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“We’re Celestials, but my parents don’t serve at court. My father claims it’s too dangerous. Fractious, with everyone scrambling for favor. He prefers a quiet existence.” She wrinkled her nose, adding, “Although with six children, our home is anything but peaceful.”

“Six!” I gasped.

“It’s not as horrible or wonderful as you might think. When we get along, my brothers and sisters are the best friends in the world. But when we fight . . .” she shuddered, her features twisting into an expression of horror.

“Perhaps your father should have escaped to the Celestial Court after all,” I told her.

A wide smile stretched across her face. “My mother wouldn’t let him.”

For the rest of the afternoon, we practiced together. The youngest of her sizable family, Shuxiao had been surrounded by companions since birth. She possessed a vitality about her, an ease of manner which drew others close. Many soldiers called out or waved to her as they passed by. Some included me in their greeting, believing Shuxiao and I were friends.

And indeed, after today, we were.

By the end of the day, my fingers were blistered. My arms ached and my back hurt. I had not touched a sword or uttered a whisper of magic. Nevertheless, as we left the field, I could not wait to come back.

In Liwei’s room, I set out the books for our lessons tomorrow. When he returned from his bath, he wore just a short white robe draped over loose-fitting black pants. His long hair, still damp, hung down his back. I expected to be dismissed, but he sat down at the table and looked at me expectantly.

“Which song will you play?”

His earlier request had flown out of my mind. I was tired, my sore limbs longing for bed—but I sat beside him and took out my flute. A lilting melody rippled through the air, of spring awakening, the rivers thawing and flowing with life once more.

When I finished, I laid the flute down.

“It’s amazing how this small instrument can bring forth such music.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “This song is happier than the one you played before. Does it reflect your mood?”

“Yes. This has been one of the best days of my life, and I have you to thank for it.” My words were plain, but heartfelt. I missed my home, my mother, and Ping’er still—yet I no longer felt I was drifting alone and untethered in this world.

Liwei cleared his throat, the tips of his ears reddening. Rising to his feet, he strode to his desk. A scroll painting of a girl hung on the wall beside it. Dark eyes gleamed from the perfect oval of her face. She sat beneath clusters of blooming wisteria, holding a bamboo embroidery frame.

“Who is she?” I asked.

He stared at it in silence for a moment. “She used to live in the courtyard near mine. When I was a child, I visited her often. She was patient, even when I tangled the threads which she wove into her embroideries.”

I imagined a young Liwei, brimming with mischief. “You said ‘used to.’ Where is she now?”

A shadow fell over his face. “One day, I came to her courtyard and found it deserted. The attendants told me she had moved away. No one would say where she had gone.”

I wished I could ease his sadness. He sat down at his desk where a tray of drawing materials was laid out: a few sheets of crisp paper, a large purple jade inkstone, and a sandalwood stand from which brushes of bamboo and lacquered wood hung. I watched curiously as he selected a brush, dipped it into the glossy ink and drew on the paper with deft strokes. After a few minutes, he offered it to me.

“It’s for you,” he said, when I made no move to take it.

I stared at the paper. My face looked back at me, a remarkable likeness, gazing into the distance as my fingers rested on the flute. My hands trembled as I took the picture from him.

“You draw very well,” I said softly. “Though you don’t need to do this every time I play for you. It may not be a duty, but neither is it an exchange.”

“How else might I compensate for my shortcomings?” he asked with a straight face. “After all, I have so many.”

I laughed, recalling our earlier conversation. “Just this one, then.”

He smiled. “Good night, Xingyin.”

I rose to my feet and bade him good night. As I shut the doors behind me, I found Liwei still bent over his desk, his brush in his hand. My heart filled with an inexplicable warmth as I turned away to stare into the sky above.

In the clear and cloudless night, the moon was dazzling, its light unhindered. As I walked to my room across the courtyard, its radiance lit my way, brighter than a string of lanterns.

7

I slipped into my new life, the days morphing into weeks. Each morning, we had our lessons in the Chamber of Reflection, while in the afternoons we trained with the Celestial Army. My mind was opened to new worlds and knowledge, but it was the training on the field which stirred me most. I learned to wield a sword proficiently—to slash and thrust, block and parry—although my abilities still trailed behind Liwei’s. Eager to catch up, I studied the fighting techniques late into the night, repeating the moves in the quiet of my room until they came as easily to me as grasping my chopsticks or forming a note on my flute.