A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (15)
We each reach for our own cups, and lifting our heads, we sip … and the world somehow changes. Steam rises from our cups and hovers between us, blurring our faces. The sounds of the teahouse fall away, until it’s only the two of us sitting across from each other. Everything around us wavers, dreamlike. The air is scented with camellia, like walking among the tea trees in autumn, amid white blossoms.
I hear my mother’s whispered voice. If you ever travel to the capital, bring me back just a few strands of Golden Key. It is my dream to taste it.
Judging by the wonder on his face, I almost believe Bo could hear her, too.
Bo stretches his hand before him, as if compelled by something outside himself. I can see the pinprick of black at the center of his pupils, drawing me in. Almost of its own accord, my own hand lifts, reaching out to him.
Our fingers touch, and it feels like my hand has plunged into a warm pool of water, the heat climbing up my arm. Our fingers intertwine, joined hands glowing with a strange light.
“Mei…,” he says, with breathless awe.
That’s not me, a voice inside me protests, but how can I explain what I’ve called forth into being?
A burning begins at the center of my chest, memories being drawn out of me, faster and faster. Mother, teaching us how to pour tea with steady hands. Shu on her knees, retching up blood. A sob rises in my throat.
I can feel the subtle tug of the powers of the tea, as if it’s pulling us together. Bo shudders, and suddenly I’m aware he can feel the guilt and the grief gnawing inside me, even if he does not understand the reasons why. His other hand reaches out and cups my cheek; the warmth of it makes me shiver.
He brushes my lip with his thumb, the barest of movements, and I feel sparks trailing behind it. It’s too intimate a connection, too much of myself peeling away all at once. I recoil, but he only lets his hand fall from my face so he can catch both of my hands within his own.
Stay, he begs soundlessly. Show me more.
He doesn’t know, though, until it’s too late. The Golden Key is a tea of secrets, and I know—even though I can’t explain how or why—that it is now trying to show me Bo’s secrets, just as it showed him mine. I’m afraid of what it will uncover, but despite my fear, I don’t pull away. The longing inside me for the connection, the desire to stay within the enchantment, is too strong.
As Bo and I stare at each other in wonder, hands still grasped tightly, his shirt begins to glow. A breeze sweeps around us, and I gasp as Bo’s shirt blows open slightly, exposing part of his chest, where I notice something like a scar … no, a circular imprint blooming red, almost the size of my palm. At the center, there is a character I do not recognize, written in the straight lines of the traditional script. I feel the sizzle of hot iron as if it had touched my own chest, smell the stench of the metal burning away skin, and a vision overcomes me that feels like a memory, as I—no, Bo—fights against the men holding him down. The men who did this to him.
It’s a brand.
So much loss. So much, torn away from him …
What he lost, I don’t understand, but the tide has turned. It’s reaching out to him, to pull on the strands of his inner self, to unravel him like it did to me.
And then Bo shoves himself away from the table, and just like that, our connection breaks, like a string snapping.
The world returns in a sudden rush, the noises of the teahouse patrons surrounding us again, too loud for my ears. His stool lands on the floor beside him with a clatter. I notice his shirt is no longer spread open; I wonder if it ever was at all.
“You are capable of prying into human minds.” His breath comes short and ragged, and there’s a new shine to his eyes. Fear. “What do you want from me?”
I force myself to a center of calm, to be as still as frozen trees in winter. Rumors abound about the shénnóng-shī, for they are few in number, and not everyone understands their abilities. There are some who would call them sorcerers and would rather use the services of the physicians. Calling our abilities superstition, mysticism, or worse. I could lose my head. Especially if this boy is affiliated with a powerful family.
“You are the one who came to me,” I say to him, mindful that each word could be my last. “You found me. You spoke to me. You sought me out, remember? Who are you, Bo? Who are you really?”
He looks behind me, beyond me, anywhere but at my face. I stare at his throat, waiting for an explanation.
“I believe our bargain is done,” he says. “Thank you for your company.”
With a blink he is gone, and I am left alone again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I return to the palace, ready to leave the peculiar afternoon behind me like a dream best forgotten. Lian greets me at our residence by clasping my hands and apologizing profusely for losing me in the market. I open my mouth to tell her about everything that happened, but then shut it again when the servants arrive to take our ingredients away in preparation for tonight’s competition. I don’t yet have the words to describe what occurred. Where do I even start?
Evening has settled into deepening violet when we are separated into two rows to march down long, torchlit hallways toward the Courtyard of Promising Future. As we approach the courtyard, we can already hear the noise of the throng of spectators.
Soldiers block our view past the gate. The light from the torches bounces off their red armor and shields, casting an ominous hue on the walls. When they step aside to admit us, there is only a single path for us to walk shoulder to shoulder. We continue along the line of soldiers until we reach a set of stairs leading upward.