A Magic Steeped in Poison, page 8
During the brief reprieve when the fires have to be stoked again, one of the bakery women, Qiuyue, gives me a cool cloth to wipe my brow.
“I’m glad we have your help,” she says to me. “Steward Yang has been even more … particular of late. These are trying times.”
“It is not only her, though,” a man next to us comments. “This winter has been hard on all of us. The coughing sickness spread through the palace, but the royal physicians have been busy attending to the emperor. We used to have their occasional assistance, but no longer.”
“And now with the competition, there are many more mouths to feed,” a sour-faced woman across the table says. “We have so much more to do with much less.”
“At least they’re here, Mingwen,” Qiuyue tells her. “They’re helping. Not like…” Her voice trails off as a commotion arises in the doorway. Our attention is drawn to two maidservants, dressed in sleek finery, like two peacocks strutting in a crowd of plain yellow-tuft chickens. A harried-looking servant points in our direction.
“Like the worthless lumps hovering around the court?” Mingwen sniffs and then grudgingly agrees. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
One of the peacock girls, her robes in a delicate shade of green and her sash a deep azure, comes over with her head raised.
“Where’s the tray for the marquis?” she demands. “He grows impatient. He needs to attend to his guests.”
Mingwen purses her lips, like she’s considering saying something sharp to the girls, but then decides against it.
“The desserts are ready,” she finally says after a long, awkward pause. Snapping her fingers, she gestures for the man beside her to bring what is needed. He returns with a beautiful lacquered red basket, gold designs of leaves and flowers winding their way up the handle. The lid has painted red birds perched on black vines curving in beguiling patterns.
The maidservant appears displeased, and she folds her hands in front of her, refusing to take the offered basket. The man stands there, uncertain, looking over at Mingwen.
The older woman lifts a brow. “Is there a problem?”
“We have to examine everything.” The maidservant smiles sweetly. “To ensure that it is up to the standards of the marquis.”
“Of course,” Mingwen says with exaggerated sincerity. She gestures for the man to place the basket on the table and lifts the lid with a flourish, waving him away. “Anything for the marquis.”
She pulls out the inner tray and lays it upon the table. Bite-size sesame balls are clustered in blue porcelain bowls. Lotus blossom cookies sit on another plate; each bloom is the size of my palm, fried to golden perfection. There is also a small tray of milky white jellies, sliced into squares and rolled in shredded coconut. The young woman examines the desserts with a critical eye before nodding and returning them to the basket, then tucking it under one arm.
The other maidservant joins us, arms laden with trays. “But where are the pastries? The additional order was placed earlier this morning. He will not be pleased if they are missing.”
“Come.” Qiuyue grabs my arm and guides me back to the other side of the table. “They’ll continue to posture at each other, then we’ll be scolded for the work piling up.”
I return my attention this time to rolling balls of sweetened red bean paste, destined for the inside of pastries. Beside me, Qiuyue rolls out the thin wrappers that will turn into the flaky topping. With nimble fingers, she tucks the red bean balls into the dough pockets, shapes them into discs, and places the toppers above. They are ready now for the egg wash that gives them a beautiful yellow color.
When the maidservants are finally sent off, Mingwen returns to the table with a huff and attacks the bowl of red bean paste with frenzied energy.
“Who do they think they are?” she mutters, hands moving quickly. “All our departments are busy, but the marquis assumes we have time to cater to his every request.”
“I’m sure they are under pressure as well,” Qiuyue offers, establishing who has the more positive outlook in this group of servants.
Mingwen snorts, but before she says anything further, a look of panic flits across her face. “She’s here,” she hisses. “Look busy.”
Steward Yang stalks into the bakery, wearing a scowl worthy of a thunderstorm.
“Small Wu!” she barks. The tall man walks over to her and bows. Everyone lowers their gaze and pretends to be attentive to their jobs, but I know we are all straining to hear what she wants. “I heard from Marquis Kuang’s household that the pastries they asked for have not yet arrived,” the steward says with displeasure. “I don’t like hearing complaints about any of our departments.”
Small Wu scratches the back of his head. “Uh, we are a bit delayed because of the buns we have to make for tonight’s banquet. They sent over the request midmorning and we are still catching up.”
“Unacceptable!” Steward Yang claps her hands together, making me and Qiuyue jump. “We treat every guest of the emperor like we are serving his own distinguished presence.”
She approaches us, and her gaze scrutinizes us all, just like when she examined the competitors before the first round. I hold my breath, hoping she does not notice me. But the stars do not smile upon me today, for her shadow falls across the table.
She looks down at me. “And who are you?”
My mind goes blank. I must have appeared like a gaping fish, because Small Wu comes to my rescue.
“This is one of the new hires,” he says without missing a step, giving her a placid smile. “We needed more help because of the competition.”
“If she’s one of the new girls, then she won’t be as quick at the pastries. Come with me. And where is Qing’er?” She marches away.
I look around, desperate for help. I can see Lian hiding on the other side of the room.
Small Wu shakes his head. “You should follow her,” he says.
And so I have no choice but to walk through the moon doors. Steward Yang is speaking with Qing’er, and she points in my direction. He jogs toward me, giving me a wave in greeting.
“Follow me,” he says, leading me away from where the steward is in the process of terrorizing another maid, who cowers under the weight of a heavy pot. “I’ll get you a more appropriate outfit.”
I have never imagined I would be pulling on a servant’s uniform outside the imperial kitchens, pretending to be a maid. But pretense seems to be a cloak I’ve been donning lately, so I tighten the sash around my waist and step out from behind the shed.
Steward Yang scrutinizes me and thrusts a basket into my arms. “Pull yourself together. We’re asking you to deliver pastries, not poison.” She laughs like she’s told a splendid joke, but it reminds me again of Small Wu’s warning—someone is always listening. It isn’t the most reassuring thought.
Qing’er leads me past other wings of the kitchen. One room is filled with people stirring large pots, wafting delicious scents our way. Another room rings with the thud of knives hitting wood, chefs chopping away at huge slabs of meat.
When we are past the kitchens, we walk down a narrow path that meanders through a garden, sidestepping to allow other servants to pass. So many people coming and going. There must be more servants in the palace than there are in the entirety of my village. So many to serve the whims of so few.
Back home, we bend to the wishes of the governor. We break our backs under his yoke, but at least we don’t have to live constantly under his scrutiny. Not until the next time his retinue passes through our village and the taxes are due. We are free, in a sense—free to wander outside the walls of our village, yet trapped by the restrictions of family and obligation. Here, the servants are surrounded by the riches of Dàxī, able to wear fine clothes and eat rich palace foods, but they must endure the capricious moods of those they serve.
While we cross various courtyards, Qing’er points out the different features of the palace we walk past. The Hall of Celestial Harmony is one I recognize, with its wide black pillars. We pass the back of the Great Hall, which sits upon a series of stone steps, and I have to crane my neck to even catch a glimpse of the carved wood doors.
“I’ve never been allowed up here,” the boy continues. “But I hear the servants of that hall polish the floors every morning and evening until everything shines.”
We walk past a grassy bank lined with weeping willows, long branches skimming the surface of a winding creek. He explains how the residences of the west wing are aired out and opened only when there are guests of state. These could be representatives from other kingdoms or the nobles and officials who do not have their own residences within Jia.
“Your judges also reside there.” He nods at an attendant sweeping the walk. “Even though Minister Song and the chancellor have their private homes in the city. It is a great honor.”
A man floats by in a small boat. His hair is peppered gray, swept back in a tight topknot. He sweeps his oar through the pond, looking like a figure from an old painting.
“Who is that?” I ask Qing’er, wondering if he is a scholar looking for inspiration in the reflections of the trees and the water.
“Oh, him? That’s Lao Huang, the garbageman,” Qing’er says. “He cleans the pond every afternoon.”
I wince, having to laugh at myself, at how little I know of anything in the capital. What a fool I am.
I tug at the sleeves of my uniform when it snags a passing branch, unused to the feeling of so many layers of fabric. The flowing sleeves are the latest fashion everywhere in the capital, but they are cumbersome despite their beautiful embroidery. I am certain everyone will see how uncomfortable I am. I should have just told Steward Yang who I was and suffered the consequences.
The marquis is set up at the Residence of Autumnal Longing—the area’s name is written in calligraphy on a plaque hanging over the gate. The double doors open to a small courtyard with a bamboo grove to the right. One of the household servants is already there, waiting to greet us. She leads us toward the building to the left of the courtyard, making tutting noises of displeasure, huffing, “It’s unacceptable for the kitchen to have such a delay.”
We’re led through a sitting area decorated with water and ink paintings. I long to take a closer look at them, but we’re hurried past. Our basket is set by two trays already prepared with bowls and plates crafted of fine porcelain, pale green veined with dark crackle. Qing’er helps me transfer our collection of tidbits carefully, finishing with the round pastries with different colors of dots on top to indicate the flavor hidden within, the edges already crumbling under our touch.
“What is this?” the servant demands, pointing at each pastry in turn. Thankfully, Qing’er is able to answer on my behalf. One is filled with pork floss and mung bean for a sweet and savory treat, while another is stuffed with salted egg custard. The thinner pieces have a layer of winter-melon paste inside or a mixture of dates and crushed nuts.
When the treats are arranged to her satisfaction, she gathers up one of the trays and gestures for me to take the other.
“I can help—” Qing’er reaches for it, but she shakes her head.
“The marquis does not like to be served by boys.”
I look at Qing’er, but he steps back, giving me an apologetic look.
“And he does not like to be kept waiting,” she snaps impatiently, already walking away. “Come along.”
I stand there rooted, tray in hand. I’m going to be recognized when I step into the room, and the marquis will banish me from the competition and from the palace.
“You have to go,” Qing’er whispers, tugging at my sleeve.
My chest tightens. I will go in and out quickly, and pray my face is plain enough that I will not be recognized. I force myself to take one step forward, then another.
To face the marquis, who threw a teacup at me. Who is certain I am a traitor to Dàxī.
The servant stops me before a wood-screen door. The sound of music streams out, and the voices of men in low conversation.
“Follow my lead,” she instructs. “Set the tray on the side table to your right. Do not linger.”
I nod.
We step through the door into another lovely room. My eyes are drawn to a map of a city mounted on the wall. A collection of vases, of varying sizes and shapes, line another wall. A musician sits on a stool in the center of the room, plucking at the strings of a pipa.
I hold the tray carefully, moving as fast as I dare so I do not draw attention to myself. I set the tray next to where the other has already been placed, then I spare one curious glance around the room to see which honored guests the marquis is entertaining today.
Marquis Kuang himself holds court up front, reclining on one arm, the picture of lazy indulgence. Around the room there are men seated at small tables, the surfaces already littered with plates and cups. My eyes skim over the faces of the guests, then … my heart drops. I recognize the face leering at the lovely musician, and the two men with their heads together, clinking cups. Every single one of them in the room looks familiar.
It’s Shao, and other shénnóng-tú from the competition. Breaking the rules, cavorting with the judges.
I suddenly know how it feels to be a rabbit thrown into a nest of vipers. But before I can turn and flee, one of the men lifts his head from his cup and his eyes meet my own.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My breathing is suddenly too loud. I pray the stars will shine kindly on me today, instead of banishing me to a life of ruin and disgrace.
The man stands, swaying on his feet, and points at me. “You—” He stumbles toward me, catching himself on a pillar.
I turn quickly toward the door, but he lunges for me, too quick for me to react, and grabs my arm. I struggle to pull my arm out of his grasp, but his grip is too tight. He pulls me closer, and I can smell the rice wine on him, on his clothes and wafting from his open mouth. It’s not only tea these men are partaking in.
I try to push him away, but I’m a bird trapped by a hunter, fluttering uselessly in his grasp.
“Even the palace maids are prettier than the rest.” He chuckles.
A flash of anger ignites within me. Embarrassment tinged with fury—at being grabbed, at the thought of this buffoon believing I am his plaything.
“Stop!” I lash out at him, kicking at the side of his knee with one foot and thrusting my elbow into the middle of his chest, where I know it will hurt him the most.
He yelps in pain, letting me go, but the musician finishes her performance at precisely that moment, and the sound of our struggle draws everyone’s attention.
I back away, out of reach of his grasping fingers, keeping my head down. The door is just behind me, only a few steps away.
“Please,” I whisper, trying to disguise my voice. “I must get back, the kitchens are waiting for me to return.”
“You!” The man clutches at his chest with one hand, the other raised in a fist. “You will pay for this!”
“Young man!” The commanding voice of the marquis cuts through the other conversations, dripping with disdain. “You’ll respect the servants of the palace. You cannot buy their attention like the whores of the entertainment houses you frequent.”
“Do you not understand?” I look up to see the Esteemed Qian standing at one of the tables at the end of the room. From his appearance, that of a wise sage with a flowing white beard, I expected a kindly voice filled with warmth and wisdom. But instead, the voice that comes out is sharp, like he has bitten into a sour plum.
A friend of the young man who grabbed me quickly pulls him back down, his face crimson with shame.
“The astronomers all speak of change in the stars,” the Esteemed Qian continues. “It is a period of shifting alliances and fickle natures. It is a time for focus, not for chasing after the skirts of any pretty girl who comes across your path. Not to be glutting your stomach on wine and food. You will have this life if you are the court shénnóng-shī. It will all be within your grasp if you win the competition. You will have all the entertainment houses at your disposal, all the coin you need to buy whatever you want.”
Faces nod around the room in smug agreement. I feel my face twist with disgust. How could it be possible that my mother used to revere this man, the one who counseled the dowager empress into supporting the role of the shénnóng-shī in society? Was it because he truly believed in the benefits of Shénnóng’s magic, or was it because he was hungry for the power it would provide him?
I’m grabbed and pulled toward the door. I react, struggling, but the next words stop me.
“Wipe that look off your face, or we’ll both be killed,” the servant whispers into my ear.
“You there!” Shao’s voice calls out. “Stop!”
With disgust, the maidservant throws my arm down, leaving me to fend for myself.
I turn, slowly. I make myself as small as I possibly can, to play the part of the demure servant they expect. “Yes?”
“Don’t you have to thank Marquis Kuang?” His voice still exudes that lazy, indulgent confidence. “Do you not know your place?”
I look up and see the marquis with his eyes narrowed, as if he will recognize me in the next moment—name me as that girl with the rebel poetry that rolled off my tongue, calling out for the blood of nobles to be spilled. But there is no pointed finger, no accusation.
“M-my thanks, Honored One,” I stutter with a curtsy, and flee.
* * *
No one chases after me through the halls of the Residence of Autumnal Longing. The only sound is that of my own hurried footsteps and the harsh wheezing of my breath. Before we are permitted to leave the residence, Qing’er and I receive a tongue-lashing from the head of the marquis’s household.
“What happened in there?” Qing’er whispers to me when we are finally permitted to leave.
