I empty the golden liquid from the steeping pot into the one for resting. Mother never allowed us to forget the old, old ways, from before the conquered clans, before the rise and fall of empires. It was in every cup of tea she brewed, a ritual carried out with reverence. It was in the way she knew every single component that entered her tea—the origin of the water, the aroma of the wood that stoked the fire, the vessel the water was heated in. All the way to the leaves plucked by her fingers, steeped in a cup shaped by her own hands and fired in her own kiln. Distilled into liquid contained in the palms of two hands, offered as a blessing.
Here I am. Drink, and be well.
I lean forward and breathe in the sweet scent of apples. I hear the drowsy drone of bees among the wildflower blooms. A feeling of comfort envelops me, wrapping me in warmth. My eyelids start to droop, but the moment dissipates when something darts across my vision.
My entire body prickles with awareness.
A flutter of black wings to my right. A crow, gliding through the smoky dark before disappearing.
It takes a lifetime of training to learn how to read tea like a master, and I had already resigned myself to becoming a physician’s apprentice. A year ago, it was decided. For my sister could not stomach the sight of blood, and my father required another pair of steady hands.
Doubt crawls across my skin as my fingers return to clutch the scroll once more. An invitation meant for someone else—my mother’s true apprentice.
But Mother is dead. And only one of us is strong enough to travel now.
I force myself to focus. Deep breath in, let it go. The steam wavers in the path of my exhaled breath. No more visions. A trickle of tea is transferred to the small cup for drinking, just a mouthful. The drink goes down my throat with the honey taste of optimism, the promise that summer will last forever …
Courage burns bright and strong in my chest, hot as a sunbaked river rock.
Confidence ripples down my limbs. My shoulders pull back, and I feel poised, like a cat ready to leap. The tightness at the bottom of my stomach uncurls slightly. The magic is still there. The gods have not taken it away as punishment for my neglect.
The sound of violent coughing disrupts my concentration. I knock over one of the pots, tea spilling onto the tray as I run into the next room.
My sister struggles to hold herself up with shaking arms, the coughs racking her slender frame. She fumbles for the basin we keep beside her bed, and I pass it to her. Blood splatters against the wood, too much of it, again and again. After an eternity, the heaving finally relents, and she shivers against me.
“Cold,” she whispers.
I climb into bed beside her and pull the blankets around us. She clutches at my tunic and draws a rattling breath. I hold her as her breathing eases, and the strained lines beside her mouth smooth away.
We have tried our best, my father and I, to treat Shu in the absence of my mother’s knowledge. Me, struggling to recall those childhood lessons, and my father, himself a trained physician, educated at the imperial college. He knows how to set bones and mend cuts, how to treat the external ailments. Although he’s familiar with some of the internal medicines, he always deferred to Mother’s art for the more complex problems. It was what made their partnership work so well.
My father has used every drop of knowledge he possesses, even swallowed his pride to send a letter to the college for aid. All possible antidotes within his reach, he’s tried. But I know the dark truth we circle around.
My sister is dying.
The tonics and tinctures act as a dam to keep the poison at bay, but one day it will spill over. There is nothing we can do to stop it.
And I’m the one who failed her.
In the dark, I wrestle with my thoughts and my worry. I do not want to leave her behind, but there is no other way forward. The scroll is the only answer. Delivered by royal procession to the household of every shénnóng-shī in Dàxī. Shu was the only one at home when we received it. I was in the village with Father, tending to one of his patients. She unfurled it for me to see in the privacy of our bedroom later that evening. The fabric glimmered then, threaded with gold. The dragon rippled from its back, the embroidery so fine it seemed it could come alive and dance around us, leaving flames trailing in its wake.
“This came for us today,” she told me with an intensity I’ve rarely seen from my mild-mannered sister. “An imperial convoy carrying a decree from the princess.”
The words I have almost learned by heart: By Imperial Decree, Princess Li Ying-Zhen welcomes you to a celebration and remembrance of the dowager empress, to be honored through a festival to seek a rising star. All shénnóng-tú are invited to the challenge, and the next shénnóng-shī to serve in the court will be decided. The winner of the competition will be granted a favor from the princess herself.