A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (41)

“Her Royal Highness, Princess Ying-Zhen!” the herald announces, and we all sink to our knees.

“Please, stand.” The princess dismisses the formality immediately, and we rise awkwardly again to our feet to watch her stride across the room. She is still a sight to behold, cloaked in a robe embroidered to look like peacock feathers, the fabric moving from side to side like the blinking of a thousand eyes. Under that glorious robe she wears a slim sheath of dark blue, a sash of glimmering gold at her waist. She settles herself in a carved chair at the front of the room, the wings of a phoenix expanding behind her.

“Will you risk your life for the chance to serve Dàxī?” Marquis Kuang asks. “You can walk away now if you are afraid of picking the wrong cup.”

We lose five in number immediately. They hurry out the door after bowing to the princess, mumbling their apologies and their thanks for no one to hear.

Kang’s memory returns to me. The princess poured him two cups and bade him drink. Even though he is a skilled martial artist, he had only his words to spar with, and only his words saved him. Yet still he drank. He took the risk, on behalf of his people. Now I face a similar test.

Those of us remaining are told to approach the long table on the other side of the hall and pick up the tray labeled with our name. I pick up my tray with reverent hands, always mindful to treat my tools with respect. The tea ware is even more beautiful than the sets in the residence. The porcelain is so thin, it feels like it could shatter with a breath. At the bottom of the bowl lie loose strands of slender, bare leaves.

I stare at the tea leaves, not understanding. My face turns hot, blood rushing to my head.

My vision blurs, then refocuses as I blink. The leaves are missing the fine silver fuzz that gives the tea its name.

This is not Silver Needle.

Someone put a different tea in my cup.

“Is everything all right?” There is a graceful hand on my arm. My nose fills with the delicate perfume of lilies. I stare up at the entertainer assigned to me, waiting for me to walk with her to our table.

The marquis crosses the room, drawing attention to my hesitation. “If you are afraid, there is no need to proceed further in this competition.”

Should I call out the error? But it would be no use if he was the one to place the wrong tea leaves on my tray, and it would reveal that I had assistance from someone in the kitchens.

He gets closer and closer, and I know what I must do.

I turn and allow the entertainer to lead me to our table, and I catch my foot on an empty stool.

I let myself fall.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


The tray strikes the floor with a crack and the cup bounces out and shatters. I land sprawled on the floor in a heap. My dignity is wounded, but better that than the alternative.

The girl from the teahouse looks shocked, her mouth open in an O, before taking a moment to regain her composure. It’s a true accomplishment to disturb a teahouse apprentice so.

“Clumsy girl!” The marquis hurries to my side and looks down at me in disgust. “That tea costs more than a year’s wages for even a palace servant. How dare you waste such a precious resource!”

I do my best to appear chastised, while inside I recite a litany of curses at the man.

“The girl from Sù,” he drawls. “I didn’t recognize you until now. But you wouldn’t know anything about how valuable this tea is, being from such a place.”

The hate boils in my veins as I stare at the marquis’s treacherous smirk. He relishes my humiliation.

“Come, let me help you.” My entertainer assists me off the floor. The servants step in quickly to sweep up the broken pieces of the tea ware.

A part of me wants to throw myself at the marquis and wipe that smug look off his face, to show him I am not someone he can torment, but the grip on my arm holds fast. A warning. I look down, focusing on the embroidery on her sleeve, fighting to stay in control. I recognize the flowers. She is from Peony House.

I take a deep breath.

“I apologize, Your Eminence,” I murmur. “My hands are not accustomed to handling such fine wares, and I embarrassed myself.”

I can feel the entertainer’s relief, as her hands release me.

The marquis’s cheek twitches as he contemplates his next move. He would love to dismiss me from the competition outright, but even he would need proper cause to do so.

The girl from Peony House curtsies low, her tone low and deferent. “Please, allow me to bring forth another tray belonging to a competitor who has forfeited the competition. Do not let this trouble Your Eminence. It is only a cup, nothing more.”

“Fine.” Marquis Kuang reluctantly waves us away. “Help the girl.”

I sit and wait for the young woman to bring over another tray to the table. I realize how close I was to snapping, and how she pulled me back. I am grateful for that, but I cannot acknowledge her at this moment without risking both of us further.

She sits in front of me, her features now smooth and devoid of emotion, a pleasant mask. In the capital I feel exposed—my accent, my walk, my clothes, everything betraying me. But I had a lifetime of freedom where I could do what I pleased, my mother who never asked me to be anything other than who I am, flaws and all. What would it be like to always have to wear this careful face?

I check the leaves one more time, half expecting the bowl to contain the same falsehood, but I recognize the characteristic fuzz. Letting out a shaky sigh, I focus now on steadying my hands, on the pour of the hot water, the rise and fall in a sparkling stream. The spinning vortex shows the truth. The tea leaves are pointing to the center. The lid is carefully placed on top, the tea allowed to steep.