If only I had kept a little of the gold, silver, and precious stones that found their way to me. But there were few needs immortals could not satisfy on our own, whether coaxing a tree to bear fruit or conjuring water from the purest spring. It was whether we chose to make the effort, as drawing upon our magic was often more tiring than using our hands.

I pulled my flute from my pouch, twirling it once between my fingers. “The same trade as before?”

“A song for a shell,” he agreed. “How many do you need?”

“Eight. The smaller and plainer, the better.”

“Done.” Master Bingwen clasped his hands as he hurried to a chest, tugging its drawers open.

“What enchantment is in these shells?” Wenzhi asked.

“They can retain any sound that can be replayed at will.”

“How did you learn of it?”

I did not answer right away. The morning Liwei and I had spent wandering through the market was one of my most cherished memories, one of our few days of unsullied happiness together. “I met Master Bingwen at the Celestial market, where I exchanged a song for a shell.”

“He got the better end of the deal,” Wenzhi remarked.

Master Bingwen returned, balancing two trays in his hands. “For your selection.” He offered me one of the trays crammed with shells of white, gray, and pink, each no larger than my thumbnail. The other, which he set aside, had only eight exquisite shells, with elegant curves and graceful spires. Some were spiked or dusted with gold or silver, others with the radiant blush of a sunset.

I drew out my flute, my gaze sliding to Wenzhi’s. “You don’t have to listen.”

“It would be an honor.” It was what he had said when I offered to play for him the first time. He spoke with no anger, just a small smile on his face as he added, “Though I will be more cautious about accepting a cup from you.”

My eyes narrowed. “Caution, is a lesson we have both learned.”

As he settled himself upon a wooden stool, his palms resting upon his knees, I looked away from him, drawing my attention inward. The song must be flawless, for I would earn this trade. As I lifted the jade instrument to my lips, its familiar touch calmed me. Taking a deep breath, I released it to flow into the flute, the melody thrumming with the joy of spring awakening, the warmth in the air, the birds bursting into song. The next was a plaintive melody, each note ringed with sorrow, reverberating with loss. I kept my mind on the tune, not daring to think about its meaning, for then the frail hold over my emotions might snap. Eight songs I played, into the eight shells before me, my emotions swelling and crashing with the rise and fall of the melodies—until at last, I was spent.