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“Anything you like,” Dian offers, taking her hand. “Tomorrow, I will bring you to the seamstress.”

“Where is the hairpin from your ceremony?” I ask curiously.

“Home. After I cut my hair, I can’t wear it anymore.” She adds with a smile, “I will make your hairpin, Yining. Father made mine and it’s hideous.”

He huffs in mock irritation, yet grief shadows his face. “It was the best I could do. Your mother was the artistic one.”

They speak of Mother like she’s still here. It heals something inside me, the part that regrets forgetting her, that is glad my mother still lives in the minds of those she loved.

Dian touches his arm. “I know, Father. I was just teasing. I treasure it along with all that you do, the burdens you’ve shouldered.”

Father gives her a small smile just as the carriage comes to a halt. As we climb from it, Dian turns to me, her eyes bright. “Welcome home, Sister.”

I hesitate, suddenly nervous—then make myself look up. A large garden rings the place, lush with fruits, flowers, herbs. A magnolia tree towers by the house, a stone building with a green roof and latticed windows. The wooden doors are flanked by porcelain lions, stirring a memory Dian once shared with me: of the small girl standing by the door, waiting. Her eyes dulled with grief, yet dry like all her tears had been spilled.

I’m grasping for something that slips out of reach, hating the emptiness within. Have I really forgotten, or has my mind buried the memories—those that hurt?

“Do you remember anything?” my father asks.

When I shake my head, his face falls, as does my sister’s. Were they hoping this place would jolt something in me?

“Whether you remember or not, this is our home,” Dian says fiercely. “I will share those memories you’ve lost.”

“We will make new ones,” I promise. As I hug her, her arms go around me too, loosening the ache in my chest.

“I’ll prepare a meal for us,” Father calls out, striding away. Just by the doorway, he stills, staring at the magnolia tree that arches above. Gently, he touches its trunk, then enters the house.

Ruilin looks at Dian, then me. “I’ll help your father,” she offers, hurrying after him like she’s eager to give us this moment alone.

Dian stares after them. “Cooking is what Father does when he doesn’t know how to show his emotions. Whenever I cried as a child, Father would make the most elaborate meals. Some were good, others terrible, but they were always a distraction and I’d forget why I was crying. For your return, he’s probably preparing a ten-course meal.”

“I feared Father might be unhappy at my return… at how I’ve disrupted his life.”

She shakes her head. “Father is in shock. All those years he believed you were lost, likely blaming himself for having stopped looking.”

“Do I remind him of our mother?” I ask slowly.

“Everything does.” She studies me. “Are you happy, Sister?”

“Yes,” I assure her. “Except I haven’t been happy in so long, I’m not used to it. I keep expecting something bad to happen.”

“Not today, I won’t let it!” Dian says with a laugh. “Come. I’ll show you our garden.”

I follow her, inhaling the fragrance of herbs and flowers. Crouching down, I examine the plants, only recognizing a few. I pluck a spray of the bell-shaped flowers Dian gave me before, blinding when set alight—those that helped me get away once. Yet there are so many others I’ve never seen before.

Dian snaps off a yellow flower from a bush. “The crushed petals will glow, but only at night.”

As she drops it into my pouch, a pungent aroma drifts from a small red pepper, spidery lines webbing its surface. “What is this?” I ask, picking one.

“A devil pepper. Mother liked eating them,” Dian says. “Be careful if you do—”

“In the Iron Mountains, spice is a part of our meals. It won’t kill me.” My voice trails off as I recall pieces of the Little Dragon floating amid chilies, the revolting soup my aunt prepared for me—after killing the carp I’d befriended. I touch the silk-wrapped bundle of its bones that I still carry. Hopefully soon, I will find a suitable place to bury these.

“It definitely could kill you,” she warns. “These peppers are a potent poison. If you eat it and don’t take the antidote in time, you’ll die.”

I almost drop it. “Why would Mother eat this?”

“Don’t worry, it takes over a fortnight. There will be warnings beforehand, beginning with a sharp pain in your stomach. Moreover the antidote is commonly grown here, always served with the peppers.” Dian bends to pick a cluster of orange leaves from a plant, tucking it in my hand. “Carry these with you always. Father cooks with the peppers often; they remind him of Mother.”