When Shen Qinghe pushed open the kitchen door, Zhao Chengliang was lifting his foot.
Too late to pull back, the tip of his shoe nearly grazed her knee.
“What are you hiding in here for?”
The fire in his tone flared only a moment. Catching sight of someone in the yard glancing their way, he set his foot down at once and schooled his face into a look of concern.
“Qinghe, Mother said you were not feeling well. Today is our day. Do not be afraid. I am here.”
At twenty-five, Zhao Chengliang cut a fine figure.
His white shirt was stitched from fine cloth newly arrived at the supply and marketing cooperative. A fountain pen pinned his chest, his hair smoothed down with water and combed neatly to one side. He did not work the fields, so his skin was fairer than the village men’s, and he smiled with a gentle air. It was that face Shen Qinghe had fallen for. She had seen in it a future unlike the rough, loud-mouthed men of their fathers’ generation.
Later she learned some men never raise a hand to strike you.
They only lock the door then speak soft and sweet, persuading you not to struggle.
“I am not afraid,” Shen Qinghe said.
Zhao Chengliang seemed taken aback by how quickly she answered. He paused then reached for her hand. “That is good. The Cao family is making a fuss. Mother is dealing with them first. Put on your veil. We will go out the front door.”
“Why are the Caos here for Xing’er?”
“How should I know?”
“They say eight hundred yuan changed hands.”
“Village gossip. You believe that rubbish?”
“Then why did your mother try to send me out the back lane?”
Three questions, each shorter than the last.
Zhao Chengliang’s smile stayed in place but his eyes turned cold.
He hated most when people pressed too hard for plain answers. In their past life, whenever accounts did not balance, he would smile first and say it was unkind to count pennies between family. When smiles failed, he would scowl and call her greedy for money.
“Qinghe,” he lowered his voice, “this is your wedding day. Do not listen to outsiders sowing discord. Go back to your room. I will sort things out outside then explain everything properly.”
He reached for her again. Shen Qinghe stepped back.
A clamour broke out at the gate.
“Zhao family, stop hiding behind closed doors! You took the money yourselves! The betrothal papers bear your fingerprints!”
“The Caos are not shameless folk! We agreed Zhao Xing’er would marry today so why word has it you are shoving someone else in the sedan chair?”
Onlookers gathered fast. Half-grown boys perched on the wall. Ma Guifen’s voice rose shrill from the front yard, denying all knowledge of eight hundred yuan and insisting the Caos had only given two sacks of grain.
A vein throbbed at Zhao Chengliang’s temple.
“Go back inside,” he said, his smile gone. “Do not make this worse.”
“Chengliang,” Shen Qinghe met his gaze, “the sweet water has not been drunk yet.”
The words came out of nowhere but Zhao Chengliang flinched as if pricked, his eyes darting straight to the east room.
That one glance was all she needed.
“Mother says a bride must drink sweetened water for a happy life ahead,” Shen Qinghe walked slowly toward the room. “Bad luck to drink alone. You have some too.”
Zhao Chengliang stood rooted.
“I do not like sweet things.”
“We only marry once.”
“Look at the chaos out there. Can not you think of anything but water?”
“Precisely because it is chaotic we need good fortune.”
She pushed the door open.
On the table sat two enamel mugs, white with red blossoms, side by side. Her own was a little less than full. The one by the bed brimmed to the rim, brown sugar settled in a dark ring at the bottom. Ma Guifen had left in such a hurry she had not cleared them away.
Zhao Chengliang halted on the threshold.
Shen Qinghe stepped to the table, lifted the full mug and held it out.
“Drink.”
Zhao Chengliang stared at the tiny chip along the rim. His face shifted, almost imperceptibly.
Almost. Had she not known him forty years, she might have missed it.
“That is not yours,” he said.
“They are identical. How can you tell?”
“I…”
“Or is mine different in some way?”
Voices pressed in from the doorway, Aunt San of the Zhao clan and Aunt Sun, her late mother’s neighbour.
Spotting them, Zhao Chengliang softened his tone again.
“Qinghe, you are upset. I know this business with the Caos looks bad but Mother would not harm you, not even if she is foolish. The water has gone cold. Put it down.”
“It is not cold,” she held it closer. “Just right.”
He would not take it.
“Did not you say I have nothing to fear so long as you are here?” she said. “Then drink it for me.”
“Come on, Chengliang,” Aunt Sun chimed in. “It is only sugar water. The bride is asking you nicely.”
Aunt San joined in. “Will not make you rich, will not make you poor. Just drink up.”
Laughter rippled. The mood might have righted itself. But Zhao Chengliang’s face drained of colour.
Shen Qinghe’s hand never wavered.
She would not scream accusations from their past life, would not cry poison. They would lock her up as mad, snatch the mug away and the village would remember only a bride who wrecked her own wedding.
She would make Zhao Chengliang afraid, afraid enough to betray himself before witnesses.
“I will count to three,” she said.
“Shen Qinghe, do not be ridiculous.”
“One.”
“Give it to me!”
“Two.”
Zhao Chengliang lunged, not to take it but to strike.
The mug flew from her hand, striking the doorframe. Brown syrup splashed the wall. The mug clattered to the floor, rolling to rest at Aunt Sun’s feet.
Silence fell.
Chest heaving, Zhao Chengliang blurted out, “Mother, why did you put so much in!”
The words hung. He froze.
Aunt Sun looked from the mug to him. “Put what in so much?”
Zhao Chengliang’s lips moved. “Sugar,” he said. “I meant sugar.”
“Sugar?” Aunt Sun’s brow lifted. “That is what you are panicking over?”
Shen Qinghe paid him no mind. She knelt, drew out a glass jar hidden in her sleeve and scraped up the sweetened water soaking into the earth. She wrapped damp splinters of wood in oiled paper and held them out to Aunt Sun.
“Please keep these safe, Auntie.”
“And Aunt San, would you watch my mug too? Let no one touch either.”
Aunt San’s smile had vanished. She looked from Shen Qinghe to Zhao Chengliang then gathered the second mug to her chest. “I will watch it.”
Zhao Chengliang found his senses and moved forward. “Qinghe, let me explain.”
Shen Qinghe stood. She was half a head shorter and alone. Yet he stopped dead on the threshold, not daring another step.
“Explain,” she said. “At the commune. Before the officials and the doctor.”
A shout boomed from the front yard.
“Ma Guifen, hand over the girl or return every cent of that eight hundred!”
Then the crash of a table overturned.
Shen Qinghe’s gaze fell on the red veil laid across the bed. Peeking from its inner corner was a stitched black thread, her mother’s handiwork, another debt the Zhao family could never wash clean.