Here's the next chapter, hope you like it!

The morning sun seeped through the windows of a bedroom chamber. It was a beautiful bedroom—with a large four-poster bed, covered with a delicate mosquito net. There was a dressing table by the bed with a round mirror framed in gold positioned on it and at the side lay a bigger table with two low stools. On the wall hung a large tapestry—picturing a young lady, dressed in a long green robe—sitting among the willows inside a garden. The trees outside cast friendly shadows around the room—dancing on the brilliant red wallpaper and reflecting off the mirror and onto the golden jewellery laid out neatly on the table.

On the floor was a young girl—not yet sixteen years old—with shiny soot-black hair, which hung over her shoulders, and the prettiest black eyes framed with long, dark lashes. She was dressed in rags—patched with delicate and neat little stiches. She was kneeling on the floor with a rag in her hand and a basin of soapy water at her side—she was extremely busy that day.

At that moment, the sound of trumpets and thudding of horses' hooves came from the courtyard outside. However, the girl did not get up—she kept on with her scrubbing, for she had a lot to do. A messenger's booming voice sounded from outside—the prince's messenger.

"His royal majesty, Prince Wang, has specially invited every noble lady in his father's kingdom to attend his royal feast on the Friday two weeks from today," he announced, "At the conclusion of the feast, his majesty will choose one lady to be his bride."

At this, the girl rose and went to the window—in the courtyard was the royal messenger mounted on his horse. He was dressed in elegant clothing with a scroll in his hand. He carefully slid the scroll back into its pouch, which hung at his side and rode off. The girl quietly slid out door of the chamber and in direction of the family cemetery—she had to tell her mother of the news.

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Yen's mother's grave lay in the far corner of the cemetery, under the canopy of a brilliant cherry blossom tree—its petals making a pink carpet over the grass. Beside it lay her father's grave—he had died soon after her mother's death due to liver failure. She gently plucked a strand of blossoms from the tree and placed it on her mother's grave—in front of the small grey headstone—

Here rests Hu Lei 1614-1638

Third wife of Wu

She hated those words engraved on the slab of hard grey concrete, whoever had written it obviously did not care that her mother was dead.

Yen knelt down on her mother's grave—she would often come here—mostly to talk to her mother or sometimes just to think. Here, she had had pleasant memories, telling her mother things—just anything that came to mind. Here, she had wept out her many worries—confided to her mother of her innermost secrets. Here her body had sat while her spirit roamed the faraway land of dreams.

Yen could not remember her parents—she had been left in the care of her father's first wife, who she was obliged to address as Niang, meaning Mother. ButNiangwas nothing like a mother to her—she ruled her like a slave, ever since she could remember—making her work day and night for long hours. She would often wonder what she had done to deserve such a horrible life—she hated it—once she even cursed whatever mighty power that had allowed these things to happen to her—but she regretted that and had prayed for forgiveness the next day.

One of her only enjoyments was embroidery. Yen loved to transport those beautiful images, which painted themselves in her mind, onto cloth. While she sewed, she could forget about her horrible life—just for a moment—and be lost in another world. However, she dreaded that feeling she would always get after she would laid down her sewing, when everything would rush back to her—when she remembered that never-ending list of chores still undone.

Yen would often try to picture what her mother had looked like. "She was very pretty—just like you" Ping had told her. She wished she had a picture of her mother—just one picture—all she had left was a gold chain, which hung around her neck—always.

Ping had told her many other things, while she helped her in the kitchen. She told her about how her mother was also talented at embroidery, how much her mother had loved her—even how her mother had died. She felt sick every time thought about this. She never put any flowers on her father's grave—only her mother's.

Her only friends were the servants, who lived and worked alongside her; and the friendly swallows that dwelled in the cherry blossom trees every summer. She would often climb up onto the sturdy boughs and they would perch themselves on her shoulder. She could hear them now—she could hear the sound of their sweet song drifting in the morning air. She closed her eyes for a moment and listened—how wonderful the world was just then!

After a few moments, she returned from her reverie. "The prince is hosting a royal feast, Mother…" she began.

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