“Finally, we welcome Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Li Ying-Zhen!” She appears at the balcony to cheers, but there are also a few scattered jeers and hisses. I remember what Bo said to me: that she is not well-liked by all, that the people grow restless.
The princess slowly descends. Her robe, its train cascading down the steps, is even finer than the one she wore at our welcome ceremony. Hundreds of embroidered cranes fly from her shoulders, over a midnight sky gradually lightening to the palest blue. Her hair is swept up atop her head, adorned with jeweled pins shaped like birds that sparkle in the light. She takes her seat at the center of the table, the other judges framing her on either side.
Minister Song stands, voice booming out over the crowd. “What these competitors before you do not know is that our judges have already reviewed their choice ingredients. They have deemed half of the competitors worthy of partaking in the first round.”
Startled at this sudden turn, we look at each other in confusion.
“You will lift the lid from your box,” the minister continues. “If you see your dish and the tea contained within, then you will continue today. If your box is empty, please leave immediately.”
There are gasps and murmurs—from both the stage and the crowd—and I freeze. This could be it. Gone before I’ve even had a chance to brew a single cup.
I reach out with shaking hands. Around me, people yell in happiness or despair. Some of the younger apprentices are crying as soldiers assist them down the steps. I shut my eyes, terrified of the emptiness I may find within. Taking a deep breath, I lift the lid and look down.
There is a dish inside my box.
Tears spring to my eyes as I take in the two plump rice dumplings, glistening on a carefully cut triangle of banana leaf, a dusting of crushed peanuts on top. The dumplings are smaller in scale, meant to be popped into one’s mouth in one bite. Despite the pressure of the moment, all I can think of is how the village aunties would have complained. What a waste of time to make something so small!
I glance around and take in the fact that we’ve—just like that—gone from over fifty competitors to twenty-some. The way forward will still be steep, but I’ve made it past the first step.
I catch Lian’s eye. She, too, has made it through. The same is not true for many of the girls housed in our residence; I can see a few of them dejectedly leaving the stage.
Now, servants in red livery begin to set up for the next step of the competition on the judges’ platform. A small brazier filled with hot coals is placed to the left of the prepared table, a pot filled with water placed on top to boil. And finally, a row of teacups, numbering five—one for each taster. I can’t tell the material of the utensils even when I squint. I’ll know when it’s my turn.
Just like a martial arts fighter, each belief system follows a different style that the shénnóng-shī believes to produce the best cup of tea. But the outcome depends on the practitioner and the rules of the competition. In previous trials to determine whether an apprentice could become worthy of the rank of shénnóng-shī, it was rumored that one session involved identifying a selection of tea leaves, all unlabeled—the apprentices had to discern the teas by scent alone. In another session, all the shénnóng-tú were blindfolded before preparing their tea, to test their steadiness of hand. The trials were all held in secret, the knowledge passed down from teacher to student. Now, we are on display for all to see.
A young shénnóng-tú named Chen Shao goes first, and I recognize him as the one who uttered the slur at us before the gates. With the arrogant confidence of a man who has known his station all his life, he flips his robe behind him with flair before kneeling. When you’re told since you came out of the womb that you can do anything, why would you ever hesitate? If you were told at birth that the world is supposed to bow down to you, you would think it natural that you are destined to climb.
The mood from the crowd is expectant, watching his every move.
“What dish do you have for us today?” Elder Guo asks.
Shao bows in a courtly manner before answering. “I am from the Western District of Jia, renowned for our arts, culture, and famous teahouses. My dish for you today is an appetizer of crystal shrimp and chives.”
He lifts up a piece with his chopsticks—pink shrimp speckled with green and encased in a thin, translucent skin made of rice. He bites into it, chews and tastes, before proceeding.
Even though Shao seems incredibly arrogant, I have to admit it is indeed magical to watch him prepare a cup of tea. The water reaches a gentle boil, then he uses it to rinse all his vessels. In his tradition, each of the steps of serving tea has a name, following an ancient story of one of the old gods. A story Mother taught to me from the time I could hold a teacup.