The marquis is set up at the Residence of Autumnal Longing—the area’s name is written in calligraphy on a plaque hanging over the gate. The double doors open to a small courtyard with a bamboo grove to the right. One of the household servants is already there, waiting to greet us. She leads us toward the building to the left of the courtyard, making tutting noises of displeasure, huffing, “It’s unacceptable for the kitchen to have such a delay.”
We’re led through a sitting area decorated with water and ink paintings. I long to take a closer look at them, but we’re hurried past. Our basket is set by two trays already prepared with bowls and plates crafted of fine porcelain, pale green veined with dark crackle. Qing’er helps me transfer our collection of tidbits carefully, finishing with the round pastries with different colors of dots on top to indicate the flavor hidden within, the edges already crumbling under our touch.
“What is this?” the servant demands, pointing at each pastry in turn. Thankfully, Qing’er is able to answer on my behalf. One is filled with pork floss and mung bean for a sweet and savory treat, while another is stuffed with salted egg custard. The thinner pieces have a layer of winter-melon paste inside or a mixture of dates and crushed nuts.
When the treats are arranged to her satisfaction, she gathers up one of the trays and gestures for me to take the other.
“I can help—” Qing’er reaches for it, but she shakes her head.
“The marquis does not like to be served by boys.”
I look at Qing’er, but he steps back, giving me an apologetic look.
“And he does not like to be kept waiting,” she snaps impatiently, already walking away. “Come along.”
I stand there rooted, tray in hand. I’m going to be recognized when I step into the room, and the marquis will banish me from the competition and from the palace.
“You have to go,” Qing’er whispers, tugging at my sleeve.
My chest tightens. I will go in and out quickly, and pray my face is plain enough that I will not be recognized. I force myself to take one step forward, then another.
To face the marquis, who threw a teacup at me. Who is certain I am a traitor to Dàxī.
The servant stops me before a wood-screen door. The sound of music streams out, and the voices of men in low conversation.
“Follow my lead,” she instructs. “Set the tray on the side table to your right. Do not linger.”
I nod.
We step through the door into another lovely room. My eyes are drawn to a map of a city mounted on the wall. A collection of vases, of varying sizes and shapes, line another wall. A musician sits on a stool in the center of the room, plucking at the strings of a pipa.
I hold the tray carefully, moving as fast as I dare so I do not draw attention to myself. I set the tray next to where the other has already been placed, then I spare one curious glance around the room to see which honored guests the marquis is entertaining today.
Marquis Kuang himself holds court up front, reclining on one arm, the picture of lazy indulgence. Around the room there are men seated at small tables, the surfaces already littered with plates and cups. My eyes skim over the faces of the guests, then … my heart drops. I recognize the face leering at the lovely musician, and the two men with their heads together, clinking cups. Every single one of them in the room looks familiar.
It’s Shao, and other shénnóng-tú from the competition. Breaking the rules, cavorting with the judges.
I suddenly know how it feels to be a rabbit thrown into a nest of vipers. But before I can turn and flee, one of the men lifts his head from his cup and his eyes meet my own.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My breathing is suddenly too loud. I pray the stars will shine kindly on me today, instead of banishing me to a life of ruin and disgrace.
The man stands, swaying on his feet, and points at me. “You—” He stumbles toward me, catching himself on a pillar.
I turn quickly toward the door, but he lunges for me, too quick for me to react, and grabs my arm. I struggle to pull my arm out of his grasp, but his grip is too tight. He pulls me closer, and I can smell the rice wine on him, on his clothes and wafting from his open mouth. It’s not only tea these men are partaking in.
I try to push him away, but I’m a bird trapped by a hunter, fluttering uselessly in his grasp.
“Even the palace maids are prettier than the rest.” He chuckles.
A flash of anger ignites within me. Embarrassment tinged with fury—at being grabbed, at the thought of this buffoon believing I am his plaything.