A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (14)
“H-have you—” I pause and clear my throat. “Have you seen this stone?” If the princess really does have such a cure-all, then it’s a sign. I have to win this competition.
Bo’s expression turns serious. “I should warn you. You should be cautious when you ask questions about Princess Zhen.”
“Why is that?”
“She isn’t exactly … well-liked by everyone. Many blame her for the unrest that is spreading throughout the kingdom. Sickness, poverty, cruel acts committed by the emperor’s representatives, and … other rumors.”
I know the rumors to which he refers—we heard whispers of them even in our rural province. About the clumsy handling of the northern floods. About the princess being too young to act as regent. Questions about who is really the one behind the throne. Words too dangerous to utter in the capital.
“Rumors? You mean … the poison?”
Bo furrows his brow. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
“You avoid a lot of answers.”
“That I do.” He gives me that disarming grin again, the serious moment passing as quickly as it came. “Azalea House is the one we are looking for, and it’s across the street.”
Lost in thought—about the rumors, the princess, and the favor I’ll ask of her—I’m almost run over by a passing carriage. Bo grabs my arm and pulls me out of harm’s way, throwing us both against the side of a building. For a moment, my body is tucked against his, and instead of pushing him away, I find myself leaning into his warmth. His hip against mine, his hands on my arms—
“Careful, clever one,” he says next to my ear, his breath stirring my hair. I shiver again, now for an entirely different reason.
He’s too close. I jump away, putting distance between us. Reminding myself I will soon return to the palace, and we will never see each other again.
* * *
In the shop area of Azalea House, I am quickly swept away by one of the shopkeepers, who guides me to touch, smell, and taste a variety of tea leaves. There are jars and pots and drawers containing different varieties of tea, towering from floor to ceiling. The capable staff answers all my questions with a professional demeanor, and the mistress overseeing the storefront briskly completes my transaction. With my task done, the package wrapped and tucked under my arm, I feel the tension in my shoulders ease slightly.
Before I can thank Bo and take my leave to the palace, he catches my arm. “Let me buy you at least one cup of tea,” he insists. “An apology for scaring you today, and to show you the people of Jia are more welcoming than what you’ve experienced.”
Before I can protest, he leads me toward the open part of the teahouse, where patrons can feast on delicacies paired with the assortment of tea available in the shop. Most teahouses are boisterous affairs, with as many round tables as the proprietor can fit into the dining room. The servers have to navigate through narrow pathways, carrying heavy platters overflowing with steaming pots of tea and accompanying dishes. But even in the first few steps into Azalea House, I can tell it serves a different sort of clientele.
The space is separated with beautiful silk screens and potted plants. Music drifts overhead, but within each compartment there’s an illusion of privacy. We are led to a table with a view of the Jade River, the pleasure boats of the rich and the ferries of the commoners drifting by.
There are already candied fruits and smoked watermelon seeds on the table for snacking on, and Bo pops a few of each into his mouth immediately when we sit down. My eyes are too full to join him just yet, distracted by the ornate vase next to us crafted from white porcelain, painted with a figure of a woman playing the lute.
A maid dressed in the softest shades of pastel blue with a sash of pink sets a lacquered tray with tools for preparing tea before us—Bo chooses the Golden Key, a tea so rare and valuable, the proceeds from selling only a handful of it could feed my entire family for a year. Once again, a pang of something like anger and sorrow moves through me.
A servant pours hot coals into a brazier to my right, and another maid sets a kettle on top, already steaming.
“Will our capable Ming be serving you today, honored guest?” The first maid curtsies, her eyes flicking to me. Her lips tighten slightly, but I know it signifies disapproval, probably at either my unkempt appearance or my decidedly un-demure behavior. “Or will you be using your own servant?”
“She’s not—” Bo starts, but I stand and smile at her.
“I’ll assist him from here,” I say. “Leave us.”
She stares at me, then her eyes move to the “honored guest” beside me, who just shrugs. The maid opens her mouth to protest, but then the servant sets the bowl of Golden Key before us.
Bo looks at the bowl with curiosity, and I do my best not to snatch it greedily away. A few thin black strands sit at the bottom of the green bowl, which is carved in the shape of a leaf. Using the tongs, I place the strands into the next bowl for steeping the tea.
“Is this what you’ll be doing at the competition?” Bo asks.
“I don’t know.” I’m going in without a mentor, without years of training. My hand shakes slightly, and I fight to still it.
“I’ll be thinking of you when they make the proclamations,” he says with a smile, and I feel another flutter in my stomach. One I try to excuse, and busy myself with pouring the tea. It’s only because of my own loneliness, my first time traveling from home.