Wine flowed freely in Heaven, and minor gods scurried to and fro carrying ripe peaches from the Queen Mother of the West’s orchards. Drums and trumpets were assembled in rows played in triumphant, wanton synchrony. Goddesses clad in the colors of blooming spring and ripe autumn danced, their sashes trailing lazily behind their bodies like light slowed in water.

The dancers moved in unison, but half of the smiles were without joy. They opened their mouths for the onlooking gods to pour fragrant wine into their mouths. To the music’s crescendo, the dancers raised their arms, their sleeves transforming into wings as they flew away to settle into the branches of Heaven’s ancient trees.

Several of the dancers shed their robes and became goddesses once more, fanning themselves with their hands as they disappeared into the merry throng of gods. The scattered applause from lesser gods mattered not to them; their beauty was for the Jade Emperor and the Queen Mother alone.

The rest of the birds remained in their true form. The celestial phoenixes could not openly mourn the loss of their sister, but a sense of foreboding was palpable among their ranks.

“There is a price to pay for our sister’s transgression,” a phoenix with feathers the rich green of summer leaves said quietly as to not be heard over the music’s din.

The rest of the phoenixes tittered nervously in agreement.

“The Queen Mother will likely ask for one of us to be punished.”

The flock of birds shuddered as they watched goddesses glide through the clouds, their robes fine plumage taken from the birds’ bodies. Such was the sacrifice to remain in the Queen Mother’s garden. Such was the price paid for beauty.

Within the imperial hall of the Jade Emperor, the dragons remained stationed at their pillars. They seemed still as stone save for the flow of their manes and whiskers, drifting as if underwater still. They seemed serene as the Buddha save for the way their claws dug into the alabaster pillars of the Jade Emperor’s halls.

Once the sound of revelry reached an overwhelming din, Ao Xue, the oldest among them, spoke quietly so only the other dragons could hear.

“We will not speak of Ao Luming again. Ao Sheng does not have son.”

“Ao Sheng does not have a son,” the other dragons replied in unison.

“Our kind will not be disgraced.”

“Our kind will not be disgraced.”

The dragons watched the party from afar; their stillness could be mistaken for stone.

In a corner of the heavenly gardens where the music was only a whisper, Bixian knelt with the Weaver as they turned over each demon pelt. “This one is quite worn,” the Weaver said, holding up a dusky eagle pelt.

“That is Luo Xingxi, the eagle’s daughter,” Bixian replied. “She was the oldest of the children there.”

The Weaver nodded as she smoothed out a broken feather, and then placed the pelt among the others. “Change is more difficult for older children. I wish them all joy in the mortal life they have been given,” she said wistfully, thinking of the mortal life she was denied. “You have done a great kindness for the demon children and their parents, Bixian.”

Bixian clenched her fists and felt the Knife of Sublimation burn at her side. Goddesses clad in feathered robes approached them, hoisting a golden calabash between them. One of the goddesses nodded to Bixian and the Weaver as she decanted a pill of immortality from the calabash into each of their hands.

Bixian placed the pill brewed in Taishang Laojun’s furnace onto her tongue and let the bitter taste of divinity wash over her. “I did what I could,” she said to the Weaver. “And it was worth it.”