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“I barely reacted when he drove a sword into my chest,” he mutters at last. “Yet I draw attention to a few errors in his essay and this is how he behaves? Pathetic.”

“The crown prince was horrible and cruel, and you have every right to loathe him. But even if we think of his mortal life as a mere series of tribulations to endure, and this Junyi as just one version of him . . . from his perspective, this is his whole life. His only life. It’s all he knows, and he wouldn’t ever hurt you,” I counter. “If anything, he looks up to you.”

“Impossible,” Keran says immediately.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—why would he? How could he?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” I say.

A pause. “Doesn’t matter. It means nothing,” Keran says, leaning one shoulder against the bricks, his lips curling with distaste. “Either way, it cannot change the sickening fact that I am stuck here with him.”

“But if his tribulation never comes to pass and he never returns as a god, you will have been stuck with him for nothing,” I remind him. “If your current method of teaching was working, I wouldn’t intervene, but it doesn’t seem to be.”

“So what are you suggesting? Or are we finally revisiting my bribery idea?”

I choose not to even acknowledge his last sentence. “I am only saying that you could be more—encouraging. Sweeten your words. Praise him for the things he does well. Make him feel supported. Offer up suggestions, rather than insults. For every fault you catch in his essay, name something you liked.”

“How am I meant to be encouraging?” he asks.

At first, I assume he is only being resistant, and my hand clenches in apprehension. But then I realize that he means it as a genuine question. Of course he would not know. Of course he would be critical, thinking it the only way to speak to Junyi. Throughout his entire lifetime, nobody has ever encouraged him or shown him kindness. Even when he did nothing wrong to begin with, the gods and mortals insulted him. People would pity someone like Junyi for crying—but what about the Death God, who sheds no tears, who must have learned at some early point that crying would invite more cruelty instead of sympathy? I study him in the afternoon light. Gold burnishes his profile and softens the lovely shape of his mouth.

“Like this,” I tell him, rearranging my expression into one of pure affection. “Keran,” I begin sweetly, and more sincerely than I had planned, “you’ve been ever so patient and diligent. Thank you for working so hard to lead these lessons, and for restraining yourself from punching Junyi. I know it hasn’t been easy for you at all, especially with how busy you are collecting the souls of the dead every night. But you’re doing very well, and dire circumstances aside, I’m happy that you’re here.”

He stares at me as if I’ve just spoken to him in another language. The sharp lines of his face remain cool and collected, yet his eyes are bright with an emotion I’ve never seen before, like a vivid burst of plum blossoms in the snow.

“Doesn’t that feel much nicer than if I were to curse at you?” I prompt.

“I don’t know,” he says after a beat. “I don’t really mind when you curse at me.”

It’s my turn to stare in surprise. I’m unsure how to respond, except: “Junyi is unlikely to share your masochistic tendencies.”

“Fine,” he says, his jaw tightening.

“Fine?”

“I will give your method a try.”

I beam at him. “Thank you. You’re incredible.”

“You can stop that now,” he says, but his stance relaxes a little, and the annoyance that had dragged at the corner of his mouth when I’d mentioned Junyi’s name fades.

Time really does move faster in the Mortal Realm.

The sticky, golden days of summer melt away, and the sun starts sinking earlier and earlier in the evening, and the buzz of insects quiets, and the larch leaves turn the dull brown of rusted coins. We trade our robes of gauze for thicker, sturdier fabrics, and we stop worrying that the fruits and roasted meats we bring back will rot in the heat; we simply leave them spread out on the table, where it is easy to reach for a ripe pear or an orange on our way into the study. But with autumn comes a burgeoning sense of anxiety, the looming shadow of the exams. Every night, after I finish stacking the books and cleaning the brushes, the questions circle my head: Have we prepared enough? Is Junyi ready? Can he beat Qiming and the other boys from noble families? Will he succeed?

“Of course he will succeed,” Keran tells me one night, though I have not voiced any of my worries aloud. “Look at who’s teaching him.”

I lie back on the straw and roll my eyes, but the tightness in my chest eases a little. For once, his arrogance is comforting rather than grating. “I hope you’re right.”

“Trust me. On this, at least,” he adds.

Strangely, I do.

Our lessons proceed at a brutal, breathless pace. Not a minute or even a second is wasted. We make him recite each of the classics from front to back until he is able to do so without slowing or stuttering once. Then we test him by calling out random pages while he walks around the yard, his eyes closed in concentration, his hands behind his back. Later, by the wavering candlelight, we imagine every possible essay topic that could come up in the papers and ask Junyi to flesh out a response for each of them. When he has done that, and we have reviewed his writing, picking at increasingly minor errors, we make him memorize those as well. As we enter the final days, Junyi begins going everywhere with a book held out before him: while he is eating, while he is sweeping the yard, even while bathing. At one point, he almost walks into a wall because he is too focused staring down at the page and stops only when I notice and yank him backward. At another point, he is so engrossed in his studies during dinner that he dips his steamed bun into ground ink instead of the fermented bean curd sitting in the plate beside him and is about to eat it when Keran—annoyed, incredulous, sighing to himself—intervenes.

“Finish your meal first,” Keran snaps at him, and grabs the eight-legged essay Junyi was working on. “Let me read over this.”