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Qiming’s frown deepened. The more disturbed he looked, the more the others recoiled, the funnier Junyi found the entire situation. He fell backward on the hard stone and clutched his stomach and laughed and laughed so hard that tears sprang from his eyes, blurring his vision. The lantern lights turned to wobbling streaks of red and yellow; the flared eaves of the restaurant doubled like sparrow wings in motion; motes of dust glittered like stars over the deep, black sky. He had no pride. He had no future. He had nobody. It was all so uproariously bizarre. He wondered if the Heavens were watching and laughing with him.

“Would you—like to share?” Junyi gasped out, pointing at the dropped meat bun. His face was damp. The front of his collar was wet. “It’s only slightly dirty—but the flavor is great.”

Qiming stepped back with visible disgust. “He’s lost his mind,” he said to the other boys. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be seen around him.”

Junyi continued laughing long after they left him there, stopping only to reach for the bun again. But he couldn’t taste anything except the bitterness of his tears.

Now, as he led his two guests across the yard, he heard those old, half-forgotten words again: luck in the midst of misfortune.

He cast another secret glance at his new tutors, afraid that they might vanish the instant he looked away. But they were really here, beside him, and they were real. More than real, it seemed. They both possessed a grace that was almost unnatural, a startling beauty that captivated the eye and captured the mind. Their complexions were entirely flawless; not a single blemish to be found, not a single scar or uneven line or mark of the sun. Their hair gleamed down their backs. They walked over the collapsed tiles and weeds like they were walking on air, like they had descended from the Heavens. He could be certain he had never met anybody like them before. Even Qiming, with his noble lineage and prestigious connections, would have been intimidated in their presence. Yet he also felt a tug of familiarity toward them, as if they were all connected by an invisible thread, and their meeting today was as much a miracle as an inevitability.

“You haven’t told me how I should address you yet,” he ventured as he stopped outside the wooden shed. Much to his embarrassment, his fingers shook as he fumbled with the lock. He could feel them staring.

The woman smiled patiently at him. “My name is Rujia, but you may call me Rujia-Jiejie.”

“Jiejie?” Junyi blushed, and almost dropped the lock. “But that would be too presumptuous—I should greet you as master, at the least, if you are to teach me—”

“I’m not that much older than you,” she said. In his peripheral vision, he thought he saw her smile change, drawing inward, as though she had just shared a secret.

“All right,” he said. “Rujia-Jiejie. And you?” He turned to the young man, whom he’d gathered did not like to speak or smile much. If not for Rujia, he could admit that the man would have frightened him. There was something about his eyes—they were too black, too cold. They reminded him of the coal he’d saved last winter, when the frost had crept in and settled so severely that not even holding up flames to the coal could make it burn.

The man folded his arms and fixed Junyi with a heavy, indecipherable look. “Si—”

“Si-Gege,” Rujia cut in. “It’s his preferred title around students. Isn’t that right, Si Keran?”

Keran gave what could only be vaguely interpreted as a nod. If the movement had been any slighter, he would not have moved at all.

“That’s a very interesting surname,” Junyi said, trying to be polite. “Is it Si as in—”

“As in the character for death,” Keran told him, his voice flat.

Junyi blinked. “Oh. I see.”

“An unfortunate surname, but it wasn’t his choice,” Rujia said.

“Of course not,” Junyi agreed at once, giving the door a shove. Dust rained down on him, and he fought against a cough. “We don’t choose our families.”

Inside, the shed was even smaller and darker than his house, redolent of ash and sandalwood and nights from his childhood, when he and his mother would hide here and listen for his father’s drunken footsteps. The straw pallet he’d fall asleep on took up most of the room, stretching from one corner to another. He crouched, ran a hand over the bedding, and was relieved to find no new holes. “I hope you don’t mind the squeeze,” he said apologetically. “The closest inn is quite a long walk away, and it’s typically full this time of year, what with the number of students traveling to prepare for the exams and all . . .”

His guests were silent as they surveyed the area. He couldn’t tell what they thought of it, and his heart thudded faster the longer they went without speaking. Say they’d changed their minds about helping him. Say they were affronted by the accommodation, or unable to work in such an environment, or annoyed by his very existence, or—

“This is the only room?” Rujia asked.

“Y-yes,” he said. Swallowed. “I figured you might be used to sharing, and while small, this room is separate from the house. I know most married couples prefer to have their own privacy . . .” He was proud of himself for having thought of it, especially considering how he had no experience in the matter himself.

“Right,” Rujia said, after a beat. She exchanged a glance with Keran. “Indeed.”

“Is anything the matter?” Junyi worried.

“No, no, not at all.” She sat down on the straw and somehow made it look elegant. “It’s perfect. We’re very grateful to have a place to stay.”

“I’ll leave you to rest then,” Junyi said, glancing out through the sole window by the dresser. Night had fallen sluggishly, as it tended to during the warmer days. Cicadas sang from the larches outside, and from farther away, he could hear the scrape of closing gates. It was never truly quiet around here; even in the middle of the night, he merely had to focus to detect the constant buzz of life, like the world was humming a soft tune under its breath. “If I may ask, when do we start lessons? I’m free tomorrow morning,” he said, then, fearing that he was imposing or coming across as too impatient, added, “or in the afternoon. Or the day after tomorrow. Whenever you would prefer, really—”

“Tomorrow morning is good,” Rujia told him. Her tone was casual, yet there was an edge of urgency to her next words. “We would like to begin as soon as possible.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Junyi repeated, mostly to convince himself that it was really happening. What a curious experience, to witness your life changing right before you. Everything he had endured since birth flashed through his mind: his pain and his disappointment and his shame, his mother’s hope and his father’s hate, his false beginnings and failed efforts. But that was in the past now, too distant to draw blood. The memories that would have once kept him awake at night acquired a mythical, detached quality. He felt like he was standing on the battlements after a war, gazing out at the rubescent horizon and the rust of the soil as his future surged forward to meet him. He didn’t know what would happen, who he would become, only that wondrously, inexplicably, the long, bleak chapter of his days was over, and a new one would begin from this moment on.

Chapter Nineteen