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But doing this will allow you to go back home, I remind myself, fighting to shake the feeling away and ignore whatever remains of it. What is a bottle of seawater compared to the ocean itself? What is the gift, if not a pity present for the dying?

When my hands and my breathing have steadied, I slip the vial into the sleeve of my robe, then walk down the hall to the Death God’s chambers.

He is alone, as I’d hoped. As I’d feared.

And he is reading.

It is difficult to explain why this surprises me so, but I find myself going completely still in the doorway, staring and staring as though I’ve never seen a book before. The book he’s holding is unlike the scrolls of the Celestial Realm, with their beautiful calligraphy swept on silk, stamped with crimson ink and bound with gold thread. This design is coarser, the pages worn yellow and fading, the characters smaller and uniform and printed, rather than written. The Death God appears almost peaceful like this: reclining in his black lacquer throne, his head propped up lazily against one hand, his eyes moving over the pages with steady focus.

Then he looks up. Catches me gaping.

I clear my throat. I know that I should not ask, that it’s not what I’m here for, but still I cannot quite stifle my own curiosity: “Is that . . . a novel from the Mortal Realm?”

He lowers the book and straightens. “Yes. It’s apparently popular among the mortals these days, almost as popular as their poetry. Don’t expect anything of substance within the pages, though. It is all whimsical nonsense. The most credit I can give is that the mortals have strong imaginations—likely to compensate for their physical weaknesses.”

“I didn’t know you had such interests,” I say, stepping forward.

“I assure you I don’t,” he says coldly, letting the book fall with a soft flapping sound to the floor, where piles upon piles of other books lie. I must have missed them the last time I was here, amid all the destruction. They seem to vary in subject and length, some so faded and battered I wonder if he had salvaged them from ancient libraries. Is this what the Death God spends his time doing when he is not roaming around in search of the dead? Poring over mortal texts? Losing himself in stories and sonnets? The idea is so absurd as to be amusing.

“What is this about?” I step closer and pick up the novel at the top of the pile, brushing the cover with my sleeve. Chronicles of the Death God’s Romantic Adventures, the title reads. “You, apparently,” I say, answering my own question. I flip it open to a random page in the middle.

The Death God stiffens. “Don’t—”

I’ve already started reading. “. . . And the Death God pulled her into a tight, wondrous embrace, and whispered such sweet things against her hair that she could not find it in herself to care who he was, or what he was capable of. She wished only to stay the night. Even the sensation of his long, cold claws around her waist delighted her, and she found herself wondering if—” The book disappears in a puff of black smoke, but he’s too late. A startled laugh lurches out of me as I turn to meet the Death God’s stony gaze. “Oh, but you must tell me: How does it go from there? Do you fall in love with this girl? Does she fall in love with you? Do you spend many more nights together?”

He waves an irritated hand, and the other books vanish from view too. “She is merely a minor character. I am meant to meet a dozen more men and women on my trip around the empire and bewitch them all.”

I laugh harder, clutching my side. Perhaps being trapped here has finally made me lose my mind, because the more I think about it, the funnier it seems to me, until real tears of mirth spring to my eyes. Very briefly, I forget to even be afraid of the Death God, to worry over the real reason I’ve come. “So you admit to having read the entirety of the book?”

A scowl twists his lips. “I—”

“I do not mean to judge, of course. I would, too, if I were you,” I cut in, still smiling. “Could you at least tell me how it ends? Is there one particular lover you end up choosing over the rest?”

“I trick all of them into going back with me to my cave,” he says flatly, “where I skin them alive and devour their souls. In case you have forgotten, there are no happy endings when I’m involved, Rujia.”

The smile drops from my face.

It is like an enchantment has been broken. All the warmth leaves my body, and in its place I can feel only the damp chill in the air, the small vial of poison that weighs like a heavy rock in my robes. The snow’s shadows flit over the walls. The wind howls louder outside the window.

“Why are you here?” the Death God asks me.

I swallow. “I wondered if you wanted to dine together tonight.”

“Why?” he asks again, quieter, his brows creasing.

“Because your company is still better than nothing,” I say, somewhat honestly. “Unlike you, I do not enjoy complete solitude.”

I am almost certain he will force me to leave, but after a beat, he swishes his sleeve again. Another throne identical to his own materializes behind me, moving forward slowly over the stone until it bumps the back of my knees and I lower myself into the seat. At the same time, a long table stretches out between us, already covered with steaming dishes of every variety imaginable. Roasted meats glazed with soy sauce and honey, golden fried dumplings bursting with shrimp filling, sweet red bean soup brewed to such a rich, sticky consistency it shines under the candlelight.

“I suppose I will humor you,” the Death God says, across from me. “But do not expect this to happen again.”

“Of course not,” I tell him. If everything goes right tonight, there won’t be a chance to.

I grab a ladle beside the pot and scoop the soup out into two celadon bowls, willing my hands to remain steady. The vial burns against my skin. I have to be quick, discreet. Succeed in one movement. “I have asked you plenty of questions already,” I begin, hoping to keep his attention on what I’m saying, rather than what I’m doing. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me? I’ll answer whatever you want.”

“Why do you think I’d be curious about anything to do with you?” The Death God leans forward and says with what seems deliberate force, as if to remind us both: “You’re dead, as far as I’m concerned.”

I roll my eyes as I reach for the vial, hiding one sleeve behind the other. “Those stories are clearly wrong about you. With that attitude, you wouldn’t even be able to charm one mortal woman, let alone a dozen.”