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“No. You stay here and study,” Keran instructs coolly, rising to his feet. “You’re too far behind already. You cannot afford to waste any more time.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Rujia, make sure he doesn’t get distracted.”

I’m so surprised that I agree at once.

But even as I sit and monitor Junyi from the other side of the table, I cannot help watching Keran in my peripheral vision, half out of curiosity, half out of concern. He wouldn’t use his powers now, would he? Junyi would most certainly notice if he did. Through the window, I see the Death God lower himself stiffly to the ground, rolling up his sleeves the same way he does before reaching for a brush, his manicured fingers sinking into the soil, all while his jaw remains clenched tight with displeasure. I have to blink a few times to be certain that I am not hallucinating the scene.

When Keran comes back, the potatoes in his hands, there is dirt smudged along the smooth planes of his cheek. His glare softens, briefly, when he meets my gaze.

“You’re smiling,” he says.

I duck my head and turn my attention to Junyi’s texts. There are countless books to read through on seemingly every subject matter, spanning from politics to history to geography. I thumb open a thin book lying forgotten near the bottom of the stack, the yellowed pages bound with delicate blue thread. A novel, chronicling the journey of two gods who visited the Mortal Realm. I mean to only skim through the story when I come across an illustration—

And my breath catches.

It’s my mother. I haven’t seen her face in eons, had thought I would pass the rest of eternity without ever seeing it again, but I have all her features memorized. Even though it is only ink and paper, the artist has somehow captured the gentleness of her smile, the warm crescents of her eyes, her quiet, thoughtful manner. Yet she is dressed in the mortal fashion, her hair free from the shimmering, enchanted ornaments the gods tend to wear like prizes.

“Is everything all right?”

I startle. Glance up. I had almost forgotten where I was, whom I was with. Keran is watching me, his features drawn with something close to concern, or perhaps simply confusion. I cannot imagine how my own expression must appear, but I am sure my reaction would be more subdued had a primordial beast waltzed into the room.

“Yes, everything’s fine. I was only . . . I haven’t seen this book before,” I say, hoping they cannot see my fingers trembling over the pages. Here it is: tangible evidence that my mother exists. Existed. That I didn’t dream up a childhood where I was loved, because there are certainly days when it feels like exile in my cottage was the only thing real, and everything else had been a hallucination, conjured out of sheer loneliness. “The plot seems interesting.”

“I’m not sure that it is,” Junyi says. “I have read that one, a few months ago,” he adds, looking both proud of himself for the fact, and wary of continuing, as if we might punish him for expressing the wrong opinion.

“You don’t think it’s interesting?” I ask.

“I—well, it’s just that—I mean, hardly anything happens,” he mumbles. “The protagonist is supposed to be this god, and most of the chapters are of him describing his daily life with his beloved wife after they start visiting the Mortal Realm. It only picks up in the end—they make the decision to try to save people from an impending earthquake, but the plan fails because nobody is willing to listen to them. I found it all a bit depressing, though like I said, it’s been a while since I finished it . . .”

“I see,” I say, swallowing against the ache in my throat. “That does sound depressing.” Slowly, I flip the book open to one of the earlier chapters and begin reading.

Junyi was right in a way: There is very little that happens. No grand battles, no dramatic betrayals, no miracles. It is not a novel about life, but a life contained within a novel. All their days and nights spilled across the pages, scrawled down in haste, as if to stave off the terror of forgetting. Strolling through the meadows in the pleasant afternoon sun; stewing congee for the first time in a misshapen cauldron, smiling at each other through the steam; learning how to draw water from a well, how to fasten a knot by hand, how to tell the sweetness of a pear by smelling it. Learning how to be human.

In one of the scenes, my mother wants to visit a newly opened teahouse by the sea; she has heard the mortals raving about their plum blossom wine and water chestnut cakes. It would be easy to teleport themselves to the teahouse, or better yet, to simply transport the wine and cakes to their room with a snap of their fingers. But to blend in with the mortals, they have decided not to use magic. So they walk. Night has settled around them, and soon it starts raining, hard and relentless, the water rushing down the streets. He has brought an umbrella, which he holds between them, tilting it all the way toward her, the wind snatching at the flimsy oil-paper while his own shoulder is exposed to the downpour.

My shoes are soaked, she tells him, but she’s laughing.

Mine are too, he says.

She glances at the puddles forming rapidly around them. Asks, Should we turn back around?

But you wanted to try this teahouse, didn’t you? He smiles at her through the storm. Don’t worry, we’re almost there. With the hand that isn’t clinging on tight to the umbrella, he squeezes her fingers, half frozen from the rain. They keep walking while lightning splits the skies and civilians find cover under overhanging eaves, getting lost twice down an alley, squinting into the black haze for the teahouse entrance. At last they find it, both of them shivering, droplets of water clinging to her hair. A young waitress rushes out to help them, takes the umbrella, and guides them over to a table by the blazing fireplace. They’re served steaming cups of jasmine tea while they wait for their food to arrive, my mother’s palms curved around the porcelain for warmth while my father reaches across the table to help dry her hair with a handkerchief. None of this would have happened in the Celestial Realm, of course. They could simply ask the other gods to control the weather, dry themselves with a wave of their sleeves, drink from crystal goblets, eat with golden spoons.

But then the waitress comes back with two plates of water chestnut cakes—the second is free, she explains with a wink, to thank them for making their way over even in the terrible weather—and as they take their first bite using plain wooden spoons, freezing, rain-soaked, happy, they both agree that it’s the best meal they’ve ever had.

“Rujia-Jiejie? Are you . . . crying?”

I hastily wipe my eyes and try to smile at Junyi, but there’s a burning feeling in the back of my nose, a sharpness in my throat that won’t soften. In my peripheral vision, I can feel Keran watching my face. Most likely wondering what’s wrong with me. I cannot explain it either. “No, I just had something in my eye.” I shut the book, running my fingers over the faded cover, and find the author’s name at the bottom. Ru Tiantian. My mother’s nickname for my father, what she would call him teasingly across the dinner table, when she was pretending to be annoyed with him.

To know that they had been here. Lived like that. Loved like that. Everything feels different now, like the Mortal and Celestial Realms have been tipped upside down.

“Do you still need this book?” I ask Junyi.

He shakes his head. “No, you can keep it, if you’d like.”

“Thank you. I might read it later tonight,” I say, then tuck the book into my robes, holding it close to my chest.

Chapter Twenty

Aside from his tendency to need food and water every few hours, Junyi is not so troublesome to teach. He rises early every morning and prepares all his books by himself. He completes the tasks we assign to him and knows to ask for more. He commits himself to memorizing the classics, repeating different sections under his breath while he is scrubbing the pots or folding the laundry or sweeping the yard, until even I have memorized them too. He listens attentively when I correct him on how best to hold the calligraphy brush, where to apply the right pressure. He doesn’t ever wander off on his own, or interrupt when we are speaking, or arrive late to lessons.