9. Seating Arrangements #2
The terrible thing is, no. No, I would not prefer she hadn’t. This is the world we live in. This is the wedding I’m having. Assassination response teams are just another detail to manage, like flowers and food and finding robes that accommodate hidden blade sheaths.
“Keep the teams,” I tell her. “But no preemptive action. Anyone who makes it through the ceremony without trying to kill me gets to leave alive.”
“That seems generous.”
“I’m in a generous mood.”
Mei nods. Makes a note. Vanishes without sound.
The door doesn’t even move.
Wei arrives next.
He’s carrying architectural drawings. This is also concerning.
“I’ve completed the tactical assessment of the ceremony space,” he announces, spreading diagrams across the chart, across Mei’s color-coded chaos, across Dumpling, who has migrated from the silk pile to the seating arrangements. “The eastern alcove is a vulnerability.”
“It’s decorative. It holds flowers.”
“It holds three armed guards. I’ve measured.”
I stare at him. “You’ve measured the flower alcove.”
“I’ve measured everything.” He says this like it’s obvious. Like measuring every decorative element for tactical viability is normal wedding preparation. “The alcove offers cover, sightlines to the altar, and sufficient space for rapid deployment. The flowers are a secondary concern.”
“Wei. It’s my wedding.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’ve measured everything.” He taps the diagrams. “The western gallery has similar potential, but worse angles. I recommend stationing two guards in formal dress, positioned as honored attendees. They’ll have clear lines to both the altar and the main entrance.”
“You want guards pretending to be wedding guests.”
“I want your wedding to be safe. The guests are incidental.”
There’s something almost touching about it. Wei’s loyalty expressed through tactical assessments and guard rotations and measuring flower alcoves. He can’t tell me he cares—he probably doesn’t know how—but he can make sure I survive the ceremony.
“Fine,” I tell him. “The alcove can have guards. But they’re wearing formal robes, and they’re not drawing weapons unless someone actually attacks.”
“That’s the plan.”
“And Wei?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For measuring everything.”
He nods. Stiff. Uncomfortable with gratitude. “I’ll finalize positions.”
He leaves through the door. Like a normal person. It’s almost disorienting after Mei.
Jing returns.
She’s carrying more scrolls. So many scrolls. A tower of scrolls, balanced precariously in her arms, threatening to topple with every step.
“I’ve researched imperial wedding precedents for the last three hundred years.
” She’s trembling slightly. Excited or terrified—hard to tell with Jing.
“There are nineteen documented seating disputes that resulted in formal complaints. Four that resulted in duels. One that sparked a minor succession crisis.”
“A succession crisis. From seating.”
“Emperor Huizong’s third wedding.” Jing sets the scrolls down with visible relief.
“The Duchess of the Southern Province was seated behind the Minister of Grain. She interpreted this as a slight to her family’s historical contributions to the founding of the dynasty, which led to her withdrawing support from the imperial treasury, which destabilized grain distribution for three provinces, which—”
“Jing.”
“—caused a famine that killed—”
“JING.”
She stops. Blinks. Looks at me with those earnest, overwhelmed eyes.
“Thank you,” I manage. “This is… thorough.”
She beams. Actually beams, like I’ve given her a gift instead of just acknowledged her mountain of research.
“I can cross-reference any specific placements against historical precedent,” she offers. “If you want to avoid repeating documented mistakes.”
“I absolutely want to avoid repeating documented mistakes.”
“I’ll prepare an analysis.” She gathers an armful of scrolls. “The succession crisis had warning signs. I’ll flag any similar patterns in your current arrangements.”
She leaves. The remaining scrolls tower on the edge of the table, threatening to collapse onto the seating chart, onto Mei’s color-coded assassination prevention, onto Dumpling, who has claimed the Xiang delegation section as his personal territory.
I look at the cat. The cat looks at me.
“You know what?” I tell him. “You’re actually not wrong about that placement.”
Dumpling purrs.
“Mei,” I call, loud enough to carry through walls. “Add ‘cat on Xiang section’ to your threat response options.”
From somewhere outside the room, I hear the scratch of a brush on paper.
She’s making a note. About the cat. As a security measure.
This is my life now.
They’re gone. All of them. Just me and Ren and the chaos they’ve left behind.
Dumpling remains on the Xiang delegation section. Tianlong has claimed the high shelf, watching the cat with ancient, grudging respect. Ren and I stand on opposite sides of the seating chart which is buried under tactical assessments and historical analyses and color-coded threat matrices.
“We should—” I reach for the papers.
“Leave it.” Ren catches my wrist. Gentle. Warm. His thumb brushes across my pulse point once, and I forget what I was reaching for.
“There’s still—”
“Leave it.” He doesn’t let go. “The ceremonies. We haven’t discussed those.”
Right. The ceremonies. The rituals that make a marriage official. The hours of chanting and offerings and formal declarations.
“Three hours of ancestor invocation,” I say, pulling my hand back. Not far. Just far enough to think. “That’s traditional.”
“It is.”
“So is beheading. We’re not doing that either.”
His mouth twitches. “I wasn’t planning to behead anyone at our wedding.”
“See? We’re already cutting traditions. Why stop there?”
“The ancestor invocation—”
“I have eight hundred years of ancestors, Ren. If we invited all of them, we’d be chanting until the next dynasty.
Most of them probably don’t even remember I exist. The ones who do remember are likely disappointed.
” I cross my arms. “No ancestor chanting. No three-hour rituals. No endless offerings to people who can’t appreciate them. ”
He’s quiet. Watching me with that particular expression I’ve learned to read—the one that means he’s choosing his words carefully, which means the words matter.
“The binding cord,” he says.
“What about it?”
“One ceremony. Not three hours. Just the cord.” He pauses. “My mother told me it was her favorite moment. The moment she knew my father meant it. His hands shook so badly he fumbled the knot three times.”
Something catches in my chest. I ignore it.
“The binding cord takes ten minutes.”
“Less, if you’re efficient.”
“I’m always efficient.”
“Then it won’t waste your time.” His voice has gone quiet. The quiet that’s dangerous, from him. The quiet that means he’s being honest. “I’m not asking for three hours. I’m asking for ten minutes. For something that meant something to them.”