I check the leaves one more time, half expecting the bowl to contain the same falsehood, but I recognize the characteristic fuzz. Letting out a shaky sigh, I focus now on steadying my hands, on the pour of the hot water, the rise and fall in a sparkling stream. The spinning vortex shows the truth. The tea leaves are pointing to the center. The lid is carefully placed on top, the tea allowed to steep.
Someone tried to disqualify me, leaving me vulnerable to poison, and I would not have known if Steward Yang had not helped me. Am I absolutely certain it was the marquis? I force myself to focus on the steam, instead of turning around to see who else could be watching me, eager to see if their plot has succeeded.
I pour the tea into the cup and gesture for the entertainer to take her sip. She does so with delicate movements, covering her face with the sleeve of her other arm, part of her performance.
Something heavy hits the floor behind me with a loud thud, making me jump. I turn to see one of the shénnóng-tú lying on the ground. Two soldiers come in without prompting to carry the prone body out of the room.
Despite the rule of silence, whispers ripple among the other competitors, questions of “Is he dead?” and “What will happen to him?”
“I would advise you to focus on your own fate, competitors,” the marquis announces, his enjoyment at our discomfort apparent.
I turn back to the entertainer, who has already begun her ceremony, unaffected by all the disturbances around her. The rinsing of the cups, the preparation of the pot, the wait during the steep. The light fragrance of a bright spring green tea wafts toward me, a perfect selection for an afternoon drink.
I return my attention to the five cups before me. All identical in color, the same painted design of peach blossoms running along the outer curve, all appearing to be empty. She pours the tea into each, steam curling gently above the surface. I stare at them, willing them to speak to me.
How does one become an apprentice of Shénnóng? A question rises unbidden in my mind, one of Mother’s basic lessons. The magic sounds like ringing to my ears. You may sense it differently. Is it a taste? A brush against the skin? Mother had sat us both down in front of her while she poured the tea for us. Shu gasped, said she could see it—colorful lines being pulled from her hands, like fabric from a loom. But I smelled it, distinctly.
It smelled like pomelo flowers.
I had banished that memory when I thought I would never pour another cup of magic again. But it returns to me now, waiting for direction.
I am aware from last night that the Silver Needle does not need long to take effect. But was it only because of Kang’s previous connection with me, wrenched into place by the Golden Key?
Slowly, so as not to startle her, I reach for the entertainer’s hand, resting my palm on top of her knuckles. She tenses but does not pull away. The magic spills over to her, making the connection. I learn at this moment that I do not need to also drink the tea in order to wield the magic. If the receiver ingests it, then it is sufficient.
The fingers of my other hand hover over the first cup. My eyelids flutter, and I am suddenly overwhelmed by a luxurious heaviness of the limbs, the lull in the thoughts before sleep overtakes me … I snatch my hand back, and the feeling dissipates.
The next cup sparks a sensation of rolling within my stomach, like the unsteadiness of being on the ferry. This one causes vomiting.
The third, nothing. Empty.
I move to the fourth, to test whether the magic is true, and a sharp pain strikes my temple, like someone has stabbed a dagger into my skull. I quickly snatch the third cup, swallowing its contents in one gulp, and place it back on the table.
My breath quickens as my gaze flashes upward to meet the eyes of the girl from Peony House. I can see the barest, almost imperceptible curve at the corners of her eyes. I already know from that almost smile—I picked the right cup. Her eyes flick downward briefly, and I realize I’m still holding her hand. I let go and return my hands to my lap, suddenly feeling awkward.
My senses still remain my own. Sleep does not overtake me. Pain does not wash over me. Looking around, I see the number of shénnóng-tú continues to diminish, until the ones who remain are told to rise and approach the marquis.
“You have survived the round,” he says, the golden hooves of the horse statue rearing above his head. “From fifty-some to seventeen to eight.” His eyes land on me, still standing before him, and a scowl crosses his face.
I wish a sudden strong wind would topple the statue onto his head, but the heavens do not comply.