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His nails dug into his palm, a drop of blood falling upon a heron’s golden wing. “I thought if we survived Lady Hualing, we still had a chance to find our way back to each other. But I was mistaken, arrogant beyond belief in thinking your path led only to me.”

I started at his words. Was it possible . . . did he think I might have asked for him, as the reward for the talisman?

He continued, his voice laden with regret. “I wish you every happiness. Though he does not deserve you. Though I cannot help wishing things were different between us.”

“Thank you.” The words were awkward on my tongue. Chilled, despite the sun, I crossed my arms in front of me. “Do you still hate me for not telling you?”

“I could never hate you. And it was I who was stupid, refusing to let go when I had no right to hold on.” His throat worked as though he had more to say. “You leave tomorrow?” he finally asked.

I nodded.

“I’ll come with you.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, his tone reverting to the polite detachment which hurt more than I cared to admit. “For the same reason you came with me to the forest. You are entwined in my life, whether we are together or not. I’ll help you because I want to, not because I must. And there is no need for any accounting; what you owe to me, what I owe to you, such debts are meaningless between us.”

Long after he had left, I remained on the marble stool. A gust of wind swept the willow trees down, their branches rippling the lake. The leaves rustled as though whispering the secrets I had just spilled to the world. This had seemed an impossible dream, that I would reclaim my identity and liberate myself from the pretenses of the past. And now, I was one step closer to freeing my mother, to returning home. I had believed this opportunity would bring me unmitigated joy, yet I found it was laced with an incomprehensible bitterness.

29

Round, red lanterns fringed in yellow silk were strung above the stone-paved streets. Trees rustled, throwing their shadows over the pale building walls, the diamond latticework on the doors and windows worn to muted shades of red and green. Gray roof tiles blended into the darkness, a practical choice against the temperamental weather of the mortal world. This village might have appeared dreary in the night, but the luminous lanterns lent it an enchanted glow.

A hundred aromas wafted in the air of foods, perfumes, and mortals. People thronged the streets, most dressed in plain cotton robes, while the more prosperous few were attired in gleaming brocade or silk. Ornaments hung from their waists, some adorned with jade beads or discs of precious metal. Loud popping noises startled me, as bright sparks, shreds of red paper, and thick smoke burst into the air. Firecrackers. Was there a festival tonight? The faces of the villagers were alight with excitement, just as when I had watched them from afar in the moon.

Liwei and Wenzhi stopped outside a large building. A sturdy black plaque hung over its entrance with the characters painted in white:

西湖客栈

West Lake Inn

Gourd-shaped lanterns cascaded on each side of the red wooden doors. Its windows were flung open to the cool night air, music and laughter spilling onto the street. A lively establishment, though my head began to throb from the incessant noise.

We would spend the night here before journeying to the Changjiang, the river where the Long Dragon had been trapped under a mountain for centuries. When Wenzhi had proposed that we stop in this village, I readily agreed, eager for a glimpse of how the mortals lived. But for a slip of fate, I might have been one of them, too.

At the sight of us, the innkeeper shook his head to turn us away. Was the inn full? The town was certainly bustling. Wenzhi did not speak, merely placing a silver tael on the table. It worked as well as any enchantment, the innkeeper’s face lighting up as he tucked it into his sleeve. He said something in a low voice to Wenzhi, but it was drowned in the burst of laughter from a nearby customer.

A young girl, his daughter perhaps, showed us to a wooden table by the window. She left, only to return shortly, carrying a tray with plates of stir-fried wild mushrooms, braised pork ribs, a small fried fish, and a large bowl of steaming soup.

“What entertainment is there tonight?” Wenzhi asked the girl, nodding toward the raised platform in the middle of the room.

She bowed to him, a blush staining her cheeks. “A storyteller, Young Master. One of the best in this region.”

Young Master? I swallowed my laugh. Wenzhi must be twice her grandfather’s age, though his smooth skin and chiseled features gave no hint of it.

Midway through our meal, the storyteller arrived. A long, gray beard dusted his wrinkled face, his pouched eyes gleaming beneath thick brows. As he settled onto a bamboo chair, he laid his gnarled wooden staff on the floor. Accepting a coin from a customer, he cleared his throat before beginning his tale—of a noble king who had been betrayed by his favorite concubine, a spy planted by an enemy kingdom. When the ill-fated pair died at the tragic end, the rapt audience sighed and clapped, while a few dabbed their tears away with handkerchiefs and sleeves. I stifled a yawn, feeling little but revulsion at the concubine’s deceit, and impatience for the king’s foolishness.

With an amused smile, Wenzhi tossed a piece of silver to the storyteller who caught it with surprising deftness, slipping it into his pouch.

“Young Master, which tale do you wish to hear?” the storyteller asked him deferentially.

“The Four Dragons,” Wenzhi replied.

I sat up straighter, my ears pricking up.

“Ah! A classic. Young Master must be a scholar,” the storyteller flattered.

Several occupants of the teahouse groaned, likely hoping for more salacious tales of lustful kings and beautiful maidens. But when the storyteller raised his hand, they fell silent—the silver gleaming in his beard as brightly as that which now lay in his pouch.