“Who’s they? Ms. Rabinowitz says we have to try to chart the way, um…” I double-checked her phrasing. “The way stories get inherited.”

“Ancient history-mystery whatnot.” Anjali Auntie waved her free hand impatiently.

“Did you study it or something?”

“No. No, I just have an interest.” Her shoulders softened, even as she gripped the blowtorch by its neck. “I have a friend—a catering client—who studies all these things.”

“Okay. Okay, so, the mythical river. Gold’s supposed to make you immortal?” I glanced meaningfully at what we had laid out on the table, though kept mum for the sake of the recorder.

Anjali Auntie lowered her voice. “Not this type.” Then she spoke in a more normal tone. “Only pure gold, they say, straight from the earth. Gold that runs in rivers and in soil, et cetera. All other gold that’s been made or owned by humans”—she mimicked my glance at the table—“contains human desire or ambition. But with pure gold, well, then you can live forever. Oh, don’t use this, Neil. I’ll think of some other ancient story for you. Something from the Ramayana, maybe. Can you turn that off a moment?”

I shut off the recorder and helped lift the blowtorch. Over the low roar, she recited something foreign, hoarse, and musical: Asya swarnasya kantihi… The blue flames overtook the basin until the fire quelled. Left over: the low gleam of the smelted gold, gurgling thickly, being born. An espresso cup’s worth of the stuff.

“Is that a prayer?” I asked when she was done. I’d been working up the courage to further inquire into the specifics of the ritual.

“Not to God, really,” she said. “More to the balance of forces, time, the elements—we’re asking for a certain power of the gold’s to be surfaced. In this case, the ambition it contains.”

“Can I ask something dumb?”

“Not if it’s something else off that sheet of yours.”

“What is it, really? Gold. What’s the big deal about it?”

“It’s old as the stars. Literally, some of it comes from neutronstar collisions.”

“Really?”

“Some of it. Gold’s old as you can imagine—older than your mind can comprehend. It exists deep in the planet’s core, and some of it came to earth when asteroids struck. Chemically, it’s unique—resistant to most acids. Stuff that would break down even silver won’t harm gold. That’s why it’s been so valuable.”

“And you can’t make more of it.”

“That’s what they say. Too expensive.” She was making her way to the fridge, where the pitcher of lemonade waited. Together, we poured the gold in. Before the lemonade, the broken-down gold smells intense and acrid, nauseating. But when that enchanted gold hits the perfect brew of lemonade, everything changes. There comes the ached-for plonk of something thick and heavy into liquid. The hiss as it diffuses into long dancing columns. The supernatural carbonation igniting the cravings. I still miss it sometimes.