“These are rice cakes,” Lian replies. “Rolled around brown sugar sauce and peanuts.”
“It’s quite an … acquired taste.” Elder Guo sets half her portion back down on the plate, uneaten.
Lian’s technique is unique even among the variations of the other provinces. Her choice of tea is in the form of a brick, which is commonly thought to be an inferior variety of tea leaves, a mixture of all the broken bits of stems and discarded leaves. After slicing a piece of compressed tea off, she places it into her pot. To her bowl, she adds an assortment of ingredients I cannot discern from where I am seated.
The princess leans forward, her eyes shining intently in the lantern light, watching Lian’s every movement. As the servants approach the judges with the cups, the scent of cinnamon drifts by in the air.
“Tell us about each ingredient.” Minister Song lifts his cup and wafts the steam toward his nose.
“Tea, to represent the bitterness of life,” Lian says in a small voice, then, clearing her throat, she speaks a little louder. “Red sugar cubes and walnuts for sweetness. Then inside us all, there is a spark. Peppercorns and ginger, to awaken the fire within.”
When the bowls are placed in front of the judges, I take note of their expressions. Elder Guo is definitely a traditionalist—she barely touches her mouth to her cup before placing it back down. Minister Song appears to be more receptive, savoring each mouthful carefully. The marquis wrinkles his nose in distaste, sipping at his cup hurriedly as if eager to move on to the next competitor. The chancellor’s stoic features say nothing. The princess appears contemplative, considering the remnants in her cup.
I clench my fist in my lap, wanting to protest their dismissal, to tell them there are other ways of representing Shénnóng than with flamboyant ceremony. But even I know I need to keep my head down and remain quiet. Instead, I hold my breath for Lian as the judges cast their verdict.
Two red tokens for No, while Minister Song provides a purple token in the affirmative. Surprisingly, the chancellor also provides a purple token, with a nod in Lian’s direction.
“Not an altogether unpleasant taste,” he comments. “A subtle use of magic to invigorate the mind.”
It comes down to the princess. She drains what remains in the cup and smiles.
“It lingers on the palate, a lovely progression,” she says, delicately patting her mouth with a handkerchief. She sets down a purple token. “And so you, too, shall linger in the competition.”
“Thank you!” Lian bows deeply, her happiness evident. The audience, charmed by her sincerity, claps and cheers for her.
I, too, can’t help but break into applause.
Until I realize it’s my turn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
You cannot commune with the gods in silence.
This is what my mother always taught us: The art of Shénnóng is a dialogue. For her, it is not one of meditation and quiet or tradition and rigidity. It is a dance between people, a communion between and beyond the body. To understand a patron’s ailments or a loved one’s needs, you must be close to them.
To pay tribute to Shénnóng is an intimate experience, a bond.
It is not, I realize, something I ever watched her conduct in public with a crowd of passive onlookers. She did not perform.
I’m shaking as I walk toward the judges’ platform. Not only because I am nervous, but also because I feel like a tree stripped of its leaves, naked and exposed, about to attempt something so personal in front of so many. I remind myself of the moment in the teahouse, when I experienced the connection with Bo. I accomplished it once, and I will again. Mother always told me I had the gift. Raw and uncultivated, but mine to reject and mine to embrace. It will not leave me so easily.
I am still my mother’s daughter.
I clear my throat so I can raise my voice for all to hear.
“I am from Sù, Highness.” I address the princess directly—only the barest arch of her brow indicates her surprise. My sister would know I speak to stop my whole body from shaking, but I realize too late I may be too forward, not knowing the niceties of the capital. I can only forge ahead, despite my mistake. “The renowned Poet Bai once penned a poem about my province.”
There are quiet murmurs from the crowd, but I pay them no mind as I begin by removing the lids from the jars, setting them on the black tray.
“‘The figures toil on the distant hills.’” I pluck the curled balls of tea leaves from the tin, sending them rolling to the bottom of the cup one by one. I conjure the image of me and Shu tumbling down the hills past the tea trees at home, laughing even as our baskets of harvested leaves tumble with us, scattering our efforts into our hair and our clothes. Tea for me is home, is joy, is family.