A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (19)

“‘The tea is served while I recline.’” I swirl the tea and pour it into the resting pot, the liquid disappearing below as I imagine the poet, reclining, observing my homeland through a window.

“‘My fingers, ink-stained.’” Instead of using the tongs, I select three petals of osmanthus with my own fingers and let them fall into each teacup. Elder Guo’s hand opens slightly, as if catching the flowers for herself, remembering when she, too, used to dance in the petals as a little girl.

“‘No more blessed than the fragrant scent of green.’”

These are merely human hands, another thing my mother often said. When someone brings up one of my blunders, like the fire that once destroyed our fields, or when I got in the way of Governor Wang’s temper and made things worse. Human hands make mistakes, Ning, but they are the hands the gods gave us. We use them to make amends, to do good things.

And that is what this brew is about. The taste of being human. Of making mistakes. Of being young again. The reminder that sometimes we are the laborer and sometimes we are the one at rest.

The final step is the pour. The tea I chose has barely been treated in the sun, retaining most of the flavor in the leaves. The slightest hint of green remains, caressing the edges of the flower petals. It reminds me of growth, reaching for the light—

“How dare she?!”

I do not have time to admire my work before a sharp line of pain cuts across my hand as the teacup nearest me shatters. I’m too stunned to react. Gasps can be heard as Marquis Kuang stands, pointing his finger accusingly in my direction.

The steam dissipates, and the memories I so carefully cultivated scatter into nothing. Chancellor Zhou blinks, confusion furrowing his brow, as if waking from a pleasant daydream. The wonderment on Elder Guo’s face smooths back into a careful mask.

“Are you making a mockery of this competition?” the marquis snarls, spittle shooting out of his mouth. “She dares to quote the Revolutionary Bai? Is she calling us indulgent and spoiled?!”

My insides quivering in fear, I stare down at my feet, not wanting my face to so easily reveal my emotions again. My not-so-respectful thoughts on the nobility with their tender hearts and paper-thin skins.

“Honored One,” I say carefully. “Poet Bai’s words only mean to suggest that tea is a drink for both peasants and poets. It can be enjoyed by the lowest farmer and the highest ranks of the court, as befitting your grand status.”

I swallow. The poem had always seemed special to me. It never occurred to me that it was written by a revolutionary. But now I recall the stories of Poet Bai’s beheading, and I realize I may have made a grave mistake.

“This … this cup of tea shows my … my joy at serving you today,” I stutter. All I can hear is my father’s voice, chastising me, telling me I have made yet another error.

There’s a rumble in the crowd to my right—voices, overlapping one another.

“Leave her alone!” someone yells out.

Another voice joins theirs. “She speaks the truth!”

The tension in the air rises, like a pot of boiling water about to spill over.

“My dear marquis.” It’s the grand chancellor who chooses to speak, stepping around the table and putting his hand on the nobleman’s arm. He looks calm, amused even. Though Chancellor Zhou bends down, as if the words are intended only for his peer, his voice is loud enough for everyone to hear. “Do you not understand? We must praise the dowager empress. For we can tell the world, even our peasants can quote poetry!”

Laughter ripples through the audience, their agitation subsiding slightly. All eyes are on the marquis and the chancellor. The marquis is clearly still furious, but the chancellor is all smiles, eager to return the competition to a more celebratory mood. But from my perspective, I can see the way his hand is clutched tight on the marquis’s arm. A warning for him not to go further.

I’m relieved that Chancellor Zhou seems to be on my side—maybe I will get out of this unscathed.

But no sooner have I let out a breath when a sudden whistle pierces the dark, then a thud.

An arrow quivers in the center of the judges’ table.

I stumble backward as gasps and screams fill the air, then there is the sound of boots hitting the ground. A flurry of movement to my right and the brush of fabric against my arm. A purple cloak flutters in the air, and in the distance, the princess’s bodyguard leaps over the heads of the crowd with deadly intent. If the person who fired the arrow is still out there, she will find them.

In the blink of an eye, soldiers are everywhere, all around me, a crush of metal and sweat filling my nose.

“Protect the princess!” someone yells.

Bo’s casual words return to me: A hundred assassination attempts …

A dark shadow flies overhead, leaping from the crowd to the stage in one bound. Then, the flash of a blade.

I duck for cover and see the princess’s pale face as she notices the new threat. But the figure who leaped toward her turns his body to face the whistle of several more arrows, a lithe serpent spiraling through a whirlpool, protecting her from the barbed tips.

Whoever he is, he’s not the attacker. He’s defending her from the unknown threat.

His sword darts like a silver fish in the middle of a swiftly moving stream, and the arrows fall to the ground, harmless.

More chaos erupts around us as the audience reacts, realizing what has happened. Some cheer for the brave savior of the princess, while others attempt to flee. Just before the guards pull the mystery rescuer aside and force him off the platform, his hood falls back and the swinging light of a lantern catches his face.