²Olden Crown.

005.

Frank was dumbfounded. He looked more closely at the mahogany box. For a horrible moment, he wondered if it contained his mother's ashes, but that was impossible. Grandmother had told him there would be a military burial. Then why did Grandmother hold the box so gingerly, as if its contents grieved her?

"Come inside," she ordered. Without waiting to see if he would follow, she turned and marched toward the house.

In the parlor, Frank sat on a velvet sofa, surrounded by vintage family photos, porcelain vases that had been too large for his wagon, and red Chinese calligraphy banners. Frank didn't know what the calligraphy said, he had never had much interest in learning; he didn't know most of the people in the photographs, either. Whenever Grandmother started lecturing him about his ancestors—how they'd come over from China and prospered in the import/export business, eventually becoming one of the wealthiest Chinese families in Vancouver—well, it was boring. Frank was a fourth-generation Canadian. China felt so removed from him, like it couldn't possibly be real. The only Chinese character he could recognize was his family name: Zhang. Master of bows.

Grandmother sat next to him, her posture stiff, her hands folded over the box. "Your mother wanted you to have this," she said with reluctance, nearly a sneer on her lips. "She kept it since you were a baby. When she went away to the war, she entrusted it to me. But now she is gone. And soon you will be going, too."

Frank's stomach dropped. He may not like his grandmother, but she was the only family he had left. "Going? Where?"

"I am old," Grandmother said, as if that were a surprising announcement. "I have my own appointment with Death soon enough. I cannot teach you the skills you will need, and I cannot keep this burden. If something were to happen to it, I would never forgive myself. You would die."

Frank's eyes flickered over to Grandmother. He would die if something happened to the box? She must have kept it locked in the attic—the one room he was forbidden to explore. She'd always said she kept her most valuable treasures up there. Was this a treasure to her? She handed the box to him. Frank opened the lid with trembling fingers. Inside, cushioned in velvet lining, was a terrifying, life-altering, incredibly important ... piece of wood.

It looked like driftwood—hard and smooth, sculpted into a wavy shape. It was about the size of a TV remote control. The tip was charred. Frank touched the burned end. It still felt warm. The ashes left a black smudge on his finger.

He swallowed the bile in his throat. He had nearly puked for ... this? "It's a stick," he said plainly, wiping away the black smudge on the end of his finger. Why would Grandmother act so tense and serious about this?

Her eyes glittered. "Fai, do you know of prophecies? Do you know of the gods?"

The questions made him uncomfortable. He thought about Grandmother's gold statues of Chinese immortals, and he thought about the superstitions about putting furniture in certain places and avoiding unlucky numbers that she preached to him as he grew up. Prophecies made him think of fortune cookies, which weren't even Chinese—not really—but the bullies at school teased him about stupid stuff like that: Confucius say ... and then whatever racist garbage they would spew. Frank had never even been to China. He wanted nothing to do with it. But of course, Grandmother didn't want to hear that.

"... A little, Grandmother," he admitted hesitantly. "Not much."

"Most would have scoffed at your mother's tale," she said, "But I did not. I know of prophecies and gods. Greek, Roman, Chinese—they intertwine in our family. I did not question what she told me about your father."