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“Yes, yes,” he says, with full confidence. “I absolutely guarantee it, miss. Death cannot come anywhere near you.”

When I lift the bell to ring it again, Keran takes a deliberate step forward and catches my wrist. His hand is cool, but warmer than the evening air, his thumb grazing the slope of my palm. I swallow. He’s standing so close that I could draw the exact curve of his eyelashes, map out the reflection of the lantern lights in his eyes. The faintest flicker of amusement at the corner of his lips. Without turning to the vendor, he says, “It doesn’t seem to be very effective.”

“It doesn’t,” I agree. “If anything, it seems to have the opposite effect.”

The vendor frowns. “I—I’m sorry, I don’t understand—”

“I’ll take it,” I tell him, tossing him a few coins and sliding the bell into my robe pocket. “Thank you.”

The vendor’s confusion doesn’t clear, but he gladly accepts the money. “Of course. Have a wonderful evening, miss.”

I can feel Keran studying me as we leave the stall.

“What?” I ask him.

“Why buy something that doesn’t work?” he asks.

I smile at him. “It works exactly the way I want it to.”

The Death God so rarely betrays any surprise, any emotion at all, but his eyes widen, a thousand new questions rising in the wake of my answer.

The bizarre thing is that I mean it. A couple moons ago, I would have thought that no greater torture could compare to spending a night strolling through the mortal markets with the Death God at my side, but I don’t mind him like this. I don’t mind having him close. There is even a kind of peace to be found here. The world feels so vast, so vibrant. We could forget our identities and blend in perfectly with the others, sharing snacks or browsing accessories or stopping to admire the pipa players on the restaurant balconies. Everything is new; anything could happen.

My footsteps slow again as we pass a particularly crowded corner on the street. A group of people—some children, some bearded men—are taking turns tossing arrows into an ornate canister, set down on the ground a good few yards away. I watch, fascinated, as the little boy at the front of the line scrunches up his face in concentration, then lifts the arrow. Aims it. The arrow wobbles in midair and knocks against the edge of the canister, falling just in front of it. The boy tries again and misses his next few attempts as well. When at last the arrow flies in, the rest of the participants cheer, and the onlookers grin and clap with them. I feel myself grin, too, as the boy skips to the back of the line, his expression pleased.

“Pitch pot,” Keran explains, following my gaze. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, the lines of his face cold and remote. He could not look any less interested in the game unfolding before us. “A popular activity, and a spectacular waste of time.”

“Oh. Right.” I clear my throat, doing my best to hide my disappointment. “Let’s go, then.”

But he cuts me a swift, searching look. Hesitates. “Since we are already here, I suppose it would be a greater waste of time to leave without doing anything.”

It is my turn to be stunned. “Really?”

He uncrosses his arms and walks forward to join the crowd, then glances back at me. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’d prefer to watch you try,” I say as I move behind him.

His brows shoot up. “Me?”

“Yes, you. What, are you afraid you can’t do better than the others here?” I challenge him, biting back a laugh at his expression: a combination of indignation and disbelief that has the peculiar effect of softening his features, rendering them younger and more human. A warm, faintly itchy sensation spreads from the center of my chest to my fingertips. How could he possibly be the sick, heartless monster the vendor had spoken of?

“Of course I could do better—”

“Then do it,” I tell him, giving him a light push.

“Rujia—”

“I’ll cheer for you.”

He clamps his jaw shut and, to my utter surprise and delight, rolls up his sleeves.

The person standing in front of him is built like a soldier, his short neck and arms corded with thick muscle, his square jaw clenched tight as he tosses the arrow with visible effort. His posture is perfect, but the arrow flies too far, diving headfirst into the azalea bushes.

“It’s much harder than it looks,” the man grumbles, glaring around him as if daring anyone to disagree. “The arrows aren’t even proper arrows. They’re too light at the ends, and that canister is curved weirdly . . . Nothing like the ones I use at home; I would get it in every time . . .”

But when Keran’s turn comes, he picks up the arrow and tosses it as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Just a wave of the wrist, a shift in weight. He barely lifts his head, yet the arrow sails in a clean, faultless curve through the air and lands inside the canister with a clatter. He takes the next few arrows and tosses. Over and over, his movements sharp and nimble and graceful. All the arrows fall smoothly into the narrow opening. The crowd swells, attracting more people than even the fire-breathers and pipa players. While the applause had been lukewarm before, more encouraging than admiring, it picks up into an earnest roar now. Children gasp and marvel aloud each time Keran succeeds.

In the beginning, he looks bemused by the response, as if convinced all these people are clapping for somebody else. But gradually, his features soften, and a subdued smile tugs at his lips.