Two ropes were tied to a metal ring attached to the wall. One was thick and braided, the other thinner and twisted. The nun put a hand on the thinner rope and pointed again to make sure Lian knew which one to take. She started down the passageway and Lian followed, keeping her hand on the rope, which was strung through a series of metal rings. Soon the only sounds were the nun’s tuneless, repetitive humming and the shuffle of their feet as they moved deeper into the caves. At one point the passage forked and the thin rope ended, tied off on a spike, while the heavy one continued around the corner. On the other side of the fork, another metal ring held the next length of thin rope and they followed it down the second tunnel.

They emerged into an oblong chamber, its ceiling too high for the small oil lamps to illuminate.

“The Willow Star and the Prince!” the nun announced, swinging her arm in a wide arc. “Look, look at the paintings!”

Lian lifted her lamp. The curved limestone walls had been whitewashed to provide a background for the murals. A series of paintings, each inside a black-lined border, covered the longest wall of the cavern. Even in the dim light and from several feet away, Lian could see how rough they were, the figures crude and stiff, the colors tawdry. She stepped closer and it was obvious that the outlines of older images had been traced over inexpertly with a thick brush, the shapes filled in with solid colors, no shading or highlights.

Some of the background had been spared, however. Lian moved along the wall and found faint details. A delicate clump of irises and gentian, a pair of waterfowl standing atop a rock. The original artist had taken clever advantage of the uneven rock surface so that a goose’s body jutted out while its neck and head pulled back in surprise. A horse’s muscular haunches bulged and a rabbit peeked out from a hole in the limestone.

“These are not the originals,” Sparrow said, turning to the nun. “When were they painted over?”

The nun looked offended. “The paintings are renewed whenever we can afford an artist. Anyway, the pictures aren’t important, it’s the story that matters.”

Sparrow smiled. “You’re right. It’s more important that the legend survives. We thank you for its preservation.”

There was a sweet, melodious quality to her voice when she said this and Lian saw the nun’s eyes widen. Lamplight played across her elderly features, which softened as though she were a girl again.

“The murals are from the later decades of the Ming Dynasty,” the nun said, her expression neutral once more as she addressed Lian, “but they say the story of the Willow Star is from before the Tang Dynasty, so the legend itself could be a thousand years old.”