I put the rice to boil in a pot on the stove, and I remembered Xiayin, flushed and short of breath as she stopped still with her hands on her knees and called out to me, “How many phoenixes do you think there are?”

“My grandmother said there used to be thousands upon thousands, in the old days, when people were more virtuous, more loved by the gods. These days she reckons there are only dozens. A few hundred at most.”

“Was your grandmother around when there were thousands of phoenixes?”

My grandmother had suddenly appeared at my side. “I’m not that old,” she’d said drily. “But phoenixes are a rare blessing in our world now, and Jingzhi is lucky to have one. Her life is sure to be a full and prosperous one.” She patted my shoulder fondly.

Xiayin had pulled a face. “What about the rest of us who aren’t so lucky?”

“I don’t have one, and my life turned out just fine.” Grandmother was cheerful. “Hard work and determination and a great deal of kindness will get the rest of us where we want to go.” She nodded at her own wisdom, and then she frowned at me. “Not that this means you won’t need to work hard and be kind too, of course. In fact, you have to work even harder to make sure you deserve this blessing and Chilli Oil doesn’t just fly off forever because you’ve been a lazy pig.”

I’d gulped. “Would she really do that?”

Xiayin had laughed and laughed. “Don’t be a lazy pig and you won’t find out,” she’d teased, before Chilli Oil dived down from the treetop and glided low over Xiayin’s head, so that she yelped in alarm and ducked.

It was my turn to laugh at the adorable sound she’d made, and Grandmother had said, quietly so Xiayin did not hear, “It’s good to see how happy your friend makes you. It’s important to hold on to the people who make you this happy. That’s the secret to having a full and prosperous life.”

I’d squinted at her cheekily. “Not hard work and determination and kindness?”

“It takes all those things to hold on to someone through your whole life, Jingzhi. Ask your grandfather, he’ll say the same.”

Her words rattled in my head. By the time she snapped at me in the present to check the rice, I had left it simmering for too long.

When I brought the overcooked rice to the table, my mother grimaced. “What is wrong with you today?”

I shrugged. Grandmother sighed and heaped stir-fried beans and steamed chicken on to my bowl of mushy rice, and I forced myself to eat all of it so she wouldn’t be too concerned.

After lunch, my mother came into my room, where I was sketching formless things, restless things, and she ruffled my hair and said, “Talk to me, please, Jingzhi.”

I looked up at her. Her white hairs, like streaks of snow fallen on charcoal. The lines around her eyes. The wood shavings that had snagged in the fabric of her blue dress. Sorrow stopped my throat, and the fear of being vulnerable around my mother. I wanted to be a good daughter, but I was afraid I would never be good enough.