty. Shen Yue in fierce pink with white pear blossom—soft and pure. Shen Miao in pale yellow with Old Madam's golden collar and heavy jewels—a joke that did not know it was a joke.
The yellow bolt had been pushed by aunt and cousins.
Shen Yue smiled. "Fifth Sister's skin is fair—pale yellow would suit. Lively, cute—perfect on you."
Shen Qing nodded fast. "Yes. Of what's left, yellow fits Fifth Sister best."
Chen Ruoqiu smiled and said nothing. Ren Wanyun's eyes flickered mockery.
Shen Miao could not dress herself.
Mother gone year after year—girls without mothers lost more than they knew. Everyone in this house had teeth; nobody taught her honestly. She had followed Yue and Qing; they spoke, she obeyed.
Pale yellow did flatter her skin—and made her look cheap and childish. Gold on gold turned her into a rich farmer's daughter.
Guyu and the others begged her to drop the junk. She clung to it and marched out to shame.
Ridiculous.