A maid dressed in the softest shades of pastel blue with a sash of pink sets a lacquered tray with tools for preparing tea before us—Bo chooses the Golden Key, a tea so rare and valuable, the proceeds from selling only a handful of it could feed my entire family for a year. Once again, a pang of something like anger and sorrow moves through me.
A servant pours hot coals into a brazier to my right, and another maid sets a kettle on top, already steaming.
“Will our capable Ming be serving you today, honored guest?” The first maid curtsies, her eyes flicking to me. Her lips tighten slightly, but I know it signifies disapproval, probably at either my unkempt appearance or my decidedly un-demure behavior. “Or will you be using your own servant?”
“She’s not—” Bo starts, but I stand and smile at her.
“I’ll assist him from here,” I say. “Leave us.”
She stares at me, then her eyes move to the “honored guest” beside me, who just shrugs. The maid opens her mouth to protest, but then the servant sets the bowl of Golden Key before us.
Bo looks at the bowl with curiosity, and I do my best not to snatch it greedily away. A few thin black strands sit at the bottom of the green bowl, which is carved in the shape of a leaf. Using the tongs, I place the strands into the next bowl for steeping the tea.
“Is this what you’ll be doing at the competition?” Bo asks.
“I don’t know.” I’m going in without a mentor, without years of training. My hand shakes slightly, and I fight to still it.
“I’ll be thinking of you when they make the proclamations,” he says with a smile, and I feel another flutter in my stomach. One I try to excuse, and busy myself with pouring the tea. It’s only because of my own loneliness, my first time traveling from home.
We each reach for our own cups, and lifting our heads, we sip … and the world somehow changes. Steam rises from our cups and hovers between us, blurring our faces. The sounds of the teahouse fall away, until it’s only the two of us sitting across from each other. Everything around us wavers, dreamlike. The air is scented with camellia, like walking among the tea trees in autumn, amid white blossoms.
I hear my mother’s whispered voice. If you ever travel to the capital, bring me back just a few strands of Golden Key. It is my dream to taste it.
Judging by the wonder on his face, I almost believe Bo could hear her, too.
Bo stretches his hand before him, as if compelled by something outside himself. I can see the pinprick of black at the center of his pupils, drawing me in. Almost of its own accord, my own hand lifts, reaching out to him.
Our fingers touch, and it feels like my hand has plunged into a warm pool of water, the heat climbing up my arm. Our fingers intertwine, joined hands glowing with a strange light.
“Mei…，” he says, with breathless awe.
That’s not me, a voice inside me protests, but how can I explain what I’ve called forth into being?
A burning begins at the center of my chest, memories being drawn out of me, faster and faster. Mother, teaching us how to pour tea with steady hands. Shu on her knees, retching up blood. A sob rises in my throat.
I can feel the subtle tug of the powers of the tea, as if it’s pulling us together. Bo shudders, and suddenly I’m aware he can feel the guilt and the grief gnawing inside me, even if he does not understand the reasons why. His other hand reaches out and cups my cheek; the warmth of it makes me shiver.
He brushes my lip with his thumb, the barest of movements, and I feel sparks trailing behind it. It’s too intimate a connection, too much of myself peeling away all at once. I recoil, but he only lets his hand fall from my face so he can catch both of my hands within his own.
Stay, he begs soundlessly. Show me more.
He doesn’t know, though, until it’s too late. The Golden Key is a tea of secrets, and I know—even though I can’t explain how or why—that it is now trying to show me Bo’s secrets, just as it showed him mine. I’m afraid of what it will uncover, but despite my fear, I don’t pull away. The longing inside me for the connection, the desire to stay within the enchantment, is too strong.
As Bo and I stare at each other in wonder, hands still grasped tightly, his shirt begins to glow. A breeze sweeps around us, and I gasp as Bo’s shirt blows open slightly, exposing part of his chest, where I notice something like a scar … no, a circular imprint blooming red, almost the size of my palm. At the center, there is a character I do not recognize, written in the straight lines of the traditional script. I feel the sizzle of hot iron as if it had touched my own chest, smell the stench of the metal burning away skin, and a vision overcomes me that feels like a memory, as I—no, Bo—fights against the men holding him down. The men who did this to him.