“I hope so,” said Han Fei-tzu. “If she didn’t, the gods will surely save the echo of it and put it in a seashell and let her listen to it whenever she puts it to her ear.” This sort of fanciful storytelling was a game they had played together as children. Qing-jao set aside her dread and quickly came up with an answer. “No, the gods will save the touch of our embrace and weave it into a shawl, which she can wear around her shoulders when winter comes to heaven.”
