A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (42)

Someone tried to disqualify me, leaving me vulnerable to poison, and I would not have known if Steward Yang had not helped me. Am I absolutely certain it was the marquis? I force myself to focus on the steam, instead of turning around to see who else could be watching me, eager to see if their plot has succeeded.

I pour the tea into the cup and gesture for the entertainer to take her sip. She does so with delicate movements, covering her face with the sleeve of her other arm, part of her performance.

Something heavy hits the floor behind me with a loud thud, making me jump. I turn to see one of the shénnóng-tú lying on the ground. Two soldiers come in without prompting to carry the prone body out of the room.

Despite the rule of silence, whispers ripple among the other competitors, questions of “Is he dead?” and “What will happen to him?”

“I would advise you to focus on your own fate, competitors,” the marquis announces, his enjoyment at our discomfort apparent.

I turn back to the entertainer, who has already begun her ceremony, unaffected by all the disturbances around her. The rinsing of the cups, the preparation of the pot, the wait during the steep. The light fragrance of a bright spring green tea wafts toward me, a perfect selection for an afternoon drink.

I return my attention to the five cups before me. All identical in color, the same painted design of peach blossoms running along the outer curve, all appearing to be empty. She pours the tea into each, steam curling gently above the surface. I stare at them, willing them to speak to me.

How does one become an apprentice of Shénnóng? A question rises unbidden in my mind, one of Mother’s basic lessons. The magic sounds like ringing to my ears. You may sense it differently. Is it a taste? A brush against the skin? Mother had sat us both down in front of her while she poured the tea for us. Shu gasped, said she could see it—colorful lines being pulled from her hands, like fabric from a loom. But I smelled it, distinctly.

It smelled like pomelo flowers.

I had banished that memory when I thought I would never pour another cup of magic again. But it returns to me now, waiting for direction.

I am aware from last night that the Silver Needle does not need long to take effect. But was it only because of Kang’s previous connection with me, wrenched into place by the Golden Key?

Slowly, so as not to startle her, I reach for the entertainer’s hand, resting my palm on top of her knuckles. She tenses but does not pull away. The magic spills over to her, making the connection. I learn at this moment that I do not need to also drink the tea in order to wield the magic. If the receiver ingests it, then it is sufficient.

The fingers of my other hand hover over the first cup. My eyelids flutter, and I am suddenly overwhelmed by a luxurious heaviness of the limbs, the lull in the thoughts before sleep overtakes me … I snatch my hand back, and the feeling dissipates.

The next cup sparks a sensation of rolling within my stomach, like the unsteadiness of being on the ferry. This one causes vomiting.

The third, nothing. Empty.

I move to the fourth, to test whether the magic is true, and a sharp pain strikes my temple, like someone has stabbed a dagger into my skull. I quickly snatch the third cup, swallowing its contents in one gulp, and place it back on the table.

My breath quickens as my gaze flashes upward to meet the eyes of the girl from Peony House. I can see the barest, almost imperceptible curve at the corners of her eyes. I already know from that almost smile—I picked the right cup. Her eyes flick downward briefly, and I realize I’m still holding her hand. I let go and return my hands to my lap, suddenly feeling awkward.

My senses still remain my own. Sleep does not overtake me. Pain does not wash over me. Looking around, I see the number of shénnóng-tú continues to diminish, until the ones who remain are told to rise and approach the marquis.

“You have survived the round,” he says, the golden hooves of the horse statue rearing above his head. “From fifty-some to seventeen to eight.” His eyes land on me, still standing before him, and a scowl crosses his face.

I wish a sudden strong wind would topple the statue onto his head, but the heavens do not comply.

“The next round will commence in three days’ time, at the start of summer. We welcome the longer days, a time for everything to begin anew. You will be given further instructions tomorrow morning in preparation. After that, you can take a much-deserved rest. Congratulations.”

Even though his words are celebratory, something about them makes my blood run cold. We leave the Month of Lengthening, when daylight begins to stretch later into the evening. We approach the start of summer, but where the season is supposed to promise warmth and growth, it seems to have brought forth continued unrest.

The questions uttered by the princess in her own garden echo in my mind as we leave the Hall of Eternal Light: Whose life? Whose death?

Only time will tell.



* * *



I’m determined to find the steward this afternoon. It’s possible she was the one who was tasked by the marquis to change out my tea leaves. Perhaps her clue was also a warning. She said she was the one who sourced the tea for the competition, so she is the most likely person to give me the answer I’m looking for.

Lian and I promised we would not return to the kitchens again, but I set forth with only one purpose. I will not involve anyone else in my plans. I want to find Qing’er but encounter Small Wu instead. He’s busy twisting and pulling more dough, sweat dripping off his forehead at the strenuous work.