My fingers dug into the skirt of my robe, crumpling the delicate silk. She meant to wound me, to shake my confidence, perhaps. Little did she know how deep her jibes went. But I would give her no satisfaction, my desire to win hardening instead. I would feel no remorse for my supposed temerity in climbing above my station to reach for the prize. What did I care for such rules anyway? I was not brought up to revere their titles or rank, and I would certainly not start now—not when winning would transform my life, not just gild an already bright future.
A gong was struck, its brassy tone reverberating loudly, silence trailing in its wake. Attendants hurried into the courtyard, clearing the path to the raised dais in front of the pavilion where thirteen desks were arranged. An odd number, and I guessed I was the late addition. Whispers rustled through the crowd as the immortals sank to their knees, touching their foreheads to the ground. I followed suit hastily as the Crown Prince entered, accompanied by his mother and their attendants.
“All may rise.”
The familiar sound of his voice calmed my nerves. As I rose, I glanced eagerly at the dais. Was this the same young man who had cleaned the dirt from my hairpin and listened to my troubles? A collar of gold gleamed at his neck, beneath a blue brocade robe embroidered with yellow dragons. A silvery glow emanated from their jaws, as though they were breathing mist and cloud. Flat links of white jade clasped his robe around his waist. His hair was drawn into an immaculate topknot, encased in a gold crown set with a large oblong sapphire. How grand, he looked. Majestic, even. And yet he was also just as I remembered, with his thoughtful expression and dark, intelligent eyes.
My gaze shifted to the brilliant vermilion robes of his mother beside him. The scarlet phoenixes on her garments stretched their graceful heads, their crests almost entangled in the long necklace of jade beads around her throat. As my gaze drifted up to her face, my blood froze to ice.
The Celestial Empress.
The one who had threatened and terrified my mother, forcing my flight from home. Anger sparked, thawing my fear, my emotions warring within. My fingers curled into tight fists as I forced my mouth into a bland smile. How senseless of me to have missed the connection! Was my mind dulled from grief and those months of sleepless nights? My instincts yelled at me to leave, but I could not reveal myself now. Besides, the empress did not have the slightest inkling of my identity. More importantly, necessity outweighed my fear—I needed this opportunity to have any hope of making something of myself. Even if it brought me closer to those I dreaded. Those I despised. Slowly I unclenched my hands, letting them hang limp by my sides.
At Prince Liwei’s nod, the chief attendant called out, “For the first two challenges, all candidates will participate. Only the winners will move on to the third and final round. His Highness has determined that no magic is permitted; these are tests of skill, learning, and ability, of which he prizes most.” He paused. “The first challenge will be the art of tea brewing.”
I breathed out, feeling my tension ease. Part of me had feared being set some impossible task that I would fail before it began. But my relief was short-lived as the candidates hurried into the pavilion in a swirl of silk and brocade. I dashed to my assigned desk, trying to calm my thumping heart. I could brew tea, I had done so countless times before—for myself, my mother. Even for Lady Meiling.
Except, what was all this on the table before me? My head began to throb at the bewildering assortment of items. Over a dozen teapots in varying sizes, of clay, porcelain, and jade. A large tray was crammed with jars of tea leaves: black oolong curls, pearls of jasmine, and leaves of golden-brown and green. In a corner was a pile of bricks and cakes of pressed pu’er. Tiny porcelain bowls heaped with dried flowers were lined up beside them. I picked up a few items and lifted them to my nose—earthy and heady, flowery and sweet—the aromas only confounding me further. I could barely identify a few; Longjing tea, jasmine, and wild chrysanthemum, among them.
My spirits sank as I looked around. The other candidates were sniffing the teas expertly before making their selections. A few picked more than one type, perhaps disdaining a single blend as too humble? Those quickest were already pouring out their teas, while I had not even made my choice. Seizing a fragrant cake of pu’er, I pried off a wedge with a silver needle and dropped it into a porcelain teapot. I had little experience brewing this, but I heard the finest leaves were pressed into these forms and aged for years, decades even. As I waited for the water to boil, I glanced around again—only now realizing those who chose pu’er all used clay teapots, some tossing out the first steep. Struck by sudden doubt, I discarded my first choice, deciding to stick with what I knew best—my mother’s favorite Longjing, the Dragon-Well tea. Steam hissed from the bronze kettle and quickly, I poured the boiling liquid over another tea set to warm it, to better awaken the flavor in the leaves. Without a pause, I tossed a fistful of the bright green leaves into the teapot and filled it with hot water. Replacing the lid, I waited impatiently for it to steep. Twenty seconds. No more, as I was almost out of time.