Shin’s lips thin, a darkness shadowing his face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head. “We go to Moon House. To the Goddess of Women and Children.”
15
We leave the palace through the front gate, which has remained open despite Namgi’s claim that it’s closed for most of the year. If Shin finds this odd, he doesn’t comment on it. I look for Mask and Miki among the market stalls outside the palace but catch no sign of them, though a few spirits glance in our direction, clearly surprised to find two individuals coming out of the palace.
“This way, Mina,” Shin says, and I follow him down a side street, away from the crowds. As we walk, I refold the paper boat. The characters of the wish might be smudged, but that shouldn’t prevent the goddess from knowing the true heart of the wish, which often can’t be expressed in words. That’s why, though we celebrate the paper boat festival once a year, any human can pray to the gods at any time, whether at a shrine or where they feel closest to the gods—standing in a field while the wind blows, by the fire as it crackles brightly, on the cliffs by the sea.
This wish should have reached the goddess, regardless of the paper boat, given as it was from the heart. But perhaps the gods and goddesses of the world aren’t able to hear our prayers, the connection between the human world and the spirit world broken because of the Sea God’s curse.
Traveling with Shin is a different experience from traveling with Namgi or the spirits. Perhaps because he doesn’t want to be stopped or recognized, he takes mostly back alleys, cutting through private courtyards and bustling kitchens and even once climbing the stairs of a teahouse to jump from the balcony onto a lower roof. As he turns back to help me, I quickly jump down, landing a little inelegantly, but on my feet. He lifts one brow, and I shrug.
As we head down a narrow street, a thought occurs to me. “Does Moon House have anything to do with the Goddess of Moon and Memory?”
“No,” Shin says. “One has nothing to do with the other. Moon House is dedicated to women and children, just as Sun House is to men and the emperor.”
“Emperor? But there is no emperor. He was killed years ago.”
“Which is why Sun House remains empty.”
Shin moves on ahead, but I follow at a slower pace now. A hundred years ago, the emperor was murdered, and the storms began. But even a god, no matter his love for the emperor, wouldn’t punish an entire people for the crime of one person. In the hall, when I touched the Sea God and looked into his memories, perhaps it was from that moment when the emperor was killed. What happened on that cliff so long ago that left an emperor murdered, two worlds torn apart, and a kingdom cursed for a hundred years?
“There it is,” Shin says grimly, pointing across the way. “Moon House.”
I’ve been so caught up in my thoughts, I didn’t realize we’d traveled to the outskirts of the city. Ahead of us stretches a long, shallow canal, debris floating across its muddied surface. Crumbled buildings with broken doors and shuttered windows border the dirt pathways on either side of the canal. After the babble and crush of the inner-city streets, the empty silence is unnerving, as is the lack of color. The Red String of Fate is the only brightness against the dull gray buildings. Desolation hangs thickly in the air.
Even in a city of gods, there are places like this.
At the end of the canal—beyond a shattered gate, its arch cracked in two—is a large building, like a crescent moon on its side. At the center of the house is a door ripped from its hinges, leaving only a gaping, black hole.
A shiver runs down my neck. Reaching into the pocket of my dress, I grip the paper boat.
This would be easier if Moon House didn’t appear so foreboding. Hundreds of windows look down on me like black, depthless eyes. I can’t see beyond the threshold of the door. The air grows colder as we draw near. A bitter breeze swirls out from the doorway and scrapes against my skin. I take a deep breath, stepping into darkness.
Warmth envelops me, and I blink, surprised. Considering the size of Moon House, I thought it would be cavernous, drafty, and damp. But the room I’ve entered is small, with a low ceiling and closed walls. I don’t see any doors leading deeper into the building. It’s as if the entirety of Moon House—which, from the outside looked as if it were several stories high, with many floors and hallways—consists of this one small room. Its only inhabitant is a woman.
She sits on a cushion behind a low table at the very back of the room. Beside her is a fire, crackling in its grate. It casts the woman in shadow. All I can see are the whites of her eyes and the curve of her red lips.