Chapter 38

ZHEN

That night, Zhen stepped into Xian's bedchamber carrying a tray with a bowl of congee prepared by the palace kitchen. Feng

had reported that Xian had refused to eat all day; he had retreated to his chamber after returning from the coffin home, leaving

strict word that no one except Zhen had permission to enter.

The room was unlit except for a single oil lamp, and the windows were all shut. A hunched figure in an apricot-yellow robe

was sitting on the floor by the side of the platform bed, knees drawn to his chest. It broke Zhen's heart to see the other

boy this way. He wanted nothing more than to cross the room and embrace Xian, but he didn't dare.

Xian spoke in the darkness. "The monks just finished performing tonight's rituals at the coffin home." His voice was thick,

scratchy. "The rites will continue in the morning."

Zhen carefully set the tray on a table. "I brought you something to eat."

Xian raised his head. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. "Why didn't you come earlier?"

Zhen blinked. "Feng said you needed time to be alone. And... I didn't think you'd want to see me."

"Why wouldn't I want to see you?"

Zhen bit the inside of his cheek. He walked to Xian and dropped to his knees next to him. They were a couple of feet apart,

but it felt like a chasm lay between them.

Zhen slipped his hand into his sleeve pocket, took out the chain with the broken amulet, and held it out to Xian.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

He was reminded of the first time he had said these words to Xian, when his nose had bled after Xian showed him the case filled

with instruments for catching snakes and he'd realized that Xian was the boy he had taken the spirit pearl from.

Then, he had hoped that Xian would never find out what he was apologizing for.

Now he had nothing more to hide. He wasn't just the cause of Xian's mother's unnecessary suffering in the past seven years—he

was also the reason she had died in distress, thinking her son was in grave danger.

A long moment passed before Xian reached out and took the amulet from Zhen's palm.

"Nothing you say will ease the pain and sorrow of losing my mother," he said. A sharp pang went through Zhen's chest, but then Xian continued speaking. "Can you just hold me instead?"

The raw emotion that rose in Zhen's throat was almost too much to hold back. He put his arms around Xian, gently, like he

was a bird with broken wings. Xian was the one who pulled him forward and hugged him tightly. He buried his face in Zhen's

neck, and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

"She asked for me. But I wasn't there by her side... at the end." Xian's voice was muffled. "I am an unworthy son."

"No, you aren't." Zhen held Xian close, hoping he sounded as fervent as he felt. "Blame me if you must. Just don't torment

yourself. I can't bear to see you this way."

Xian pulled back. He looked at Zhen with red-rimmed eyes. "My only regret is that she never had the chance to meet you."

Zhen felt as if his heart had been cleaved in half, the same way the jade amulet had split in two. He took Xian's hand, helped

him to his feet, guided him to the bed, and laid him down on it. He stretched out beside Xian and stroked away the stray strands

of hair that clung to the dampness on Xian's cheeks.

"Tell me everything about her," he said.

Xian dozed off midway through telling Zhen that when he was little, his mother told him that eating tāng yuán —glutinous rice balls cooked in soup—during the winter solstice would make him turn one year older. Later that evening, he

sneaked into the kitchen and gorged on so many tāng yuán that he threw up. When his mother asked why he'd done such a foolish thing, he told her that he wanted to grow tall faster

and have a beard like his father's.

Now Zhen gazed at Xian in his arms. The other boy's brows were pinched, the edges of his mouth downturned in grief. The last time they'd shared a bed was in the bamboo hut in the middle of the forest, their bodies entwined. That had been the perfect night, as if only the two of them existed, lost in each other and in their own world, with nothing and no one to pull them apart.

Zhen had once watched a street opera in a town he'd wandered through. He sat alone in the last row, captivated by the story

of the afterlife that unfolded on the makeshift stage. A person's soul journeyed to the underworld, passed through the ten

courts of hell, and finally met with Meng Po, the goddess of forgetfulness. She gave each soul a bowl of mí hún tāng , the broth of oblivion. Drinking it made them forget all their memories—the bad as well as the good—so they could truly leave

their past lives behind before being reborn.

At the end, the main performer had stage-whispered conspiratorially that some lovers managed to avoid drinking Meng Po's broth

of oblivion. They were reborn with memories of their beloveds and found their way back to each other in their next life.

Was that possible for him? Did snake spirits go through reincarnation as humans did? Or would he lose his memories of everything

in this life?

Would he forget Xian?

He spent the rest of the night gazing at Xian's sleeping face, memorizing every angle, every imperfection. It felt like they

had shared an entire lifetime in the span of a few weeks—it was more than Zhen could ask, and yet it wasn't enough. Not nearly

enough.

Do you believe in destiny? Zhen had asked.

I believe destiny is an excuse people give not to fight for what they really want in life , Xian had replied.

Will you fight for what you want?

Always.

At the break of dawn, Zhen carefully extricated his arm from under Xian and lowered his head onto the pillow without waking

him. Xian didn't stir; his fingers reflexively curled around the piece of broken jade, as if he were clinging to a last memory

of the mother he had just lost.

"Zhī jǐ." Zhen leaned down and pressed a kiss to Xian's forehead. "My soulmate."

Back in the hut in the mountains, Xian had thought Zhen was asleep when he whispered that term of endearment, but Zhen had

heard it. He had carried those two words in his heart. Would carry them always.

When Zhen exited the bedchamber, Feng was waiting outside. He acknowledged Zhen with a curt dip of his chin, and together

they walked out through the gates of the royal manor.

As they stepped onto the terrace, Feng spoke. "How is he?"

"Asleep," Zhen replied. "He's exhausted."

Feng's expression was sober. "He doesn't know what you're going to do?"

Zhen shook his head. "You mustn't tell Qing either." He paused. "I have one more favor to ask of you."