A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (25)

Small Wu shakes his head. “You should follow her,” he says.

And so I have no choice but to walk through the moon doors. Steward Yang is speaking with Qing’er, and she points in my direction. He jogs toward me, giving me a wave in greeting.

“Follow me,” he says, leading me away from where the steward is in the process of terrorizing another maid, who cowers under the weight of a heavy pot. “I’ll get you a more appropriate outfit.”

I have never imagined I would be pulling on a servant’s uniform outside the imperial kitchens, pretending to be a maid. But pretense seems to be a cloak I’ve been donning lately, so I tighten the sash around my waist and step out from behind the shed.

Steward Yang scrutinizes me and thrusts a basket into my arms. “Pull yourself together. We’re asking you to deliver pastries, not poison.” She laughs like she’s told a splendid joke, but it reminds me again of Small Wu’s warning—someone is always listening. It isn’t the most reassuring thought.

Qing’er leads me past other wings of the kitchen. One room is filled with people stirring large pots, wafting delicious scents our way. Another room rings with the thud of knives hitting wood, chefs chopping away at huge slabs of meat.

When we are past the kitchens, we walk down a narrow path that meanders through a garden, sidestepping to allow other servants to pass. So many people coming and going. There must be more servants in the palace than there are in the entirety of my village. So many to serve the whims of so few.

Back home, we bend to the wishes of the governor. We break our backs under his yoke, but at least we don’t have to live constantly under his scrutiny. Not until the next time his retinue passes through our village and the taxes are due. We are free, in a sense—free to wander outside the walls of our village, yet trapped by the restrictions of family and obligation. Here, the servants are surrounded by the riches of Dàxī, able to wear fine clothes and eat rich palace foods, but they must endure the capricious moods of those they serve.

While we cross various courtyards, Qing’er points out the different features of the palace we walk past. The Hall of Celestial Harmony is one I recognize, with its wide black pillars. We pass the back of the Great Hall, which sits upon a series of stone steps, and I have to crane my neck to even catch a glimpse of the carved wood doors.

“I’ve never been allowed up here,” the boy continues. “But I hear the servants of that hall polish the floors every morning and evening until everything shines.”

We walk past a grassy bank lined with weeping willows, long branches skimming the surface of a winding creek. He explains how the residences of the west wing are aired out and opened only when there are guests of state. These could be representatives from other kingdoms or the nobles and officials who do not have their own residences within Jia.

“Your judges also reside there.” He nods at an attendant sweeping the walk. “Even though Minister Song and the chancellor have their private homes in the city. It is a great honor.”

A man floats by in a small boat. His hair is peppered gray, swept back in a tight topknot. He sweeps his oar through the pond, looking like a figure from an old painting.

“Who is that?” I ask Qing’er, wondering if he is a scholar looking for inspiration in the reflections of the trees and the water.

“Oh, him? That’s Lao Huang, the garbageman,” Qing’er says. “He cleans the pond every afternoon.”

I wince, having to laugh at myself, at how little I know of anything in the capital. What a fool I am.

I tug at the sleeves of my uniform when it snags a passing branch, unused to the feeling of so many layers of fabric. The flowing sleeves are the latest fashion everywhere in the capital, but they are cumbersome despite their beautiful embroidery. I am certain everyone will see how uncomfortable I am. I should have just told Steward Yang who I was and suffered the consequences.

The marquis is set up at the Residence of Autumnal Longing—the area’s name is written in calligraphy on a plaque hanging over the gate. The double doors open to a small courtyard with a bamboo grove to the right. One of the household servants is already there, waiting to greet us. She leads us toward the building to the left of the courtyard, making tutting noises of displeasure, huffing, “It’s unacceptable for the kitchen to have such a delay.”

We’re led through a sitting area decorated with water and ink paintings. I long to take a closer look at them, but we’re hurried past. Our basket is set by two trays already prepared with bowls and plates crafted of fine porcelain, pale green veined with dark crackle. Qing’er helps me transfer our collection of tidbits carefully, finishing with the round pastries with different colors of dots on top to indicate the flavor hidden within, the edges already crumbling under our touch.

“What is this?” the servant demands, pointing at each pastry in turn. Thankfully, Qing’er is able to answer on my behalf. One is filled with pork floss and mung bean for a sweet and savory treat, while another is stuffed with salted egg custard. The thinner pieces have a layer of winter-melon paste inside or a mixture of dates and crushed nuts.

When the treats are arranged to her satisfaction, she gathers up one of the trays and gestures for me to take the other.

“I can help—” Qing’er reaches for it, but she shakes her head.

“The marquis does not like to be served by boys.”