Made a Countess

Su Jin checked in at the estate by Lake Como.

Rain fell outside the window. As it struck the lake, no ripples could be seen, only the water changing from deep green to gray-green, then from gray-green to silver-gray, like a piece of silk folded over and over.

She sat in the deep green velvet armchair in the study. Grandpa sat opposite her, a well-worn book of Italian poetry resting unread on his knees as he looked at her.

Little Golden Egg squeezed out of the screen and hovered between her and Grandpa, its wings folded and still. Its golden glow shone through the rainy mist like a lamp that would never go out.

Grandpa couldn't see it, but he narrowed his eyes and said, "The light is lovely today."

Su Jin offered no explanation.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Ding. Congratulations to the host on completing the two hundred and thirty-fifth daily check-in.

Today's check-in reward: a fifteenth-century estate in southern Tuscany, covering 1,200 hectares, including olive groves, vineyards, truffle woods, one Renaissance main house, two stone towers, and one private chapel.

The estate comes with the title of countess, formally conferred by the Presidency of the Republic of Italy. The host has become a member of the Italian nobility. The certificate of investiture has been delivered to the family office in Lausanne, and the title is hereditary.

Su Jin looked at the line of text, then turned her phone over and laid it facedown on her knees.

Grandpa asked what was wrong. She said it was nothing; she had signed a document.

Grandpa asked no further questions. He opened the book of poetry on his knees and read a line in Italian, pronouncing the words slowly, like someone chewing a very hard sweet. "La vita è un sogno, e i sogni, sogni sono."

He translated it for her: "Life is a dream, and dreams are only dreams."

Su Jin closed her eyes and asked, "What happens when you wake up from the dream?"

Grandpa said, "Once you wake up, it isn't a dream anymore."

Su Jin said nothing. The rain outside grew heavier, and mist rose over the lake. The mist was white, the lake gray, and the mountains black. The three layers of color lay one over another, like a watercolor washed so many times that its colors had nearly vanished, leaving only a faint trace.

The investiture ceremony was held in an ancient palace near Spain Square in Rome. It was private, attended only by family and a few old family friends.

It was afternoon when Su Jin arrived in Rome. The sky had cleared, and sunlight gilded the dome of St. Peter's Basilica, the gold as thin as a sheet of foil that might blow away in the wind. She changed into her ceremonial dress.

It was a long black velvet gown, not the sharp black of Saint Laurent, but the subdued black of Valentino, so dark it was almost stifling. When light fell on it, it reflected nothing, only absorbed it, like a deep well whose surface never rippled.

The neckline was square and wide, revealing her collarbones and a small patch of skin at her shoulders. A ring of exceedingly fine lace edged the neckline, black upon black and invisible until the light struck it at a certain angle, when its pattern emerged like an undercurrent beneath the water.

The sleeves were puffed, but not extravagantly, only a little from shoulder to elbow, like black flowers that had not yet fully opened.

The skirt was long and trailed along the floor. Tiny silver stars were embroidered around its hem, almost invisible unless one looked closely. But when she walked, the stars twinkled, like a handful of diamond dust scattered into the night, never to go dark.

Her jewelry was Bulgari, a complete set of emeralds.

The necklace was from the Serpenti collection, a coiling snake of platinum and diamonds. Its eyes were two Colombian emeralds of exceptional clarity, so green they were almost black, like two wells that would never run dry, never freeze, never ice over.

The snake's body rested against her collarbones, its tail hanging over her breastbone, cool against her skin. It was like a real snake lying there asleep, breathing so softly, yet with a heartbeat she could feel.

The earrings matched, coiling snakes with emeralds set in their heads and tails dangling below her earlobes. When she turned her head, they swayed gently, like two tiny living snakes whispering by her ears, snakes that would never bite.

The ring was a Colombian emerald, cut smooth without facets or corners, all curves. At its deepest, the green was black, and at its deepest, the black held a shaft of light, like magma shining through a crack deep underground.

She wore the ring on her right ring finger, beside the plain silver band. The green of the emerald met the white of the silver like the first snow in a forest falling on grass that had not yet withered.

Her hair was swept into a high bun and secured with a black tortoiseshell hair comb. A row of tiny emeralds was set into the comb, part of the same set as her ring, so green they were dark, so dark they shone.

She wore no makeup, but against the black velvet and emeralds, her face was as white as a freshly fired piece of porcelain that had not yet been glazed.

She wore nothing on her lips. They were their natural rose color, like a flower blooming amid the black of her neckline, a flower that bloomed at night, never wilted, and needed no sunlight.

Her eyes were amber, with an exceedingly fine ring of gold around each pupil. Against the emeralds, the gold rings shone brighter, like two pieces of agate cut open, still flowing.

The investiture ceremony was brief.

A middle-aged man in a gray tailcoat stood in the center of the hall, holding a parchment scroll and reading a long string of titles in Italian.

Su Jin didn't understand all of it, but she heard the words "Su Jin," and she heard "Contessa"-countess.

She bowed her head slightly, and the man handed her the scroll.

She took it. The paper was thick and warm, as though it had been held against someone's body for a long time.

She turned around. Su Heng stood in the front row, while Grandpa sat in his wheelchair, the dark blue blanket embroidered with an eagle and mountains covering his knees.

He didn't applaud. He only looked at her, and the corners of his mouth curved. The movement was slight and brief, but he had smiled.

Su Heng applauded. The clapping wasn't loud, but it rang out especially clear in the empty hall.

Su Jin walked down the steps and over to Grandpa.

Grandpa held out his hand, and she took it.

His hand was still cold, still trembling, but his grip was firm.

He said, "You're a countess now."

"I am," Su Jin said.

He said, "Your mother would be very happy if she knew."

"She must know," Su Jin said.

Grandpa looked at her, a light in his eyes. It wasn't the glimmer of tears, but the light in the eyes of someone who had waited a long time and finally seen something come to pass.

He released her hand and pulled the blanket up over his knees.

He said, "There's a banquet tonight. Go. You don't need to stay with me."

The dinner banquet was held in a palace in central Rome. It wasn't a museum, but a private residence, lent for the occasion by an ancient family.

The palace's outer walls were built of gray-white stone, pitted by centuries of rain and sunlight, but still solid underneath, like a person's face, old and wrinkled, yet with eyes that still shone.

The main doors were thick oak, their brass knockers polished bright by countless hands, bright enough to reflect a person's fingers.

When Su Jin stepped out of the car, more than a dozen cars were already parked at the entrance. Every one was black, and on every hood stood a little figure that couldn't fly, or a fine horse that couldn't run, or a bull that couldn't bellow.

She wore a long Armani Privé gown of deep blue silk satin, the blue of the night sky. It wasn't a bright blue, but the blue of that last moment when twilight was almost, but not quite, gone, when the boundary between sky and earth could no longer be made out and only blue remained.

The silk satin was thick and fell in heavy folds. It reflected no light, only absorbed it, like a layer of night made solid against her body, unable to flow.

The high collar stood against her jaw, its edge inlaid with a line of exceedingly fine silver thread. The thread flashed in the light like a bolt of lightning, shrunk to a tiny size and never to vanish.

Her back was bare, the opening reaching from her shoulder blades to her waist. In the light, the groove of her spine formed a fine, deep shadow, like a river carved into white marble that would never run dry.

The skirt was fishtail-shaped, narrowing from the knees to an exceedingly slender curve at her ankles, like a fish's tail. With every step, its hem traced an arc across the floor, like someone walking through snow and leaving not footprints, but traces behind.

On her feet were deep blue satin Manolo Blahnik heels, a row of tiny diamonds running over each shoe from toe to heel, like a river shrunk to a tiny size and glowing with light.

Her hair was still in the same high bun, but she had changed the hairpin. It was platinum, with an emerald set in its head, cut from the same rough stone as the one in her ring, so green it was dark, so dark it shone.

Bulgari emerald earrings hung from her earlobes, teardrop-shaped and so large and heavy that she could feel them pulling downward. But they didn't hurt; it was like someone gently tugging at her ears to whisper something to her.

Around her neck was the Serpenti necklace, its body resting against her collarbones, its tail hanging over her breastbone. Its emerald eyes flashed in the light, like a well into which someone had tossed a stone, the ripples spreading and closing again.

She walked up the steps.

The steps were stone, worn down by centuries of footsteps, low in the middle and high on either side, like a shallow riverbed carved by countless feet.

She walked slowly, not deliberately, but because the skirt was too narrow for her to take long strides, and because she was in no hurry.

She reached the entrance, and the doorman pushed the door open for her.

The door opened, and light poured out, not a dazzling light, but a warm yellow glow like candlelight. Within it were sounds: laughter, glasses clinking together, high heels striking the marble floor, and silk brushing against silk.

She walked inside. The hall was so vast that her footsteps bounced back from the walls, like someone walking through an empty valley, every step echoing.

A mural covered the domed ceiling of the hall, depicting the gods drinking on Mount Olympus, their spilled wine forming the Milky Way.

The mural's border was gold, blackened by centuries of candle smoke, as black as a narrow river that would never run dry.

Several enormous oil paintings hung around the hall, depicting the family's ancestors: men in armor, women in silk, and children holding little dogs with their tongues out.

They watched her from their frames, their eyes following her as she passed.

She walked past a portrait of a woman in a long white dress, standing beside a lake with a fan in her hand. The fan concealed half her face, leaving only her eyes visible. They were amber, exactly the same shade as Su Jin's.

Su Jin paused in front of the portrait and looked at the person in it, while the person in the painting looked back at her.

After watching for a while, she continued on.

There weren't many guests at the banquet, perhaps fifty or sixty, scattered throughout the hall.

The men all wore black suits or tailcoats, and the women all wore long gowns, red, blue, green, and purple, like flowers picked from a garden and placed in vases, never to wilt.

When Su Jin walked in, everyone fell silent at once.

It was the silence of people struck by her beauty. It lasted about two seconds, then the voices returned, though softer than before, like a pot of boiling water after a ladle of cold water had been poured in: calm on the surface, still churning underneath.

Su Jin didn't look at them. She crossed the hall to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside lay a garden with no lights, only moonlight, which cast the shadows of cypresses across the lawn in long lines, like still sketches drawn by a finger on black velvet.

She stood by the window with no wineglass, no handbag, and no phone.

She simply stood there, feet together, back straight, hands at her sides.

In the moonlight, her face was white, as white as a freshly fired piece of porcelain that had not yet been glazed.

She wasn't smiling. There was the faintest curve to her lips, not a smile, but something quieter than a smile.

It was the expression one wore when standing somewhere high and gazing into the distance.

A man walked over. He was in his fifties, with graying hair, dressed in a black tailcoat, his bow tie immaculate.

He stood beside her, also looking out at the garden.

"You're Su Jin."

It wasn't a question, but a statement.

Somewhat puzzled, Su Jin said, "And you are?"

"I'm the owner of this house. You look beautiful tonight."

Su Jin smiled slightly and said, "Thank you."

He looked at her for a long time, then held out his hand.

Su Jin took it. His hand was warm, with thin calluses on the palm from holding a riding crop.

He said, "Welcome."

Then he released her hand, turned, and walked away.

Su Jin stood by the window and continued looking at the garden.

The cypresses in the garden stood motionless in the moonlight, like silent sentries who had stood there for a long time, waiting for someone to come.

She watched for a while, then turned and walked back into the hall.

The crowd parted of its own accord. As she approached, people instinctively stepped back.

She walked past the red, blue, green, and purple flowers, past the black tailcoats and white bow ties, past the amber, light brown, dark brown, and black eyes.

She didn't look at them. She looked straight ahead.

At the far end of the hall was a door. She turned and walked out through it.

The lights in the corridor came on one by one, from near to far, like someone laying a river of light before her.

She walked through the river of light at an unhurried pace, like someone who knew the way.