“The astronomers have spoken,” he announces. “A ruler will ascend, and the court shénnóng-shī will provide wisdom and guidance, like those who have advised before you. Your final trial will be presented before the court. They will witness the marvels of Shénnóng and deem one of you worthy.
“Keep the medicine ball you found inside the water lilies. You will need it for the next round.” We all look down at the inconspicuous shape in our hands, wondering what clue it might provide us about what awaits us in the final round. “Your belongings will be moved into the Residence of Harmonious Spring tonight. And tomorrow … we shall see which one of your stars will shine the brightest over Jia.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The weak morning light illuminates my unfamiliar, luxurious surroundings. Without Lian’s morning greeting or even Peng-ge’s chirpy serenade, the room feels cold.
I’ve made it to the final round. My goal is within reach, yet I remain restless.
I try to distract myself by reading through Wondrous Tales, but it does not have the same pull as those stories usually do.
Walking through our garden courtyard, I see Shao and Wenyi playing a game of strategy through the open doors of Shao’s quarters. The two mirror each other, focus intent on the board before them, elbows on their knees. Directing their horses and chariots across the board. There is no invitation extended to me, and I do not intrude. I am well aware of where I fit in these perfumed corridors.
I attempt to leave the residence to at least stroll in the gardens, but there are soldiers positioned at the door by decree of the chancellor, for our own protection. But I’ve seen how easy it is to enter and leave the palace, the number of tunnels that run through the walls. How safe can any of us ever be in the palace?
“Wait!” one of the soldiers calls out to me. “A letter came for you.” He bows and passes me a bamboo scroll, secured with twine.
I sit on the redwood stool in my receiving room and examine the scroll, expecting it to be a letter of farewell from Lian. Except when I open it, I realize it does not unfurl. Instead it is a tube meant for transport, something sealed within—a rolled-up sheet of paper and a soft scrap of embroidered fabric.
A peony, the empress of flowers, blooms from the center of the fabric, a vibrant red. Each petal is lined with gold thread, stitched with painstaking detail. But it is growing in a bed of rippling grasses of a peculiar color, deep red to dark purple. In the background are spotted branches like trees, in various shades of pink. The moon glows in the sky like a watchful eye.
In the corner are characters in red thread, depicting a phrase from one of my mother’s favorite poems, one she made us recite frequently, learn by heart. It is the poem that tells me this is Shu’s handiwork.
海底有明月
圓於天上輪
A bright moon mirrored in the sea.
As round as the wheel in the sky.
With shaking hands, I unfurl the sheet of paper, dreading the message in black ink, written by my father’s hand.
Ning-er,
I hope this letter reaches you in time.
I know you have left us in search of a different life, and I do not begrudge you of that. I admit I thought you would fail, entertain this foolishness for a few days and return to the safety of home. It isn’t until these weeks have gone by that I recognize I have chosen my pride rather than my daughters.
I should not have devoted all my time to the villagers, believing you capable of looking after yourself. I did not imagine you would take on such a burden on behalf of your sister. That should have been my role.
But now I have uncovered more ways in which I have failed you both. Shu has been experimenting with tea bricks, testing an antidote on herself. I should have seen the hubris of her youth and tried to stop her. She has tried to prevent me from reaching out to you, but now she is too weak to protest. She only asked that I include her embroidery to let you know she is thinking of you. She believes you will return successful.
I do not think she has much time left.
Please, I ask you, come back and say goodbye to your sister.
—Father
A teardrop splatters on the page, smearing the ink. I retreat to my bedchamber before anyone can see me weeping. My fingers grope for the prayer bead necklace, hidden in my sleeve. But the comfort I seek eludes me.
My sister has never forsaken me, even when she was beloved by all and could have easily left me behind. She was the one who remembered my dreams, pushed me and said, Go. I thought I wanted to bring home all the riches a palanquin could carry, show them that the pregnant girl they scorned has a daughter who is adviser to a princess, prove to my mother’s family that we are worthy of their recognition. But in the end, it is always the thought of Shu, the certainty she is waiting for me at the end that propels me.