A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (34)

Yesterday while in the kitchens, I picked up a few pieces of pear-syrup candy from the servant’s tray. They are one of the few luxuries from Jia my mother splurged on, the one thing guaranteed to make her light up when we received a delivery. She could pop them into her mouth directly, but they were so sweet they made my teeth ache, so she would always put them into a pot of hot water for me to drink.

Steward Yang regards me with an odd, contemplative look.

“You can put it under your tongue,” I tell her, thinking it is not common practice in the capital. “It should ease the bitterness of the tonic.”

She ignores the offered candy, but follows my other instructions, sipping at the bowl slowly until all of it is gone. “You see, Qing’er?” She shows the empty bowl to her grandson. “Grandmother drank all her medicine.”

He beams at her, adoration for her evident. “Well done!”

Steward Yang picks up my handkerchief from the table and examines the bird stitched on it. I resist the urge to snatch it away; that was Shu’s. Now that I have been separated from Mother’s shénnóng-shī box, I have so little remaining of home.

“Did you make this?” she asks. “The stitching is quite fine even with the coarse materials.”

“No, that is my sister’s work.” I reach out and take it from her—not caring if it’s rude to do so—and tuck it away in my sash, where I can keep it safe.

“Lian, could you take Qing’er outside to play?” the steward says. “I would like to speak to Ning in private.”

Lian looks at me, questioning. I give her a small shrug, and she takes the young boy’s hand, leading him outside. He’s already chattering again.

The steward turns back to me, but when we’re alone her shrewd expression reappears, as if there is an abacus working in her head, considering my worth and value.

“You remind me of someone,” she says.

Lian told me Steward Yang was the tyrant of her kitchens, able to notice even the smallest thing out of place: a single fruit missing from a display, the count of the evening meal being off by two, or the incorrect order of utensils on a tray. Her memory is impeccable, her attention to detail frightening. It is why she commands both respect and fear.

“With the years passing, my memory isn’t quite what it used to be, so it took me a while to recall. But now I can see it. It’s in the shape of your eyes and face, the way you speak.” She picks up the square of pear candy, holding it up to the light until it glows. “It was this, though, that made me remember.”

My pulse quickens in my throat. Mother never mentioned anyone from the capital. She said very little about it, even when we begged to hear more.

“I used to know a woman who worked in the palace. She was a midwife who attended to the servants, and she used to make us drink the bitterest brews.” She chuckles at the memory, her fondness for this woman evident. “They would cause your toes to curl and your stomach to roll. She used to give us all squares of pear candy to make them easier to drink, reminding us to hold it under our tongues.”

Her eyes meet mine. “You’re Yiting’s daughter.”

The sound of my mother’s name rings through the room. She always left an impression. Even now, seventeen years later, someone remembers her.

“I wondered how she fared when she left the palace. There was … a scandal. For the first few years, I was certain she would return.” She smiles. “Yiting got out, like she always said she would. She made a life out there, with a family of her own. I admire her for it.”

“You do?” I have so many questions about what she was like when she was young, and why she left the palace. So many questions she brushed off, left forever unanswered.

“Not many are able to adjust to life outside the capital once they’ve had a taste of palace finery. They usually come back. Some in mere days, others in a few months, but they always find their way back. Her, though … How is your mother?”

“She’s dead,” I say without thinking, still overwhelmed by the swell of emotion rising inside me. I slap my hand over my mouth.

“She is?” She reaches out and pats my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

She has clearly mistaken my shock for sorrow. I cover my face with my hand, allowing her to believe it.

“How long ago did she pass?” she asks softly, and I find myself telling her. About my mother’s death, about the poison, about the unfairness of it all. Because this woman used to know my mother. She knew her brilliance and her generosity, the beauty that lit her up from within.

And she pretends she does not see me dab at my eyes with my handkerchief, giving me space to grieve.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


I pour Steward Yang another cup of tea, and she accepts it when she is assured there is no magic infused in the cup.

“Can you … can you tell me more about my mother?” I ask hesitantly, desperate for the smallest scrap of information.

“That’s a story for another day,” she says. “I don’t have much time left before I have to return to the kitchens. I should speak to you and Lian about the competition.”

When Lian returns with Qing’er, I have already washed my face and tidied my appearance. I feel like I have been emptied inside, wrung out by tears.