A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (12)

He winces again. “I don’t mean it that way.”

I realize all my emotions must show on my face. Shu used to make fun of me. Tuck your chin in, she would say with a laugh, you look like an insulted rooster. She is the only one I would allow to tease me in such a way.

“I only want to offer my help.”

I look at him warily. “What could you possibly help me with?”

“I know this city. If you are looking to go somewhere or if you’re looking for something, I can lead you to the right place. Jia isn’t the safest for lone travelers. Haven’t you heard the tales? The Shadow could be on the loose, trying to catch you.”

I know he is joking, but a shiver shoots through me at the thought, remembering the secrets behind the mask.

A fleeting suspicion brushes my mind. Why did he follow me from the market?

Could he be the Shadow, who I tussled with all the way back in Sù?

But no, these thoughts are irrational. I take in the fineness of his silk tunic and the sheen of the jewels sewn into his belt. He is no bandit, and he has certainly never spent any time in a place like Sù.

The boy grins, and the sunlight makes his eyes sparkle. Something flutters inside me in response. Something not altogether unpleasant.

I do need help finding my way, and he may be able to help me find the tea I need more quickly than me stumbling around in the city, getting lost.

“Where are you going?” he asks. “Studying for an academic exam? Joining a performing troupe? Terrorizing the city guard?” Each option is more absurd than the last, until I can’t help but chuckle. It does remind me of my purpose, though, and my mood becomes somber again.

“I’m here for the competition,” I say gruffly.

His eyes widen. “A shénnóng-tú, are you? You don’t look like you’re old enough to attempt the trials.”

“The gift can be seen at any age,” I say, offended. It’s an assurance many shénnóng-shī give their apprentices. Each shénnóng-tú begins with an affinity for magic, but some are simply naturals at the art. If the talent is innate, it will show itself early, as Mother always said. She loved to tell the story of when she found me sifting through the dirt, no more than three years of age, pointing out the places where it sparkled, knowing what plants would thrive there. But I always brushed her away in embarrassment, believing it to be an exaggeration.

“What do you need to find?” He rubs his hands together. “I know all the best shops in the city.”

“I need a teahouse,” I tell him, deciding to trust this stranger if it will get me closer to my goal. “With the best selection of teas.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised at such a request by a shénnóng-tú,” he says. “That should be to the northwest of here. I can show you some of my favorite places along the way.”

I quickly calculate the time I have left to gather the items and return to the palace and find this acceptable. “Is there a name I should call my benefactor?”

“You can call me whatever you want,” he says with a bow, which seems charming and mocking, all at once. “Scoundrel? Trickster?”

He’s acting the way the boys in the village sometimes do with Shu when they are hoping she will pay them attention. No one ever behaves like this with me.

I find it … unsettling.

I shake my head.

“Bo, then. You can call me Bo.” He follows that with a grin. A common nickname for boys, unlikely to be his real name. Except I don’t mind. It would be better not to know. Remove the temptation of looking up the names of the sons of ministers after we part ways. “And you? Defender of the helpless?”

“You can call me … Mei.” Two can play at this game. The teasing tone of my voice makes me sound like someone else. Someone confident. Flirtatious, even.

He squints at me and chuckles. “Fair enough.”

“Did you grow up here?” I ask, following him for a few turns until we emerge onto a bustling square.

“Ah!” he exclaims, not answering my question. “I haven’t seen one of these in years!” His expression transforms to one of genuine, boyish delight, almost unbearable in its sweetness. It’s as if the real Bo has burst out from behind his facade, like the sun breaking through clouds for the briefest moment, pouring its warmth over me.

I hurry to follow and catch up to him in front of a stall covered by a white marble counter. The artist lifts a ladle out of a bubbling pot of melted sugar and drizzles the outline of a carp on the plain surface. With a few swirls and tilts, he fills in the details, giving the carp long whiskers and zigzag scales. He affixes a wooden rod to it with more sugar, and with a cooling breath, the whole thing is picked up. His happy customer shrieks in delight and wiggles the candy sculpture in the air, where it appears to bob on top of invisible waves.

“You have to try this!” Bo turns to me, with great exuberance. I notice for the first time that despite the auspicious angles of his jaw and brow, his front teeth have a little gap between them. “I used to hoard my coppers for this every time we were allowed to go to the market.”

He is as excited as the other children watching the display, and I don’t want to disrupt that with a refusal. The artist bids us each to draw a tightly rolled sheet of paper from a bottle, and that will reveal what sort of wondrous creation he will draw for us next.