He Ying opened the cabinet door.
A sheer veil, thin as a cicada's wing, caught his gaze.
The gossamer, woven from ice silk, featured a few crookedly embroidered patterns in lake blue thread; not very beautiful, but clearly made with great care.
Despite the fact that her fingers were pricked to the point of bleeding, not a single stain marked the white fabric.
Without needing to guess, he knew that she must have been wiping the blood away as she worked, only resuming her slow, deliberate stitching once the bleeding ceased.
He Ying had a fair knowledge of Quanzhou customs and, understanding what Sang Yan was up to, the concern in his eyes softened into boundless tenderness.
Quanzhou was open in its social customs, allowing both betrothed and single men and women to go out on the night of Chinese Valentine's Day.
An unmarried woman, upon seeing a man she fancied, would present him with a veil she had embroidered herself as a token of affection.
