A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (26)

I look at Qing’er, but he steps back, giving me an apologetic look.

“And he does not like to be kept waiting,” she snaps impatiently, already walking away. “Come along.”

I stand there rooted, tray in hand. I’m going to be recognized when I step into the room, and the marquis will banish me from the competition and from the palace.

“You have to go,” Qing’er whispers, tugging at my sleeve.

My chest tightens. I will go in and out quickly, and pray my face is plain enough that I will not be recognized. I force myself to take one step forward, then another.

To face the marquis, who threw a teacup at me. Who is certain I am a traitor to Dàxī.

The servant stops me before a wood-screen door. The sound of music streams out, and the voices of men in low conversation.

“Follow my lead,” she instructs. “Set the tray on the side table to your right. Do not linger.”

I nod.

We step through the door into another lovely room. My eyes are drawn to a map of a city mounted on the wall. A collection of vases, of varying sizes and shapes, line another wall. A musician sits on a stool in the center of the room, plucking at the strings of a pipa.

I hold the tray carefully, moving as fast as I dare so I do not draw attention to myself. I set the tray next to where the other has already been placed, then I spare one curious glance around the room to see which honored guests the marquis is entertaining today.

Marquis Kuang himself holds court up front, reclining on one arm, the picture of lazy indulgence. Around the room there are men seated at small tables, the surfaces already littered with plates and cups. My eyes skim over the faces of the guests, then … my heart drops. I recognize the face leering at the lovely musician, and the two men with their heads together, clinking cups. Every single one of them in the room looks familiar.

It’s Shao, and other shénnóng-tú from the competition. Breaking the rules, cavorting with the judges.

I suddenly know how it feels to be a rabbit thrown into a nest of vipers. But before I can turn and flee, one of the men lifts his head from his cup and his eyes meet my own.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


My breathing is suddenly too loud. I pray the stars will shine kindly on me today, instead of banishing me to a life of ruin and disgrace.

The man stands, swaying on his feet, and points at me. “You—” He stumbles toward me, catching himself on a pillar.

I turn quickly toward the door, but he lunges for me, too quick for me to react, and grabs my arm. I struggle to pull my arm out of his grasp, but his grip is too tight. He pulls me closer, and I can smell the rice wine on him, on his clothes and wafting from his open mouth. It’s not only tea these men are partaking in.

I try to push him away, but I’m a bird trapped by a hunter, fluttering uselessly in his grasp.

“Even the palace maids are prettier than the rest.” He chuckles.

A flash of anger ignites within me. Embarrassment tinged with fury—at being grabbed, at the thought of this buffoon believing I am his plaything.

“Stop!” I lash out at him, kicking at the side of his knee with one foot and thrusting my elbow into the middle of his chest, where I know it will hurt him the most.

He yelps in pain, letting me go, but the musician finishes her performance at precisely that moment, and the sound of our struggle draws everyone’s attention.

I back away, out of reach of his grasping fingers, keeping my head down. The door is just behind me, only a few steps away.

“Please,” I whisper, trying to disguise my voice. “I must get back, the kitchens are waiting for me to return.”

“You!” The man clutches at his chest with one hand, the other raised in a fist. “You will pay for this!”

“Young man!” The commanding voice of the marquis cuts through the other conversations, dripping with disdain. “You’ll respect the servants of the palace. You cannot buy their attention like the whores of the entertainment houses you frequent.”

“Do you not understand?” I look up to see the Esteemed Qian standing at one of the tables at the end of the room. From his appearance, that of a wise sage with a flowing white beard, I expected a kindly voice filled with warmth and wisdom. But instead, the voice that comes out is sharp, like he has bitten into a sour plum.

A friend of the young man who grabbed me quickly pulls him back down, his face crimson with shame.

“The astronomers all speak of change in the stars,” the Esteemed Qian continues. “It is a period of shifting alliances and fickle natures. It is a time for focus, not for chasing after the skirts of any pretty girl who comes across your path. Not to be glutting your stomach on wine and food. You will have this life if you are the court shénnóng-shī. It will all be within your grasp if you win the competition. You will have all the entertainment houses at your disposal, all the coin you need to buy whatever you want.”

Faces nod around the room in smug agreement. I feel my face twist with disgust. How could it be possible that my mother used to revere this man, the one who counseled the dowager empress into supporting the role of the shénnóng-shī in society? Was it because he truly believed in the benefits of Shénnóng’s magic, or was it because he was hungry for the power it would provide him?

I’m grabbed and pulled toward the door. I react, struggling, but the next words stop me.