As the slow heat-rising currents carried the ten thousand lanterns toward the outer edge of the Grand Cross-hall, the floating rafts passed within ten arm-lengths of the lowest tier of stone seats.
Along those tiers, hundreds of thousands of refugees leaned forward, their elbows resting upon their knees, watching the paper vessels glide past. Because the current moved at less than half a knot, the characters written in black ink and vermilion red stone were clearly readable in the golden glow of the wicks.
Every lantern was a voice speaking from the depths of the drowned world.
Liu Guofeng, third son of the cooper of Cangzhou. Fell from the city gate while securing the refugee chain.
Aunt Song, who gave her dried rice cake to the children on the roof of the water-mill.
The village of Willow Spring: forty-two families, eighty-nine souls, twenty-six water-buffalo. All drowned in the Second Month. Remember us.
On Tier Twelve of the western side, an old weaver named Mistress Han sat upon a straw mat, clutching the hand of her surviving daughter. Her eyes scanned the passing floats, reading the hurried calligraphy inscribed on the mulberry paper.
Suddenly, her breath hitched. Her hand tightened with astonishing strength around her daughter’s wrist.
