A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (32)
“Come, sit, Auntie,” Lian says, gentler now, leading her to a stool.
I catch a whiff of something when she walks past me—the distinct odor of the bark from the chénxiāng tree, and the sharp sweetness of dried tangerine peel. Medicinal smells that were often found in my father’s workshop. Peering closer, I can see the sallow tinge of her skin, and the purple shadows under her eyes. This woman is ill, and from the look of the lines pulled taut around her mouth, she is also in pain.
“Are you feeling quite all right, Grandmother?” Qing’er was hovering at the door during our argument, but he now presses closer, tucking himself under her arm.
“Yes, don’t worry about me, Qing-qing.” She sighs. “It’s only a headache that won’t go away.”
Even though she came in here accusing us of deception, I feel nothing but pity for her at this moment. Father’s teachings continue to hold fast in my heart: I cannot stand by while someone is suffering.
“Can I pour you a cup of tea?” I ask. “It might help.”
She is already turning away, muttering about other tasks to attend to, but Qing’er starts to massage her shoulders helpfully.
“You always talk about how it’s unfair that the shénnóng-shī serve the courtly folk,” he says, “but now this is our chance! We can finally see the magic for ourselves. Like the teahouses along the river, with the music and the pretty ladies!”
Color blooms on Steward Yang’s pinched face, as if she’s embarrassed by the young boy’s innocent words.
Lian encourages her with a smile. “Ning’s father is a physician. She might be able to help.”
Steward Yang looks at Lian, then at me.
“Go! Go!” Qing’er chirps. “Before she changes her mind!”
I head to the cabinet against the wall, where our ingredients are stored. The tea leaves we have in our room are a common loose-leaf variety but are still higher quality than anything we could ever purchase back in the village. And I have some remnants of the osmanthus flowers from my disastrous encounter in the first round of the competition—the tea the judges never tasted.
Displayed in the cabinet are also several tea sets. I pick one that is the color of cream with a brush of blue along the edge, but my eyes also linger on the others: cool white with a hint of green or crackled gray. Back home, my uncle is a merchant who travels the region to sell both tea and pottery from our village. In his study, there is a shelf containing various tea wares he’s collected throughout his travels, and he loves to show off his treasures. How one was bestowed by this high official or gifted by that famous ship’s captain. I was never permitted to touch them, only to admire them from a distance. But here, even the servants are permitted to use such lovely wares.
It does not take long for the water to boil in the earthen pot. The leaves steep, then I pour the tea into a cup, followed by two tiny osmanthus blooms. They float to the surface of the tea, caressed by bubbles.
Although my mother’s favorite flower was the pomelo, it only bloomed in spring for a brief time. In the summer, she preferred the osmanthus, which carries a sweet fragrance. In autumn, the scent of the flower turns, and it is harvested for wine instead. In one of Mother’s stories, the first osmanthus tree grew so tall and abundant, it once overshadowed the moon itself. The Sky Emperor, enraged, punished the negligent immortal responsible for pruning the heavenly forest. He was tethered to it forever, living out his eternal life no more than ten steps away from the great tree. On nights when the moon is cast in shadow, it is because the woodcutter has fallen asleep again.
Steward Yang picks up the cup and inhales. “It smells like peaches,” she says, surprised.
Even though Qing’er still wants to chatter away, Lian takes him away to the side of the room to show him something, understanding that I require concentration to practice my art.
My mother used her shénnóng-shī skills to coax the truth out of the soul, the problems that worried at the edges of the mind. Like the shadows of the moon, the pruning of branches from a tree. I asked it to reveal the hidden memories of the judges in the competition, and now I want to unveil the cause of the steward’s pain.
“Let the tea flow through you and bring you comfort,” I whisper. She drinks and I close my eyes. Ready to communicate, ready to receive.
A sharp pain quickly pricks the middle of my forehead, like the point of a needle. Then it snaps outward, fracturing from the center. I hiss from the sharpness of it, then the pain funnels into my mouth, causing a bitterness that spreads from my tongue to my throat.
“What’s happening?” I hear her voice, dimly, from a distance. I force myself to inhale, breathe through it. Was this what my mother felt when she opened herself up? Did she take the pain of others into herself? An image spreads in my mind, expanding like watercolor on paper.
I am both inside and outside of myself.
I can feel the firm surface of the table underneath my arm, but I am also somewhere else. Floating above us, watching the steward looking at me. I wish, once again, that Mother was here to show me, to teach me …
Did people watch her with luminous eyes, expectant and afraid?
The pain isn’t only in my head. It extends like roots, tendrils worming their way through my body—her body. Vines choke my heart, squeezing my organs, until it is difficult to breathe.