extremely
definite.
"I am too old and indolent to lecture you," he
said. "But you should remember that I have every right to do so, if I
wish. Considering the unusual circumstances of our marriage, I cannot be said
merely to be your husband. I am your mother and father as well—I have their
authority over you, and you have the same obligation to me as you would have
had to your parents in life.
"I will treat you as well as they themselves could
wish for. In return, you must honour me as you would honour your mother and
father. You are young, and I will forgive this mistake. I will say nothing of
the inconvenience and embarrassment you have occasioned me. If I had beaten you
and thrown you out on the street, or indeed if I had killed you, everyone would
have agreed that I was perfectly within my rights. But I am too old, and too
fond of my comfort, for this kind of violence. Out of consideration for my
feelings, Siew Tsin, you must be a good girl from now on. I cannot countenance
any more silliness."
To be fair to Junsheng, he never cast it up to her again. But
then again, there was nothing to cast up. Siew Tsin was a fast learner.
"Does elder sister know?" Siew Tsin said to the
housekeeper one evening when the terracotta bride had gone to bed. The
terracotta woman did not sleep, but Junsheng preferred her to keep up the
pretence of being like the rest of them.
Siew Tsin wondered what she did all night: whether she
turned herself off like a wireless, or whether she simply lay unmoving on the
bed, her black eyes fixed on the ceiling, until it was morning and she was
allowed to get up.
"Mistress Ling'en has not been told," said the
housekeeper.
"What will she think of it?" Siew Tsin said.
The housekeeper did not say, She will not be as angry as
she was when he married you. But there was no need to say it. Even Siew
Tsin knew that.
The problem was that Ling'en and Junsheng had once been in
love. This was a long time ago, when they were still alive. Junsheng had taken
concubines in life, of course, but they had not mattered. It was known that he
consulted his wife in everything—in the old days. It had gone sour long
before his second wife had arrived on the scene. Ling'en had been living on her
own for years when Junsheng married Siew Tsin.
This was unusual. It was hard enough to survive in hell
when you were a rich, powerful man with many faithful descendants and the hell
officials' favour. There were so many other dangers to contend
with—demons promoted from other courts, furiously upstanding and eager to
hurry on the cycle of rebirth. The eight thousand terracotta warriors who had
been buried with an emperor, now lost. Left masterless, the warriors roamed the
tenth court, looking for trouble. And worst of all, the dead. In hell, as in
every other world, man was man's greatest enemy.
"A woman needs protection," Fourth Great-Uncle
had said to Siew Tsin when he'd told her he was marrying her off.
Ling'en had not listened to tiresome old men like Siew
Tsin's great-uncle, or to her furious husband. Ling'en lived alone, in a very
nice house her favourite son had burnt for her, and so far none of the
disasters predicted for unprotected women in hell had befallen her.
Because she found Junsheng tedious and avoided visiting, it
took her a while to find out about his second wife. Siew Tsin had been married
for several months when Ling'en came to see her.
Siew Tsin remembered her first glimpse of Ling'en vividly.
A slender woman, shorter than Siew Tsin, graceful as a willow tree, and
youthful-looking despite the grey in her hair. She'd walked into the drawing
room where Junsheng and his new wife sat without waiting for the housekeeper to
announce her, as if it was still her own house.
Junsheng had said, "So, you finally condescend to
visit your husband."
This was when Siew Tsin found out that she was a second
wife. It was the start of an unhallowed tradition of her being the last to know
anything
definite.
"I am too old and indolent to lecture you," he
said. "But you should remember that I have every right to do so, if I
wish. Considering the unusual circumstances of our marriage, I cannot be said
merely to be your husband. I am your mother and father as well—I have their
authority over you, and you have the same obligation to me as you would have
had to your parents in life.
"I will treat you as well as they themselves could
wish for. In return, you must honour me as you would honour your mother and
father. You are young, and I will forgive this mistake. I will say nothing of
the inconvenience and embarrassment you have occasioned me. If I had beaten you
and thrown you out on the street, or indeed if I had killed you, everyone would
have agreed that I was perfectly within my rights. But I am too old, and too
fond of my comfort, for this kind of violence. Out of consideration for my
feelings, Siew Tsin, you must be a good girl from now on. I cannot countenance
any more silliness."
To be fair to Junsheng, he never cast it up to her again. But
then again, there was nothing to cast up. Siew Tsin was a fast learner.
"Does elder sister know?" Siew Tsin said to the
housekeeper one evening when the terracotta bride had gone to bed. The
terracotta woman did not sleep, but Junsheng preferred her to keep up the
pretence of being like the rest of them.
Siew Tsin wondered what she did all night: whether she
turned herself off like a wireless, or whether she simply lay unmoving on the
bed, her black eyes fixed on the ceiling, until it was morning and she was
allowed to get up.
"Mistress Ling'en has not been told," said the
housekeeper.
"What will she think of it?" Siew Tsin said.
The housekeeper did not say, She will not be as angry as
she was when he married you. But there was no need to say it. Even Siew
Tsin knew that.
The problem was that Ling'en and Junsheng had once been in
love. This was a long time ago, when they were still alive. Junsheng had taken
concubines in life, of course, but they had not mattered. It was known that he
consulted his wife in everything—in the old days. It had gone sour long
before his second wife had arrived on the scene. Ling'en had been living on her
own for years when Junsheng married Siew Tsin.
This was unusual. It was hard enough to survive in hell
when you were a rich, powerful man with many faithful descendants and the hell
officials' favour. There were so many other dangers to contend
with—demons promoted from other courts, furiously upstanding and eager to
hurry on the cycle of rebirth. The eight thousand terracotta warriors who had
been buried with an emperor, now lost. Left masterless, the warriors roamed the
tenth court, looking for trouble. And worst of all, the dead. In hell, as in
every other world, man was man's greatest enemy.
"A woman needs protection," Fourth Great-Uncle
had said to Siew Tsin when he'd told her he was marrying her off.
Ling'en had not listened to tiresome old men like Siew
Tsin's great-uncle, or to her furious husband. Ling'en lived alone, in a very
nice house her favourite son had burnt for her, and so far none of the
disasters predicted for unprotected women in hell had befallen her.
Because she found Junsheng tedious and avoided visiting, it
took her a while to find out about his second wife. Siew Tsin had been married
for several months when Ling'en came to see her.
Siew Tsin remembered her first glimpse of Ling'en vividly.
A slender woman, shorter than Siew Tsin, graceful as a willow tree, and
youthful-looking despite the grey in her hair. She'd walked into the drawing
room where Junsheng and his new wife sat without waiting for the housekeeper to
announce her, as if it was still her own house.
Junsheng had said, "So, you finally condescend to
visit your husband."
This was when Siew Tsin found out that she was a second
wife. It was the start of an unhallowed tradition of her being the last to know
anything
Similar Books
