The emperor laughed, a cruel, cold laugh that filled the sky.

“She’s right!” he said to them as his laughter echoed. “I never wanted the stone!”

The emperor was looking at Yishan with malicious triumph, an almost hungry look in his eyes.

“It was you!” the emperor said. “It was you I wanted all this time! I knew only you could bring me the stone, Ginseng Boy!”

Ginseng Boy? Pinmei whisked her head to look, openmouthed, at Yishan. He was staring back at the emperor in shock and, for the first time Pinmei could remember, she saw a flicker of fear on Yishan’s face. Pinmei suddenly felt as if she were seeing him for the first time, the redness of Yishan’s hat and clothes burning with a light of its own.

“Old Man of the Moon! Spirit of the Mountain! Whatever they call you!” the emperor continued. “You, who can never ignore mortal suffering! You, who always come to help! That’s how I knew you would come! And now that I have you, I will have my immortality!”

“No!” Yishan hissed, and he threw the stone at the emperor. For a moment, the world silenced. The stone flew in a direct arc toward the emperor’s chest, like a shooting star in the dark sky. The emperor’s eyes flashed in the light of the lanterns, showing sudden terror. But right before the stone hit, out of nowhere, a black shadow jumped in and seized it!

The shadow fell to the ground with a thud so hard the stones beneath it cracked, and Pinmei saw the shadow was a monkey. The ugly creature was on its back with its arms and legs flailing, but unable to move because of the weight of the stone on his chest. He was spitting and sputtering, and another monkey, a green bracelet around its arm gleaming in the light, scrambled to it. The second monkey struggled and hissed, trying to lift the stone, but it could no more move it than it could move the moon.

The emperor laughed again and waved his hand. In an instant, the guards piled atop Yishan, his red hat disappearing from view.

“Here, only a mountain can lift the moon!” the emperor cackled. He began to stalk toward the hill of soldiers, his hand reaching for his sword. “The moon that is a tear cried by a fish-tail goddess! The tear that is stone that only you as the Mountain Spirit can carry! And you, as the Ginseng Boy, who I will kill to be immortal!”

“No!” Pinmei screamed. This time her scream released her legs, and she flew at the emperor. But his arms simply grabbed her as if scooping up a mound of snow, and his cruel laughter boomed in her ears.

However, instead of kicking and thrashing, Pinmei clutched at the emperor’s golden robes, searching. Where was it? There! There it was! It wasn’t a pin after all! It was a needle! A needle sticking into black embroidery. Black embroidery of a tortoise!

Her glimmering thought now sparked and flared. The Iron Rod can shrink to the size of a needle, the Sea King had said. I gave her that needle from the treasury, Joy to the Heart had said. I sewed him a dragon shirt to protect him, even leaving in my needle, said Lady Meng. The Tiger King held the piece of shirt in his hands, the king of the City of Bright Moonlight said, and then became invincible. Pinmei stared at the needle. Could it? Could it be? It had to be!

So, with the emperor’s laughter still echoing across the courtyard, Pinmei grabbed the needle and yanked the Iron Rod off the Black Tortoise of Winter.

CHAPTER

72

The sky bellowed.

It was a deafening noise, and those who were not already on the ground were knocked to their knees. Pinmei fell also, her fingers still clutching the needle, its point brandished toward the emperor like a sword. The unraveled black thread of the embroidered turtle stretched between them and melted away into the dark sky like a thin wisp of smoke. The emperor stared in disbelief.

But that was all he could do. An enormous burst of wind and winter ripped through the heavens. Pinmei flew forward, the power of it shoving her to her hands and knees, still clutching the needle, its point wedged into the mosaic stones of the courtyard. Between the thunderous roars of the wind, Pinmei heard screams and shouts and the chaos of fleeing figures. The earth seemed to be cresting a gigantic wave, throwing everyone around her like shaken droplets of water.

The sedan chair splintered into pieces, and lanterns were scattered. Oil and flames were flung across the courtyard, and flowers of fire bloomed from the frozen earth. Trees bowed in deep kowtows or broke their backs, a series of snaps like firecrackers popping, until one loud, sickening crack added to the cacophony in the sky.

Pinmei raised her head and watched in horror. A gigantic, invisible force was crushing the Black Tortoise Gate. The grand gate tore apart as if made of paper, scattering tiles and stone on the earth like sudden rain. The emperor was tossed forward and backward, his robe making him look like a golden ingot being juggled. Finally, he crashed against the largest column of the gate just as it collapsed. It fell to the ground, and the emperor disappeared beneath it. An inhuman howl, full of pain and resentment and anger, cut through the bellowing wind. The awful sound echoed and reverberated so much that even the stars seemed to shiver. A huge cloud of black dust swelled into the sky, and even the moon ceased to exist.

But in the darkness, Pinmei saw the faint red glow of the thread around her wrist. Her fingers still held the needle, its point embedded in the ground, the only ground that was unmoving and unshaken. The light from the thread spread down to the needle and over her arm, covering her entirely. She heard the shards of tile, torn branches, and slivers of wood pounding against the stone courtyard like the beating of drums, but nothing touched her. “The thread,” she whispered. “It’s protecting me and the needle is keeping this ground still.”

A great gust split through the cloud, the black dust disintegrating into the night sky. The full moon burst through the darkness, brighter and more brilliant than before. Its light cascaded upon the earth like the divine glory of a goddess, and the world was silent again.

CHAPTER

73

It was a soft silence. The wind and the sky had finally quieted, and it was not the tense, anticipating stillness of winter, the pause of the tortoise taking a breath before a thunderous howl. No, it was the calm, grateful quiet of one seeing a friend return home.

Pinmei stood. The moon above spread its light generously, muting the ruins and wreckage. But Pinmei did not notice, for moonlight also fell upon a small, fragile figure crumpled in heap not far from her.