He gestures to a pile of equipment near his feet. Some of it, like the ropes, look like gear I’d find among the miners. Other items—metal rings, spikes, and hammer-like tools—are beyond me.

Some of this is from the mines, he confirms. The rest is from the magistrate’s supply shed. It has been stored there for centuries, but I was able to find pieces still in good shape. His face darkens. I had to steal all of it.

I know, I tell him. I had to steal the food too.

He shakes off his dismay and forces a smile. None of that will matter when we return with new supplies, right?

Right, I say, trying to smile back. I don’t bother pointing out what he already knows: that there’s no guarantee we’ll make it back, let alone with any bounty. Do you know how to use this stuff?

Much of it works like what we’ve used in the mines, he tells me. I’ve read up on what I don’t know and made some inquiries in the past. He glances up at the sky, where the full moon is descending in the west, still bright. In the east, however, I see a faint purpling of the sky as the sun readies itself for the day. Ready to go?

Ready as I’ll ever be, I reply.

He gives me a quick primer on the basics of the equipment and then shocks me when he uses some of the rope to tie us together. He grins when he sees my astonishment.

Nervous about being so close to me? he asks, giving the rope a slight tug.

I cross my arms, refusing to be baited by that dangerous question—even if there is truth to it. But whatever my feelings for him, I must focus on the larger picture: Zhang Jing and our village’s future.

Don’t get any ideas, I warn.

A small smile tugs at his lips. And what kind of ideas would those be, apprentice?

You know what kind of ideas. Just because we’re going on this journey, it doesn’t mean anything has changed. I meant what I said two years ago: My life has taken a different course. We can’t be together. I cross my arms imperiously, hoping I am convincing and that I’m not letting on that his nearness makes my pulse quicken.

He scrutinizes me, trying to determine if I’m telling the truth. Very well, he says. If that’s the way you feel, far be it from me to interfere. He gives the rope around my waist a test tug. There. It’s an older rope, but it should hold. I can’t risk you slipping and falling, he explains. This way, I can help you.

Or go down with me, I point out.

Then don’t fall, he advises.

The ropes and rings become a confusing web to me, but Li Wei understands them and how they’ll work to keep us safe. He secures our climbing ropes at the top of the cliff and hands me a pair of miner’s gloves. Although we are loosely tied to each other, we each have our own rope to rappel down with, and I grip mine with a tightness born out of fear as much as necessity. Li Wei makes the first leap, launching himself over the edge. A pit opens up in my stomach as I watch him drop, but then the rope goes taut in his grip, and his feet land on the mountain’s stony face, securing his position. Stable and safe, he glances up at me nonchalantly, as though what he just did was perfectly ordinary. Easy, even. I’m sure I look terrified, but there is no coddling from Li Wei. The challenge in his gaze spurs me on, and before I have a chance to second-guess myself, I leap over the edge as well.

I do exactly as he did, hopping only a short distance down, but that first leap feels a hundred miles long. The air rushes past me, and for a few terrifying seconds, I feel as though I’m floating, with nothing to save me. Then my feet strike the mountain’s side with a teeth-rattling jolt. The rope above me holds true, and I squeeze it tightly, grateful for its security . . . yet fully aware that its security is a tenuous thing. One snap, one slip, and there would be nothing to save me from the drop.

Li Wei nods at me in approval, and with that, our journey begins.

I’ve climbed and played on ropes before, especially when I was younger. I have the strength to do it, but it’s been a long time. My hands, more used to the delicate work of painting and drawing, are unaccustomed to this type of labor and soon begin to hurt from the exertion. I refuse to let Li Wei see my pain, however, and keep pace with him as we descend the rocky mountain face in the moonlight.

We’ve only been going a few minutes when I hear rocks crashing and realize holding the rope requires both hands. I can’t signal to Li Wei that we’ve triggered our first avalanche. Panicked, I twist my hips in a way that tugs our adjoining rope. He looks over at me, and I jerk my head to my opposite side. Understanding, he quickly drops and swings off in the other direction, making room for me to take his spot just as a tumble of rocks falls near my original position.

When they are gone and all is quiet, I stay frozen where I am, feet planted on the cliff and hands clinging tightly to the rope. My heart is racing frantically at the close call, and despair starts to hit me as I squeeze my eyes shut. The journey has barely started, and we’ve already faced a rockslide. How can we possibly make it to the bottom?

A tug at the joining rope makes me open my eyes. I look over at Li Wei, and his face is strong and calm as he meets my gaze. Although he can’t speak, the conviction in his expression tells me what he would say: We can do this. I need you. You are still that brave girl who climbed the shed.

I take a deep breath and try to force calm. He does need me. Zhang Jing needs me too. After several more tense seconds, I give a short nod to let him know I’m ready to keep going. He smiles encouragingly—one of those rare, wonderful smiles that transforms his whole face—and we continue with our descent.

It is slow, painstaking work. We have to be careful of every move we make, and more rocks follow those initial ones. Some are avoidable. In some cases, we find it’s best just to freeze and cling to the side, waiting for the rocks to pass. We work out a system of tugs with our adjoining ropes and head gestures to help us determine what to do.

When we take our first true break, I’m unsure how much time has passed. But the moon has gone, and sunrise is now lighting our way. We come across a relatively flat piece of rock jutting out and leading to a shallow cave. Li Wei tests the rock ledge and deems it safe for us to sit on and rest as he gathers up excess line and prepares for the remainder of the climb. I exhale and stretch my legs, surprised at how tense my muscles have grown. The top of the mountain, where we started, looks impossibly far away. Glancing down, though, the bottom is farther still, hidden in mist. For a moment, I am dizzy as I contemplate my position here, suspended between heaven and earth. Li Wei’s hands move in my periphery.

Don’t do that, he says.

Do what?

He gestures around. That. Looking up and down. It will overwhelm you.

You talk like a seasoned climber, I tease. Like you do this all the time.

I’ve done similar things in the mines—nothing on this scale. After a moment, he gives me a grudging smile. You’re doing well.

Better than you expected? I ask.

He looks me over, his gaze lingering a bit longer than it needs to. No. I knew you could do it.

I nod in acknowledgment and glance around, trying to do as he says and not focus on the top or bottom of the climb. Here, on this small perch, I’m struck by how still everything is. Back in the village during the day, there was always an abundance of sound. Here, there is very little, and I enjoy the small respite. Is this silence? No, I decide, thinking back to the writings I read. Silence is no sound—the way I lived before. This is merely quiet, because some noises still come through to me. The sound of my feet shifting on the rock. Faint wind blowing past us.