It’s a brand.
So much loss. So much, torn away from him …
What he lost, I don’t understand, but the tide has turned. It’s reaching out to him, to pull on the strands of his inner self, to unravel him like it did to me.
And then Bo shoves himself away from the table, and just like that, our connection breaks, like a string snapping.
The world returns in a sudden rush, the noises of the teahouse patrons surrounding us again, too loud for my ears. His stool lands on the floor beside him with a clatter. I notice his shirt is no longer spread open; I wonder if it ever was at all.
“You are capable of prying into human minds.” His breath comes short and ragged, and there’s a new shine to his eyes. Fear. “What do you want from me?”
I force myself to a center of calm, to be as still as frozen trees in winter. Rumors abound about the shénnóng-shī, for they are few in number, and not everyone understands their abilities. There are some who would call them sorcerers and would rather use the services of the physicians. Calling our abilities superstition, mysticism, or worse. I could lose my head. Especially if this boy is affiliated with a powerful family.
“You are the one who came to me,” I say to him, mindful that each word could be my last. “You found me. You spoke to me. You sought me out, remember? Who are you, Bo? Who are you really?”
He looks behind me, beyond me, anywhere but at my face. I stare at his throat, waiting for an explanation.
“I believe our bargain is done,” he says. “Thank you for your company.”
With a blink he is gone, and I am left alone again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I return to the palace, ready to leave the peculiar afternoon behind me like a dream best forgotten. Lian greets me at our residence by clasping my hands and apologizing profusely for losing me in the market. I open my mouth to tell her about everything that happened, but then shut it again when the servants arrive to take our ingredients away in preparation for tonight’s competition. I don’t yet have the words to describe what occurred. Where do I even start?
Evening has settled into deepening violet when we are separated into two rows to march down long, torchlit hallways toward the Courtyard of Promising Future. As we approach the courtyard, we can already hear the noise of the throng of spectators.
Soldiers block our view past the gate. The light from the torches bounces off their red armor and shields, casting an ominous hue on the walls. When they step aside to admit us, there is only a single path for us to walk shoulder to shoulder. We continue along the line of soldiers until we reach a set of stairs leading upward.
When we reach the first platform, we are directed to separate—one line to the right, one to the left. We fill in the spaces between the rows of black tables, each with a cushion for us to kneel on. At the center of each table, there is a wooden box with our name written on the lid.
It is then that I sneak a glance over at the crowd, and suddenly there’s a koi in my gut, wiggling and flipping in protest. I almost sway at the size of the gathering before me. It’s but a blur of faces, illuminated by the lanterns that dangle above the spectators’ heads. They number more than all the people in my village, several times over. Around the perimeter, more soldiers in red stand guard, faces hidden beneath their helmets.
The stage in front of us continues onto another set of stairs, leading to a platform with empty tables, awaiting the judges. Behind that rises the grand hall, a splendor of Dàxī’s architecture, built in the days of the Ascended Emperor. A bell is struck, and the crowd quiets, following the cue. A herald dressed in resplendent purple appears at the top of the steps to make the proclamation.
“Welcome all to join in the celebrations honoring Dowager Empress Wuyang, long may her name resound in the heavens. The princess hopes all have enjoyed the feast shared with you today…” He pauses for a moment. “The emperor sends his regrets that he is unable to attend. He will be eagerly awaiting the results in his chambers and will personally bless the winner when the time comes.”
Stomps and shouts arise from the assembly, demands to see the emperor, for an explanation as to why he will not be making an appearance. The herald raises his arm to quiet the din before speaking again.
“Our competitors and our honorable judges! The Minister of Rites, Song Ling. The Marquis Kuang of ānhé province, from which our most precious tea originates. Elder Guo of the venerable Hánxiá Academy, and … Grand Chancellor Zhou.”
As they are named, the judges descend the steps from the balcony of the Great Hall to the upper platform. My gaze rests on the imposing figure of the chancellor, his hair done in a severe topknot, clad in a dark-colored ceremonial robe bereft of embroidery. He is known for his commoner background, as someone who rose through the ranks due to his shrewd intelligence and his high marks in the imperial examinations. He surveys the crowd with keen eyes, his expression betraying nothing.