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“Are you sure?” he asked.
Keran nodded. “Perhaps this is how it’s supposed to be.”
He didn’t know what that meant, but he wasn’t particularly interested in analyzing it. The noblewoman’s hand was still on his wrist, and he was still breathing much too fast, but instead of sinking, finger-tingling dread, he felt warm and lightheaded, like his soul really was hovering a few inches above his body, untethered at last.
“Do you recognize her?” I ask Keran as Junyi walks away with the noblewoman. I’ve never known Junyi to act this way before, either in the Celestial Realm or the Mortal Realm. The crown prince was someone who politely rejected every admirer in such a way that, according to the gods, only made you fall harder for him. Someone unreachable, untouchable. But Junyi’s gaze is pinned on this stranger like she’s the only person at the festival, the only person he’s ever known, letting her arm snake around his.
“I recognize her soul,” Keran says quietly, staring after them. “If he survives his first tribulation, his second tribulation is on course to pass.”
I absorb this for a moment. It’s just as I’d suspected when the noblewoman first appeared.
A lover, filled with grief, drives a blade through him to take his memories.
“It’s funny,” he adds, almost to himself, “how the universe moves in circles. All that wandering around, drifting back and forth, from one life to another, only to end up in the same place.” As he speaks, he turns back in the direction we came.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the house,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Where else?”
I gesture to the bustling streets around us. “Don’t you want to see the festival too?”
“There’s nothing to see.”
“Well, I think there’s plenty to see,” I say. Indeed, there is so much noise and activity I hardly know where to look first.
I expect Keran to roll his eyes and leave me here, but he purses his lips and relents. “All right, then. Since you’re so very fascinated by these senseless mortal distractions . . .”
Before he can change his mind, I grin and stroll forward, wandering deeper and deeper into the night festival, tugging him close behind me by the outer edge of his sleeve. The Ming Dynasty, in its full glory. The Age of Brilliance, the mortals call it. Walking past all the lit-up rooms, the bright colored lanterns dancing over packed teahouses, the performers blowing fire to wild applause, the crowds waving their torches, the noblewomen in their glittering headpieces and masks of gold, I can understand why. The city is alive, luminous, ever-changing. The alleyways and curving streets expand with children and scholars and merchants like lungs drawing in fresh air. Not a single corner or tile is left in darkness. Even the smoke is sweet, carrying the fragrance of chestnuts and burnt sugar. And everywhere, there are people: laughing, bickering, bargaining, gossiping, calling out for their family, calling out to strangers—
“Roasted almonds! Buy roasted almonds here! The perfect crunch and taste—”
“Yang Guifei’s favorite lychees—”
“If you’re looking for the perfect gift for your lover, then you must buy our new bracelets. They’re made from pure gold and jade—”
“This is the same hairpin Empress Zhang wore herself—yes, the exact one—”
“Our powders are so light you won’t even feel anything—”
“Gather around now to hear the story of Xishi and Fanli; the lovers who brought down a kingdom together, and later lived happily in seclusion on the shores of Lake Tai . . .”
“That shade of teal would look gorgeous on you—”
“Want to protect yourself from Death? Look no further!”
I halt, and turn to the vendor on my left, my brows rising. “What did you say? Protection from Death?”
His eyes light up as he proudly waves to the talismans and golden bells spread out on the table between us. One look and it’s obvious that they are fakes, mortal inventions based on unreliable information and their own imaginations. “Ah, you’ve come to the right place. If there is anyone that should be feared, it is . . . the Death God.” He scans the area as if to ascertain that we are safe, his gaze moving right over Keran, then lowers his voice into a dramatic whisper. “The Death God has no heart and no soul, you know. And he has a particular interest in pretty young women like yourself. Be very careful—if he sees you wandering around in the street, he will drag you down into the darkest depths of the underworld with him, devour your soul, and force you to become his concubine.”
I glance over at Keran, who appears to be making a tremendous effort not to roll his eyes or knock the entire stall down. “How can he both devour my soul and force me to become his concubine?” I ask innocently. “Wouldn’t I already be dead?”
“He would only need your corpse,” the man tells me, his tone grave. “Dead flesh doesn’t bother him, and I hear . . . I hear he can perform an enchantment to control the corpses like puppets. He’s a sick monster, born without any sense of right or wrong, incapable of joy or grief or shame or mercy. He’s certainly never spared a single one of his victims before.” Then, with abrupt cheer, he holds up one of the bells. “But fear not! This will keep you safe.”
“What does it do, precisely?”
“All you have to do is ring it, and the Death God won’t be able to step within twenty feet of you. Works better than the strongest armor. Here,” he says, passing the small bell to me. “Give it a try.”
I shake it, just once, holding Keran’s gaze. It emits a lovely, delicate tinkling sound, rising and fading between us like music. “You’re sure it works?” I ask the vendor.
