Qing’er runs in with the requested ingredients in hand, disrupting the somber atmosphere. I pour the ingredients into an earthen pot that can withstand the heat of coals, just like the pot that held our breakfast earlier. I pour the hot water over the dried herbs and allow the water to settle. The medicinal musk wafts into the air, tingling my nose.
I always thought it was my father who wanted to help everyone in the village, even if it put the family at risk and attracted the attention of the governor. I never understood why. I resented our threadbare clothes, how some days Mother had to stretch a handful of rice into congee. I wondered why Mother always helped him without question. But now I can see why. If you can feel someone else’s suffering, how can you look away?
I convince myself it’s only the steam making my eyes water.
The steward suddenly grabs my hands, insistent. “I heard the shénnóng-shī can send messages across distances. That you can whisper a word into the night and it will find the target. Can you do that for me? Can you send a message to my daughter?”
I shake my head. “I wish I could. I don’t know how to send messages through walls or speak to someone in dreams. It may be something a truly powerful shénnóng-shī is able to do, but I have never learned it.”
Steward Yang pulls back, folding her arms over her chest. “Sometimes I wish I were the Shadow. Able to step through walls and hide in the darkness. I always thought the palace was a refuge from the harsh reality of life, but now I know it is a prison.”
I stir the tonic in the pot with a wooden spoon, ensuring that it remains at a simmer and not a boil. The thought of the emperor shut in his grand palace leaves me feeling unsettled, and I remember what the Esteemed Qian hinted at: Change is coming.
When the tonic is done, I strain it using one of the resting pots, then pour it into a bowl. The color of the liquid has darkened considerably, into an unappealing brown. I bring it over to the steward, setting it in front of her.
“You have to sleep,” I tell her. “Without sleep, you cannot be ready if she needs you. How can you take care of your heart if your mind is slow?”
She grumbles at the lecture but places her hands around the bowl. “Look at me, listening to a mere child. I’m getting muddled in my old age.”
“Grandmother.” Qing’er hugs her from behind, sweet as malt sugar. “You are still young.”
Steward Yang smiles at that and lowers her head to blow on the surface of the tonic.
“Wait!” I jump up and return to my room to fetch a small bundle from my dressing table. “This will make it easier to drink, if you like.”
Yesterday while in the kitchens, I picked up a few pieces of pear-syrup candy from the servant’s tray. They are one of the few luxuries from Jia my mother splurged on, the one thing guaranteed to make her light up when we received a delivery. She could pop them into her mouth directly, but they were so sweet they made my teeth ache, so she would always put them into a pot of hot water for me to drink.
Steward Yang regards me with an odd, contemplative look.
“You can put it under your tongue,” I tell her, thinking it is not common practice in the capital. “It should ease the bitterness of the tonic.”
She ignores the offered candy, but follows my other instructions, sipping at the bowl slowly until all of it is gone. “You see, Qing’er?” She shows the empty bowl to her grandson. “Grandmother drank all her medicine.”
He beams at her, adoration for her evident. “Well done!”
Steward Yang picks up my handkerchief from the table and examines the bird stitched on it. I resist the urge to snatch it away; that was Shu’s. Now that I have been separated from Mother’s shénnóng-shī box, I have so little remaining of home.
“Did you make this?” she asks. “The stitching is quite fine even with the coarse materials.”
“No, that is my sister’s work.” I reach out and take it from her—not caring if it’s rude to do so—and tuck it away in my sash, where I can keep it safe.
“Lian, could you take Qing’er outside to play?” the steward says. “I would like to speak to Ning in private.”
Lian looks at me, questioning. I give her a small shrug, and she takes the young boy’s hand, leading him outside. He’s already chattering again.
The steward turns back to me, but when we’re alone her shrewd expression reappears, as if there is an abacus working in her head, considering my worth and value.