“My father?” My chest tightened as I spoke the words.
She closed the book, her gaze lingering on its cover. Afraid that she might leave, I lifted the porcelain teapot and poured her a cup. It was cold, but she sipped it without complaint.
“In the Mortal Realm, we loved each other,” she began, her voice low and soft. “He loved you, too—even before you were born. And now . . .” Her words trailed off as she blinked furiously.
I held her hand to comfort her, and as a gentle reminder that I was still here.
“And now, we are parted for eternity.”
I could barely think through the thoughts cramming my head, the emotions surging within me. For as long as I could remember, my father had been no more than a shadowy presence in my mind. How often had I dreamed of him sitting across from me as we ate our meals, strolling beside me beneath the flowering trees. Each time I awoke, the warmth in my chest dissolved to a hollow ache. Today, I finally knew my father’s name, and that he had loved me.
It was little wonder that my mother appeared haunted all this time, trapped in her memories. What had happened to my father? Was he still in the Mortal Realm? How did we end up here? Yet I gulped back my questions, as my mother wiped her tears away. Oh, how I wanted to know, but I would not hurt her to ease my selfish curiosity.
Time to an immortal was as rain to the boundless ocean. Ours was a peaceful life, a pleasant one, and the years passed by as though they were weeks. Who knows how many decades would have swept by in this manner if my life had not been tossed into turmoil, as a leaf torn from its branch by the wind?
It was a clear day, the sunlight streaming through my window. I set aside my lacquered qin, closing my eyes to rest. As had happened before, silver flecks of light drifted into my mind, tugging and teasing at me—just as how the scent of osmanthus drew me to the forest each morning. I wanted to reach out to them but recalled my mother’s stern warning.
“Don’t go near them, Xingyin,” she had pleaded, her skin ashen. “It’s too dangerous. Trust me, they will fade.”
I had stammered my promise to her then. And over the years, I had kept my word diligently, too. Whenever a glint of silver beckoned to me, I thought furiously of other things—a song or my latest book—until my mind cleared and they faded away. Yet it was harder each time, the lights blazing brighter, their call more tantalizing. The urge to reach out, almost overwhelming.
How brightly they glittered today, as though sensing my wavering resolve, the restless churning in my blood. I had felt this more often of late, a part of me yearning for . . . something which had no name. A change, perhaps. But nothing ever happened here. Nothing ever changed.
The lights did not seem dangerous. Was my mother mistaken? She had cautioned me against countless things, as harmless as climbing a tree or running through the halls, maybe recalling such perils from her mortal childhood. I drew closer to the radiance in my mind. Closer than I had ever been before. Something clutched at me, dragging me away—was it fear or guilt? But reckless now, I tore through it as though it were cobwebs. I was at the brink, teetering on the edge. A current raced through my veins, whispers coiling between my ears. Leaning forward, I reached out—only to see the shimmering silver scatter as the starlight at dawn.
My eyes flew open, my senses tingling. I had no idea how long I sat there, lost in a daze. Beyond my window, the evening sun infused the sky with threads of rose and gold. The thrill gone; remorse sat like a stone in my chest. I had broken my promise to my mother. And worse yet, I wanted to do it again. Those lights were not dangerous, they were a part of me—I knew that now with startling certainty. Why had she warned me from them? I will ask her, I decided, rising to my feet. I am old enough to know.
Just as I reached the entrance, a strange energy thrummed through the air, raising the hair on the back of my neck. Immortal auras—unfamiliar to me—shifting and mingling as the clouds in the sky. I could not tell how many, although one seemed to blaze brighter than the rest, far stronger than my mother’s or Ping’er’s.
Who had come here?
As I flung the doors open, my mother flew into my room. I stumbled back, knocking into a chair. Did she discover what I had done? Was she here to scold me?
I hung my head. “I’m sorry, Mother. The lights—”
She grasped my shoulders. “Never mind that, Xingyin. A visitor has arrived. She mustn’t know that you’re here. That you’re my daughter.”
My pulse raced at the thought of meeting someone new. Then, her meaning sank in—as did her tone—and my excitement crumpled like a sheet of paper. “You don’t want me to meet your friend?”
Her hands fell away from me, the planes of her face hardening until they seemed carved from marble. “Not a friend. She is the empress of the Celestial Kingdom. She doesn’t know about you, nobody does. And we can’t let them find you!”
Her words—tumbling out in a rush—startled me, despite the excitement which sparked within. I had read the Celestial Kingdom was the mightiest of the eight immortal lands, nestled like a precious teardrop at the heart of the realm. Its emperor and empress lived in a palace that floated upon a bank of clouds, from where they governed over the Celestials and mortals, and watched over the sun, moon, and stars. In all our time here, they had never deigned to visit our remote home, so why now?
And why did I have to hide?
A strange flutter in the pit of my stomach spread icy tendrils through my core. “Is something wrong?” I asked, hoping she would deny it.
She touched my cheek gently. “I’ll explain everything later. For now, stay in your room and don’t make a sound.”
I nodded and she left, shutting the doors behind her. Only then did I realize that my mother had not answered my question. I opened a book, dropping it down again after reading the same line thrice. My fingers plucked a qin string, but then pinched it to muffle the note. As I stared at the closed doors, a burning curiosity engulfed me, consuming my fear. Slowly, I walked toward it, sliding it open a crack. Just one look at the Celestial Empress and I would return to my room. When would I get another chance to see her, one of the most powerful immortals in the realm? And she might even be wearing her Phoenix Crown, said to be crafted from feathers of pure gold and embellished with a hundred luminous pearls.
As silent as a shadow, I tiptoed down the long corridor that led from my room to the Silver Harmony Hall—the grandest room in our Pure Light Palace—with its marble floor, jade lamps, and silk hangings. Wooden pillars set into ornate silver bases added a touch of warmth to its pristine elegance. This was where I had always imagined we would entertain our guests, although we never had one until now.
Just around the corner, a soft voice drifted through. I strained my ears to listen.
“Chang’e, have you been well?” The Celestial Empress’s cordial address surprised me. She did not sound so very fearsome.
“Yes, Your Celestial Majesty. Thank you for your concern.” My mother’s voice was unnaturally bright.
A brief silence followed this exchange of courtesies. Crouching down by the wall, I craned my neck to peek into the room. My mother knelt on the floor, her head bowed low—while across from her, seated in my mother’s own chair, had to be the Celestial Empress.