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I tried again, desperate to leave. “Your Celestial Majesty. Let me find my mother to explain. Liwei is loyal to you—”

“His loyalties lie with you.” The emperor’s voice broke like thunder. “Liwei, you have been secure in your position for too long. Denounce her now, and prove your loyalty to your family.”

Silence followed, unsullied by breath or whisper. It was as though a spell had been cast over the gathering, transforming everyone to stone. Could any father be so unfeeling toward their child? It was not a command—not yet—but a threat, a line drawn clear in the ground.

I touched Liwei’s arm gently, my turn to caution him against rashness. “Stay here; I will go.” I did not want to fracture his bond with his family, even as dread sank over me that it might be too late.

His hand covered mine, squeezing once before letting go. Sweeping his silver-and-white robes aside, he sank to his knees, folding over to press his palms and brow to the floor.

“Honorable Father, I am your loyal son and subject, but I will not denounce her. She has done no wrong to you or our kingdom.” He rose to his feet, taking my hand—his skin no longer warm but like it had been pressed in the snow.

General Wu’s eyes shone with a keen light, while a muffled cry slipped from the empress, her pale knuckles pressed against blood-red lips. Liwei’s expression was bleak as we turned away, leaving behind the magnificent splendor of the Celestial Court.

Joy and sorrow twined like fire and ice in my chest—a crushing weight, a soaring lightness. While I had wanted Liwei unfettered by his obligations, I would never have asked this of him; his family and heritage were an intrinsic part of who he was. And though fear shadowed me at how the night’s events had unraveled, for the moment, I indulged my wild dream of us living as freely as two cranes soaring into the boundless sky.

My mother was not home. I stared at the smooth covers of her bed, my slender hope that she had overslept shriveled away.

“Could she be in the forest?” Liwei wondered.

“She’s not there; I searched for her aura as we flew over it.” I turned to Ping’er. “What did Mother say when she left?”

“She asked me to summon a cloud for her. I had done it before and taught her how to ride it.” Her face was ashen as she clasped her hands together. “Is the emperor angry? Surely it can’t be that great an offense, forgetting to light the moon once in all these years?”

“I will light the lanterns in her stead,” Liwei offered, evading her question.

“What use is that now?” Despair welled up as I recalled the empress’s outrage, the guests decrying the “ill omen,” and General Wu’s spiteful accusations, all fanning the emperor’s temper into a raging blaze.

“Better late to a task than to leave it undone,” he said, striding toward the door.

I flushed at my thoughtless words. “Liwei, thank you,” I called out to him.

He stopped by the entrance, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Xingyin, I have said before, there is no need for thanks between you and me.” Without another word he left, his back straight, his shoulders pulled more taut than usual.

I searched my mother’s room, as neat as always, the wooden shelves uncluttered except for a few plants and ornaments. A book lay on the table beside her bed, with an archer and the ten suns painted on its cover. The story of my father’s legend, of how he had slain the sunbirds. A folded piece of paper lay beside it. I picked it up, startled to see the characters in unfamiliar strokes—who would have written to my mother? A violation to read something addressed to another, but perhaps this was a clue to her disappearance. Smoothing out the paper, my eyes darted across the characters:

Tonight, you will find what you seek in the

realm of mortals.

My chest clenched with foreboding. Racing to my room, I grabbed my bow, heading outside to summon a cloud. Careless, to not think of this before. Since regaining her freedom, there was one place my mother returned to whenever she could get away. Even though it was frowned upon, even though she risked punishment by entering the Mortal Realm without permission.

At the point where the two rivers merged, near where the Black Dragon had been imprisoned, rose a hill covered with white flowers like snow half-thawed in spring. A marble grave lay upon it, curved like a crescent, the characters of my father’s name gleaming in gold. Ash crumbled from the glowing tips of incense sticks recently pressed into the brazier, their heady scent coiling in the air, thick with hope and grief. Offerings of apples, leafy mandarins, and sponge cakes were piled beside it, along with a slender sprig of osmanthus, its pale petals already rimmed with brown. My mother had been here, except where was she now?

With magic forbidden in the Mortal Realm, I ran down the hill, calling for her—along the river that smelled of earth and rot, before plunging into the forest where shadows darker than night crawled. Was I mistaken? Was she not here? It was then I sensed it, her aura fluttering like the wings of a frantic moth. Sprinting toward it, I almost crumpled with relief to find her wandering the outskirts of the forest, her steps stumbling and uncertain, her gaze hollow.

“Mother!” I embraced her, flinching from the chill that glazed her skin. “What happened? The lanterns were not lit tonight.”

Her lips parted to whisper, “I received a note. It told me to come here.”

“I read it,” I admitted. “Who was it from?”

“There was no name. It was left on my table.”

“A trick. Why else would someone leave a note this way, to deliver it in such a furtive manner?” If only I had sensed the intruder coming through the wards, but my attention had been diverted at the emperor’s banquet.

“It was no trick. I saw your father. His hair was gray, he looked different … but I would recognize him anywhere.” She lifted her eyes to me, huge and dark. “Why would he run from me? Why would he hide?”

Something prickled along my spine. “It’s not possible. Father is dead.”