“I—” I open my mouth to speak, to ask more questions. About how he came to be the adopted son of the Banished Prince. But the voice of the crier pierces the night, announcing the hour.
He’s on his feet before I can blink, alert and ready. It reminds me again that he is more than he claims to be. A threat.
“Tomorrow?” He looks down at me, a question in his voice but a promise in his eyes. “I hope you will give me your name.”
Footsteps approach. The patrols must be making their way back. He’s still waiting for his answer. It’s a risk I can’t afford to take. I’m in enough trouble as it is. But I also need to see him again.
I nod.
The quick flash of his smile in the night is lightning against a dark sky. And then he’s gone before I can even take another breath, vanishing back over the rooftops.
For this one night, in this city inside a city, I find myself feeling a little less alone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning brings winds from the east and rain dripping from the rafters. Qing’er is the one who delivers our breakfast, contained in a round pot, while Mingwen holds an umbrella over their heads. She grumbles about the bad weather, balancing a basket tucked under her arm.
Qing’er dances around the table while “helping” Mingwen, gleefully explaining each item they are pulling out when he realizes I am unfamiliar with these northern dishes. Hot soy milk is ladled into bowls, tiny shrimp sprinkled over the surface, then drizzled with soy sauce, vinegar, and red chili oil, and finally dotted with a handful of chives. Another plate is piled high with fried golden dough, meant for dipping.
Lian invites them both to sit down and eat with us, which causes the two other shénnóng-tú in the room to give us odd looks and take their food elsewhere. It’s clear from our brief encounters with the other competitors that they believe our mannerisms to be peculiar—particularly our lack of a respectable background and our habit of associating with the servants. Mingwen’s mouth tightens at the obvious snub and she turns to leave, but Qing’er convinces her to stay by pushing a stool in her direction.
“I suppose I can rest my feet for a moment,” she mutters, accepting one of the steaming bowls and inhaling the scent rising from the top. Qing’er already has his mouth full of the crispy dough, nodding with pleasure as he swirls his spoon into the soup. I do the same and take a tentative slurp. It is rich, savory, salty, and sour. The heat then creeps up as a pleasant burn at the back of my throat, confusing my senses.
The table is quiet for a few moments, but for the slurping and munching as we enjoy our meal. After he makes quick work of his food, Qing’er pushes his dish away, declaring himself full, and looks at Lian slyly. “I heard them talking about the two of you in the kitchens after you left last night.”
“Qing’er!” Mingwen scolds.
Lian leans toward him, and even I set my spoon down for a moment with interest.
“Wait, he can tell us.” Lian smiles. “What did they say?”
“They said the shénnóng-shī can give people the strength of ten men. Is this true?”
I can tell this boy is trouble, but of the sort where he knows he is more likely to get his hair ruffled than to be beaten for having a smart mouth. A different sort of reality compared to that boy in the market.
“My teacher is able to brew tonics that can make you stronger, for a period of time,” Lian tells him. “He can pull out the inner potential placed inside you by the old gods. But not all shénnóng-shī have that capability. Just like some of your uncles demonstrate greater skill at folding dumplings and others have a knack for cooking with the wok, the shénnóng-shī have specializations, too.”
“Some shénnóng-shī have healing powers,” I add. “They look inside you to see what sickness there is, and help to draw it out. My—” I almost say mother, even though those in the capital may not yet know she is dead. “My teacher always taught me Shénnóng chooses each of us for a reason,” I mumble, knowing I need to be more careful of my words next time. I pretend to sip at my soy milk so that someone else can speak.
Mingwen nods. “They brew powerful magic. I saw it for myself once, when a cup of tea drew the age out of a person’s face. Made him look ten years younger!” She then clears her throat, as if embarrassed to be part of the conversation.
I wonder what sort of recognition my mother would have received if she had remained at the palace and practiced her art here. In our village, she was sometimes mistaken for Father’s assistant, or turned away from patients due to their preference for a “properly trained” physician. I know it always hurt her, even though she never stated it out loud.