A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (6)
At night, I lean against the railing and watch the stars swirl overhead. Don’t be deceived, my mother once told me. The stars are not as peaceful as they appear. The astronomers are tasked with deciphering their celestial travels, prophecies that predict the rise and ruin of great families and kingdoms. They burn with as much ferocity as our sun.
“I used to dream of being a stargazer,” a voice interrupts my thoughts. Lifen’s husband, Official Yao, sits down heavily beside me on the deck and hands me a clay cup of millet wine. I sip it, and the earthy liquid burns through me, warming my chest. “Didn’t have the aptitude for it. Then I wanted to be a poet. Wrote soulful scribbles about the Banished Prince and his sequestered isle.”
I laugh at this, imagining him younger and more solemn, brush in hand. “And?”
“Life has a way of taking the wind out of our dreams sometimes,” he says, gazing not at me but at the flickering reflection of light on the water.
The heat of the wine emboldens me to announce, “I’m not going to let it.”
He laughs, full and relaxed, like he doesn’t believe me. When Lifen mentioned that her husband works for the government, I was wary of him at first. But even from our brief conversations, I realized quickly he is remarkably different from the governor who is in charge of my village.
I shudder, thinking of Governor Wang. The formidable man whose black cloak always billowed around him like a dark cloud. The governor never asks; he only knows how to take, to demand, to squeeze until every last remnant can be wrung from the people in his jurisdiction. They say he dragged someone’s hound into the road and beat it to death, for all to see. They say he laughed as the creature howled, punishment for its owner’s inability to pay the month’s taxes.
Governor Wang has taken a particular interest in my father over the years, as if he sees him as his nemesis. Often the villagers rely on my father to appeal to the officials for leniency when times are hard. He has seen for himself how the people have suffered, yet he is still obedient to the governor’s whims. Perhaps this is what makes it hard for me to understand my father. It is the most unforgivable kind of loyalty. Especially when, deep down, I know Governor Wang could have done more to stop the poisonings, and even deeper down, I sometimes suspect he is behind them.
I sit there with Official Yao in companionable silence, sharing sips of millet wine, until my hands and cheeks feel warm and tingly.
After the last drop is poured, we clink our cups together and empty them. He lets out a sigh. “The nice thing about getting old is you realize everything circles back on itself,” he says, with a dreamy lilt to his voice. “Things change, but they cycle back, too. The stars continue along their course, the cowherd is always reunited with the maiden. It’s comforting in a way. Makes it feel less lonely.”
He pats my shoulder and stands, leaving me to my own thoughts.
I stare out at the water. I have never thought of it until now, but he’s right. I am lonely, not just homesick. I’ve always felt this way, like I don’t belong in the village. Sometimes, late at night, when Shu is peacefully resting and sleep refuses to find me, twisted thoughts come for me instead. They take root and refuse to let go. They whisper terrible things—that my father wishes it were me, and not Shu, who had the sickness. That my family would be happier if I were gone.
Father exists in a circle of his own imagining, each of us playing our roles of how a good doctor and his good daughters should behave. He always believed that if I only spoke the right words, acted the proper way, I wouldn’t bring trouble on our household again and again.
Even when Mother was alive, even when I was happy in the gardens with my family, I always felt like I was orbiting them, occupying a similar space but charting my own invisible course, with no idea where it would take me.
Maybe I’m about to find out.
CHAPTER FOUR
With my mother’s shénnóng-shī chest on my back and my legs cramped from restless sleep aboard the ferry, I finally arrive to chaos at the west gate of the palace the next morning. I raced here after disembarking, with only a hurried goodbye to Lifen and her family. There was no time to even take in more than a glimpse or two of the city itself; I have to gain admittance to the palace before the time listed on the scroll, or the gate will be closed to me.
People crowd the street near the gate, craning their necks for a better view. I feel the pulse of anticipation in my throat as the crowd carries me closer to the entrance. The guards wait at the door with a harassed-looking official of lower rank, who seems irritated that he was given this task. He admits only those who have an invitation in hand.
It’s clear some of the shénnóng-shī are well-known in the capital: They accompany their apprentices to the gate, and even the official bows to them, allowing them to pass without requiring a look at their scrolls. Some in the crowd call out their names, cheering. My mother never saw this sort of recognition in the village, and it pains me to see how she could have been revered, instead of taken for granted.
Change is slow, she used to say. The dowager empress recognized this. She was the one who elevated the shénnóng-shī in court, established it as a healing art alongside the physician’s branch. She encouraged learning from village apothecaries all the way to the highest-ranked imperial physician. The joining of traditions, old and new. But in our province, Shénnóng magic is still regarded with suspicion—especially if practiced by a woman.