The world seemed to narrow to the small, cold box in Yingluo's hands. The perfect, white chrysanthemum rested on its bed of black silk like a single, bleached bone. It was a flower of mourning, of grief offered at a grave. And it had been delivered to her, a living woman, as a promise.
A chill, far deeper than the night air, seeped into her bones. It was the phantom chill of the poison that had once stopped her heart, the cold of the stone floor in the pavilion where she had died. For a terrifying moment, the scent of the chrysanthemum mingled with the memory of bitter almonds, and her vision swam. She saw not the tranquil courtyard of the Crown Prince's manor, but the triumphant, sneering face of Wei Ruyan, the cold indifference of Li Jian.
You should have stayed dead.
