Page 56

I stared pointedly at his cloak of dragon yarn. “To keep myself dry. I am tired of getting drenched every time I come through here.”

He waved me aside, his eyes glazing over with disinterest. I strode past him, hiding my relief. The grounds were not as well secured as those of the Jade Palace, because few made their way here without Queen Suihe’s permission.

In the Bright Pearl Palace, I led Liwei to my chamber, halting outside the door. “You may have my room.”

“We are not strangers,” he said with cool civility. “Surely we can stay in the same room together. Take the bed, I will not disturb you.”

I shook my head. It was not him but myself I did not trust. I left then, making my way to my mother’s room.

Her smile vanished when she saw me. “Xingyin, what is the matter? Why do you look so upset?”

I said nothing, just hugged her tight, catching a trace of the osmanthus that somehow clung to her still. Her arms went around me, her palm stroking the back of my head, just as she used to when I was a child in need of comfort. She did not ask again, nor did I speak—silence was our language of grief.

I had slain monsters, fought vicious enemies, been stabbed and speared and burned—yet the torments of the heart were no less excruciating. Perhaps those who brought us greatest joy, also wielded the power to inflict the most suffering. I did not know how long I wept, until at last my breathing calmed and I lay still.

My mother brushed aside the damp strands of hair from my face. “This pain you feel … you might believe that you will never recover. And while it might always hurt, the pain will fade a little more each time—until one day, there will be no more tears. Just the memories and the hope, that you might find some joy in them again.”

She was well schooled in suffering. What anguish she must have endured when she first came to the moon, separated from her husband, knowing she would never see him again.

I pulled myself up, wiping away the last of my tears. This was no time to wallow in self-pity. My father needed me. The world below held countless dangers for a mortal: accidents, wild beasts, illnesses that swept in like dust carried by the wind. My fingers brushed the jade bottle tucked into my sleeve. Something stirred in my veins, a precious hope blooming within the void of my chest, one that had haunted all the days of my life. Too fragile to be spoken aloud as I dared not tempt the vagaries of fate—that even as my own heart was broken, I might be able to heal those of my parents.

The sky was aglitter with stars, as though the heavens were trying to distract from the absence of the moon. Following the directions my father had given me, I made my way to his home—the whitewashed walls gleaming against the slate gray roof. As I approached, light flared from a window, throwing my shadow across the ground. Had he sensed me, though I’d made no sound? After all, he was no ordinary mortal.

The wooden door swung open. He stood in the entrance, the glow from the lantern casting a sheen of gold over his silver hair. At the sight of me, he blinked as though taken aback, even though few things could catch him unaware.

“You came.” His tone lifted with surprise as he stepped aside to let me in.

Did he think I would not? Eager to shed the burden of a mortal parent, easily forgotten in the realm where the years had no meaning and illness dared not trespass? He did not know me, but we had time. All the time in the world.

His house was furnished with an elegance that was unexpected, given its unassuming exterior. A blue-and-white porcelain tea set was laid on a table of prized zitan wood, its barrel-shaped stools tucked beneath. Scroll paintings hung from the walls, some depicting scenes of temples and pavilions amid lush pine forests. One caught my eye, of a woman—my mother—I realized with a start. Not the goddess flying among the clouds in ornate silk robes, as the mortals often depicted her—but clad in a plain robe, standing in a garden of peonies. The artist had captured the graceful curves of her face, the tilt of her eyes, and more than that, the radiance in her expression. Mortal and incandescently happy.

I inhaled sharply, catching the scent of incense in the air. Only then did I notice the lacquered altar before the painting, laid with plates of pears, oranges, and sponge cakes. A brass burner sat among them, crowded with incense sticks already burned down.

“Why this? Mother is alive,” I blurted.

He stared at the painting, his shoulders hunching inward. “They say the incense smoke carries our prayers to the gods. I did not think it was true, yet I lit them every day in hopes my words would somehow find their way to her.”

It was a trait we both shared: dreaming of the impossible, reaching for it all the same. Something caved in my chest. For all these decades, despite the irrevocability of their parting—my parents had yearned for each other. The sorrow, regret, and misunderstanding that tainted their past had not diminished their love.

“Father, you do not need the incense. You will see Mother again soon. You can tell her yourself.”

Light flared in his pupils, impossibly bright. “Did you find the elixir?”

I pulled the jade bottle from my sleeve and offered it to him with both my hands. As the filigree goldwork in the stopper caught the candlelight, it glowed like it was afire.

“This belongs to the Celestial Emperor. How did you get it?” he asked hoarsely.

“I stole it.” I felt no shame in taking the elixir from the emperor, though I had been drowned in remorse to accept it from Zhiyi. His Celestial Majesty had taken enough from my family: my father’s immortality, my mother’s freedom, and now our home.

“It was a great risk, my daughter,” he said gravely.

I smiled in reply. I would not tell him what I had risked for this; there was no need to burden his conscience. It was enough that he would be restored to us.

He took the bottle and tugged out its stopper. The scent of peaches wafted forth, so lush and indulgent, my senses were drenched in it. Closing his eyes, he lifted the bottle to his lips and tipped it all the way back, his throat convulsing with each swallow. He moved without hesitation, with an eager impatience. After all, he had waited over half his life for this.

Silence fell, punctured only by our breaths. I kept my head down, almost afraid to look up. Light stroked the walls in rich shades of amber. Had the sun risen? My gaze darted to the windows. No, it was still dark, not a glimmer of dawn on the horizon.

As my father’s breathing quickened, I swung toward him. He was stooped over the table, shaking his head as though dazed. “Bitter, when its fragrance was so sweet.” His head darted up to mine, a shiver rippling through his body. “Is it cold?”