A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (28)

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The palace room I share with Lian grows increasingly stifling as I find myself turning in bed, my body as restless as my mind. Back home, when I was not able to sleep at night, I would leave our house and the sound of Father’s snores. I would make my way to the orchard beyond the tea garden and find solace in climbing the trees. I liked the feel of the bark in my hands, finding the footholds and handholds, sending me higher and higher. The soothing rustle of the wind through the trees and the sound of the cicadas were music that I understood. I leave the residence in an attempt to find that solace, careful not to disturb the others.

The courtyard is lined with ornamental stones and low trees along the walls. My hands find nooks and crannies, and I easily pull myself up to the roof to sit on the tiles. The moon watches over the palace tonight, a crescent glimmering through the wisps of clouds.

In the night, the palace is finally quiet. Quiet, but not silent. I can hear the sound of the nightly patrols moving in the distance, even though I cannot see them. Voices speak through an open window, one high, one low. The sound of a flute trills nearby. From my vantage point, I can see the rooftops of the other residences, but I am alone up here, with not even a bird for company.

The palace provides an illusion of space, fitting so many, but we are all walled in. I didn’t know I could crave the hills of my village so much until now. I miss the sprawling greenery, the mountains ever watchful in the distance. The soldiers who are posted in our area always complain there is so little to do, so they fill their bellies with cheap wine and cause a ruckus in the market. Yet there is a part of me that even misses the sound of their drunken singing as they stumble through the streets.

I pull my knees close to me as I sit there, remembering playing with Shu among the trees, while she imagined us as dancers or fighters, leaping over the roots in our routines and battles. How much like our mother she was, except instead of retelling old stories she created her own. I remember the feel of my mother’s hands, smoothing out the waves of my hair. The bitter brews my father forced us to drink to strengthen our bodies against the winter chill. The pear candy Mother used to give us afterward as a treat. All these memories, as precious as any jewel. Things we do not think to miss until they are gone.

My memories are disrupted by a rustle in the distance. A few birds caw, fleeing into the night. The sound of their wings brings up a feeling of foreboding: The last time I found someone on a rooftop, they struck me and left me for dead. But I don’t think the Shadow intended to kill me that night. They would have pulled out a weapon for that. I think they meant for me to live, even if the bandit may be as cruel and coldhearted as all the rumors say. There was some semblance of mercy behind the mask.

My eyes watch, disbelieving, as someone drops onto the stone path of the courtyard. The figure moves, slippery, its shadow sliding over the earth. I dare not breathe. I will myself to become one with the roof itself, to channel the solidity of the tiles under my hands and disappear.

The figure creeps along the side of the building, and I think of Lian, and all the other girls sleeping soundly in there. I tuck a broken tile against my palm.

I know what I must do next.





CHAPTER TWELVE


I drop from the roof with a yell, tumbling feetfirst into the chest of the person below, sending them sprawling. I land half on top of them and roll off, knowing I have to get the attention of the nearby patrols. I stumble to my feet, but then a hand grabs my shoulder, yanking me back. I fall heavily onto the hard stones. They jump on top of me, hand over my mouth, knee against my stomach, looking down at me in the faint light of the moon.

My heart stutters.

Bo. What is he doing here?

And suddenly, the recognition flares in his eyes, too. There’s a shout in the distance, and he quickly pulls me to my feet. We shuffle backward into the trees. We’re pressed close enough that I can feel him breathing as we watch the door to the courtyard creak open and a guard poke his head in, torch in hand.

I’m aware—too aware—of the warmth of him beside me. The tautness of the muscles in his arm, trembling under my hand. The tension held in the long line of his body, ready to react if the guard discovers us. The door eases shut, and we let out a collective sigh. It’s then that I remember he shouldn’t be here, and I shouldn’t be assisting him.

I throw myself away from him, pressing my back against the solidity of the wall. We regard each other warily. I press my hands into my arms, feeling the aches of bruises I know are blooming from my rough landing.

A sudden wind picks up, spinning around my body and rustling his hair, leaving me hollow and cold.

I remember all his lies. His fake name. His fake identity. The way he wore his hair, as if he was someone not used to the fashions of his city. How he appeared on the dais, how he handled the sword, his training apparent. This boy is more than he seems. Not the slightly clumsy, eager-to-please Bo I met in the market, who spoke about his family and growing up in the capital. This boy, crouching on the ground in the dark, is a weapon.

“What are you doing here?” I stand, wielding my words like a blade, jabbing at him in self-defense. It’s a feeling I am used to—knowing that if I’m prickly, no one will approach me. I won’t have to listen to criticisms about my dirty nails, my mended clothes.

He stands as well, and opens his hands to show me he’s unarmed. “I wanted to see you.”