A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (58)

I slide my legs out of the bed and carefully make my way to the receiving room. From the cabinet, I pull out the tray I hid earlier while Lian prepared for bed. I need the steadying effect of the tea tonight. I wait for the water to bubble, then scald the utensils and the pots. When the steam dissipates above the opening, I place the strands of tea leaves into the pot.

I believe in you. Shu sent me off with that assurance, and I have lost myself to my own self-pity and guilt.

The strands of Lion Green seep into the water, turning it the lightest tinge of its namesake color. I place a few pieces of goji berry upon the surface, vaguely remembering that Lian mentioned its properties for cultivating alertness. The red berries plump up and release their essence into the water. I allow myself a few more, needing the additional strength tonight, my first attempt at using something unfamiliar.

This is the only thing I will truly miss after leaving the palace: the wide selection of teas, easily accessible, even with my lowly status.

I drink it without waiting for it to cool, letting it burn a path down my throat. The magic unfurls within me immediately, called forth as easily as a petal opening to the sun. The faint scent of camellia drifts by, and I know I am ready to face the princess.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


Huddled under the hood of my cloak, I keep to the walls, trying to stay with the shadows. The criers follow a schedule, tracking the course of time, and any deviation is strictly punished. The palace guards are less predictable but prone to fall into routine as well.

I have always tracked the natural pattern of living things, having grown up depending on these signs for our food. Birds flying across the sky to signal an early winter, or marks of disturbance in the forest, hinting at the arrival of spring. What are the guards if not another pattern to notice?

I slip between buildings, counting steps under my breath as I cross the path to the pond and pass the kitchens. I pretend I know this as well as my family’s small patch of earth.

The press of the mountains above us, their stone peaks unyielding and comforting against the sky. Not so different from the looming rooftops of the Hall of Eternal Light.

The dense tangle of the wildberry bushes, hiding the presence of small, darting birds. I crouch and walk through the rows of purple-leaf shrubs, covered with tiny pink blossoms.

I am through the central garden when I notice the bobbing light of the lanterns in the distance. I press myself against the wall and watch them make their way past the library. The tea sloshes about in my stomach, leaving a bitter aftertaste on my tongue—I let it steep for too long. My skin prickles with a strange sensation. My head swivels too fast, catching the beating of wings in the light, and I am suddenly the hawk swooping overhead in the dark. I am the spider making its way up the brick next to me, spinning its web. The noises of all living things around me swarm inside my head, demanding my attention.

The ring of the gong sends me to my knees, crushing the plant below me, releasing a pungent scent. I press my hand tightly to my mouth, so that I do not cry out.

“The third hour!” the criers call out. “The third hour!” The Hour of the Ghost. I will be late.

I make my way to my feet, head still spinning. The stars seem to hum mockingly above my head, whispering my name.

I stumble down the empty path to the library, away from the guards. My hands I keep on the contours of the wall, its roughness tethering me to the physical world even as I feel like I am about to burst from my body. I don’t notice the slight slope in the ground until I twist my ankle, the sharp pain wrenching me back inside my body, clearing my head slightly.

I put in too much goji berry. Another mistake. There are some additives so strong they pull you outside your body entirely, until you’re cast into the wind and too far away to return. Your physical body will wither away without your spirit to inhabit it.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, and I throw myself behind a statue. I watch as the figure slides against the wall, blending in with the shadows, using the shrubbery to their advantage. If it weren’t for my drink, I’m not sure I would have noticed them. The outline of the body ripples, lit up from within. As they slip through a gap in the trees, the moonlight catches the face, and I see it. The flatness of the features, the mask that has haunted my dreams.

The Shadow.

I should sound the alarm, but when I look around, the rest of the garden is still. The guards will not be passing through this place for a time.

The Shadow touches the wall and the hidden door slides open. The light from the lanterns catches the glint of a blade pressed against their side. Stepping into the tunnels means they will have direct access to the princess’s inner garden. If I scream, perhaps the guards will be able to find me before they silence me forever, but that is only if they are able to hear me at all.

Father’s voice rises unbidden in my mind: We always have a choice. A choice to stand up and do what is right. Even when I did not understand it in my childish ignorance, he still spoke up for the villagers, often at great cost to himself.

The panel is on the verge of closing. I balance on a precipice, the cliff of indecision. Forced to choose: stay or go, jump or cower.

I slip through the gap and pull the lever, shutting myself in with Dàxī’s monster.

The Shadow moves ahead through the tunnel, and I keep my eyes on their back. The magic courses through my veins. I feel in and out of myself. The voice at the back of my head screams at me: Rip the mask off! Demand the name of those responsible for the poison! Whether they are the creator or merely the distributor, if they know of the blood on their hands.