A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (87)

When I am done, I see for myself how precious little I have obtained during my time in Jia. All the finery that surrounds me seems to mock me now. I had dared to covet all this, believing that one day I could live in a grand residence. It’s an illusion, as fake as the dragon Shao once created out of steam. A reminder of my conceit.

I allow myself to let a dark thought unwind from the deepest recesses of my mind: What if I took everything and paid for a voyage far from Sù and from Jia? I could disappear into the mountainous gorges of Yún or become another wanderer seeking a new beginning in the City of Jasmine. Pick a new name, find an aging physician to finish my apprenticeship. Grow a small garden and practice the art of Shénnóng in secret. Without the burden of my parents’ history … and carry with me the guilt of my sister’s death for eternity.

I pull out Shu’s embroidery and hold it with shaky hands. The moon watching over a strange scene, dipping into the sea, something born of my sister’s vivid dreams. It reminds me how I will return home empty-handed, reopening old wounds from my parents’ past. I stuff the cloth back into my sash.

Tears spill out, hot on my cheeks. My hands fumble to remove the jeweled pins from my hair. When they do not give, I rip them out, pulling strands from my scalp in my carelessness. I unwind the sash around my stomach, shedding the fine clothes until once again I am back in my homespun tunic, returning to my former self.

I can never forsake my sister.

This is who I am.

The girl from Sù.





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO


There is a tentative knock at the door to my residence, then a quiet creak as it opens. I drag my sleeve across my eyes, embarrassed to be seen in such a haggard state. To my surprise, the person standing there is Mingwen. She regards me with sympathy.

“The maids are waiting outside your door,” she says softly. “They will assist you into the clothes for the banquet when you are ready.”

The once dour Mingwen has become someone familiar to me, and I realize there are those in the palace who I will miss once I am home again.

“I’m leaving,” I inform her. “There is no reason for me to remain in the palace.”

Mingwen nods. “Steward Yang was worried; she sent me to find you. If you will not go to the banquet, then at least come to the kitchens to say goodbye.”

Seeing my reluctance, she adds, “The capital is not a safe place for a young girl to be wandering about in the evening.”

It is a familiar warning, like the ones Father used to give me about the capital. With a heaviness in my heart, I realize I should have listened to him. But it is too late now.

“We’ll make sure you find your way to the ferry safely in the morning.” She rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Now come. We’ll get you fed.”

I’m lured by the temptation of one final meal in the palace, and the reluctant acknowledgment that she’s right—I should say goodbye to the people who have been kind to me.

I’m given a tunic to pull on in the kitchens. While I wash up, my mind returns again and again to the Esteemed Qian’s revelations, my destined failures. Doubt circles me like a fish swimming in a too-small pot.

“Ning!” Qing’er exclaims when I enter the kitchen next to Mingwen. The boy wraps his arms around my waist. I force myself to give him a smile so he will not be subjected to my misery.

“You haven’t come to see us in a while.” The boy grins up at me. “I thought you and Lian forgot about us.”

I hesitate, remembering my promise to Steward Yang to stay away from her staff. But now that I am done with the competition, there is no reason for the officials to accuse me of subterfuge. I glance over at Mingwen, who gestures toward the kitchen with encouragement.

I give the small boy’s hand a squeeze. “Show me where I can help.”

Qing’er leads me to one of the large tables, and the bakery staff welcomes me with a chorus of greetings. Standing shoulder to shoulder with them, I assist with assembling large platters meant for the banquet. I find it easier to pretend that the food is meant for some faceless court official, and I’m just another servant performing my usual duties.

I help with extracting small crabs from molds, the shapes previously formed last night out of crabmeat and roe mixed with rice. After they are fried golden, we scatter them across a nest of crispy noodles, sprinkled with sesame. At the next station, one of the chefs uses chopsticks to carefully place delicate dumplings shaped into fish among the crabs, to give the appearance of darting in and out among them.

The next course is another platter I would call a display of art rather than a plate of food meant to be devoured. Bamboo lids are lifted to reveal steamed pink gao shaped like flowers, their petals dotted with red beans to indicate the flavor of the filling within. The gao are configured into blooming bouquets around a phoenix sculpture carved out of a daikon, with carrot slivers for decoration.

There is no time to think, no time to fret or worry about my eventual fate. My hands are busy with placing each portion just so, artfully arranging the creations so as not to destroy someone else’s hard work. I take in the frantic energy of the space, inhale the sweet aromas that surround us like a cloud, settling into our hands and onto our skin.

Until finally, our tasks are done. The last platter is sent out and the kitchen fires are banked. We pull up benches and push the tables together, many of us sighing when we sit and rest our aching legs. Bowls are passed around, piled high with fluffy rice. Before us there are remnants of the evening’s banquet that did not pass Small Wu’s inspection: collapsed dumplings and misshapen pastries. The staff from the Meat Department join us, bringing their own stools and contributions to the dinner. They add slices of plump red and dried black sausage, glistening slabs of roasted pork, and pieces of crispy-skinned chicken.