“I only know what’s here,” the nun said. “Stay and look at the paintings as long as you like.” She handed the lamp back to Sparrow and caught hold of the thin rope. Soon there was only the shuffle of her cloth shoes fading into the passageway.

“I promised to sketch the murals for Professor Kang,” Lian said. “The lamps should be good for another hour, shouldn’t they?”

“I’ll let you know when we need to leave, Miss Hu,” Sparrow said. “And I’ll hold up the lamps for you.”

“It makes me want to cry when I think how many stories have been lost from not being written down,” Lian said, pulling a sheet of plain paper from her rucksack.

“But tales alter over time, anyway,” Sparrow said. “In the marketplace or their own homes, storytellers shape narratives to suit their audience and the times. They add and remove details, even change the moral of the story. Yet each version is authentic.”

“Sparrow, that’s astonishing.” Lian looked up. “You could research and write an entire thesis on that subject.”

A peal of laughter, and lamplight wobbled. “Too much work,” Sparrow said.

“The Willow Star made a bad bargain,” Lian said, turning back to her sketching. “Why did she ever agree to such impossible conditions?”

“She was only a maidservant negotiating with the Queen Mother of Heaven,” Sparrow said. “Perhaps she believed her love was strong enough to overcome impossible conditions.”

“And she’s been enduring life after life for a thousand years,” Lian said.

“But she’s immortal,” Sparrow said. “Maybe immortals feel the passage of time differently than we do. Maybe a hundred years to her is only the blink of an eye, a single beat of the heart.”

“But still, it can’t be easy,” Lian said. “She’s at the Prince’s side through all his lives, watching him grow up, marry, raise children. Watching him fall in love with mortals.”

There was a long silence. “I like to think,” Sparrow said, “that while the Willow Star is on Earth, the Prince can’t fall in love with anyone.”

“The poor Willow Star,” Lian murmured, finishing her sketch of the last mural.

“But she has hope. And therefore persistence,” Sparrow said. “The persistence of water, no matter how small a trickle, eventually wears a path through rock. And eternity is more porous than rock.”

They walked back along the path, the scent of leaf mold rising up as their footsteps disturbed the ground. Lian peered through the shrubs for a view of the fishing village and to her relief the village’s one main road looked peaceful, the houses intact. There was no sign that enemy aircraft had done anything more than fly over. Zhongmiao’s small fleet of fishing boats was sailing back to shore. A strong wind had come up and gusts rippled the lake’s green surface.