“I don’t want either of you in the kitchens again, understand? I have people to take care of. If any of the judges catch you … I can’t risk the lives of everyone else.” She waits for both of us to agree before nodding. “The name of the tea is Silver Needle. I will obtain a sample for you, if you think it may be useful.”
After Steward Yang and Qing’er leave us, Lian and I turn to each other excitedly. Finally, something we can use. A hint to give us a clear focus, instead of the feeling that we are stumbling around in the dark.
“What do you know about Silver Needle?” I ask. It’s not a name I remember from Mother’s teachings.
“It sounds familiar. I think I’ve read about it once.”
We return to our room, where Lian rummages through her things before coming up with a book in hand. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she flips through the pages until she finds the section she is looking for.
“‘Silver Needle is known for its thin, slender leaves, covered with the lightest layer of silver fuzz,’” she reads aloud. “‘Many attempts have been made to cultivate it from the wild, though none have been successful, which makes it highly sought after. In the hands of a master shénnóng-shī, it can coax the truth out of anyone, but even a shénnóng-tú would be able to use it to discern a truth from a lie.’”
“A truth serum?” I ask. “Anyone who drinks it will be forced to tell the truth?” It seems a precious resource, to have such an ability.
Lian laughs. “If it were as easy as that, do you think it would not be worth more than the Golden Key? But the Silver Needle, like all other tea leaves, depends on the wielder. It depends on the severity of the lie, and on how much the other person wants to hide the truth.”
* * *
When Lian and I return from dinner, we find a small package waiting for us on our table. I open it to find a note from Steward Yang and a few silvery-yellow leaves in a small pouch. We agree to split the amount to prepare for the next round of the competition, hoping it will give us an advantage if we can learn how to wield the tea.
We continue to speculate on what will happen tomorrow until it is time to rest. But I find myself lying there, staring into the dark, listening to Lian’s breathing as it slows. My mind is unable to rest, thinking of that boy who is able to traverse the palace walls in the dark. The one who promised to return for my real name.
Lost in my thoughts, the sound of the gong startles me.
“Sān gēng!” The distant sound of the criers reaches my ears, reminding me of the chant every child learned in school:
Yī gēng rén （First hour for the people, preparing for rest）
èr gēng luó （Second hour for the gong, watching over those safe in their beds）
Sān gēng gu? （Third hour for the ghosts, coming out of the dark）
Sì gēng zéi （Fourth hour for the thieves, taking advantage of night）
W? gēng jī （The final hour for the rooster, first to awake / Dawn arrives to welcome the new day）
It’s the third hour, the Hour of the Ghost. The darkest time of night, when the spirits are the most active. My feet touch the cold floor. My fingers fumble in the dark until I find my cloak. I wrap it around me before tiptoeing past the screen that separates our room from the foyer, then out the door into the dim courtyard. I remember the other rhyme: The Banished Prince, Demon Born, who thrives in the dark …
“I wasn’t sure you would remember.” Bo steps out from behind the shadow of the willow tree, and I jump back, swallowing a startled cry.
Kang, I remind myself. His other name. His true name.
“Sorry.” He comes closer until I can see him in the light of the lantern hanging from the rafters, and he raises his hands to show he is unarmed. My hands clutch the front of my cloak, as if it is armor that can protect me.
“Do you want—” “Come—” We speak over each other, then stop.
Kang walks carefully toward me until he is at the foot of the steps, looking up.
“This is the first time we’ve met where you haven’t attacked me,” he states with a slow grin. The one that unsettles me, as if he knows something I do not. I find it insufferable. I find him insufferable, and yet … I like to see it.
“You’ve deserved it every time,” I retort.
“That’s fair.” His smile stretches even wider, not bothered by my sharpness. “Will you finally tell me your name?”
My name doesn’t carry as much weight as his. My family is not renowned, infamous like his. Why does he care so much about my name and about who I am?