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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.

I poured the tea into a porcelain cup, a murky brown soup. My gut twisted as I lifted the lid to inspect the dregs. Careless, I cursed myself. In my haste, I had placed the Longjing into the same pot as the pu’er. When mixing teas, I had been cautioned to take care with the water temperature and the ratios to balance their flavors, whether delicate or strong. From the heavy and dull aroma emanating here, I had gotten it all wrong.

Someone cleared his throat—the chief attendant, waving me over impatiently. I was the only one who had not served my tea and now, there was no time to brew another. My hands were stiff as I carried the tray to Prince Liwei. With every step, my grand dream of distinguishing myself here faded further into oblivion. Worse yet, what if His Highness spat out my tea? The empress would be furious, I might be ejected from the competition at once—deemed as unworthy and unfit as everyone here believed me.

As I placed the tray before Prince Liwei, his eyes warmed in recognition, flicking down to the sandalwood name tablet by my waist. Without hesitation, he lifted the cup to his mouth and took a long sip. I was standing in front of him so only I saw the slight wrinkle across his brow, the quirk of his lips. It was gone in an instant, but my spirits plunged. There was no way I could imagine that to be an expression of pleasure. However, to my astonishment, Prince Liwei lifted my cup into the air.

“This one. I’ve never tasted such a unique blend before.” He nodded to an attendant who recorded my name.

The Celestial Empress leaned forward. “Liwei, are you sure? It’s such an odd color. Let me try it.”

A shiver rippled down my spine. How well I remembered her voice, melodious yet sharp.

As Prince Liwei handed her the cup, it slipped from his fingers, striking the ground with a crash. The porcelain shattered, dark liquid pooling on the stone floor, the remnants of my unfortunate concoction. A crowd of attendants rushed forward to clean up the mess, but the empress ignored them, glaring at me as though it were I who had dropped it.

When the chief attendant announced me as the winner of the first challenge, I slumped with relief, taking no offense at the shocked whispers. For, despite Prince Liwei’s words, I doubted my tea deserved the honor. Yet somehow, I was ahead in the competition and that was what mattered.

In front of the pavilion, a painting of flowering osmanthus trees was unveiled for the second challenge. As the audience sighed in admiration, we were asked to compose a couplet inspired by the scene. I stifled a groan. It had been a long time since I’d held a brush, much less composed anything. I tried to conjure up elegant words and flowery phrases, but my mind remained as blank as the untouched paper before me. I closed my eyes, the smell of ink sharper in the dark—heavy, with a faint medicinal undertone. I could almost imagine myself back in my home, the cool air blowing through my window, rustling the thin sheets on my wooden desk.

It was years ago, when my mother had begun teaching me to write. I remember how her sighs had echoed through my ears. While she had been patient, I was a challenging student, particularly for the subjects that did not interest me.

“Xingyin, hold the brush firmer,” she had admonished me for the tenth time. “A thumb on one side, your index and middle fingers on the other. Straight, don’t let it slant down.”

Only after she had been satisfied, did she allow me to dip the stiff, ivory brush hairs into the glossy ink. As I swirled it harder against the inkstone, she had warned, “Not too much. Your lines will be clumsy, the ink will bleed.”

I had imagined the elegant characters I would form, but my enthusiasm soon waned after making the same wobbling stroke again and again. “What’s the point of learning this?” I asked impatiently. “It’s not like I’m going to become a scribe or scholar.”

She had taken the brush from me then, drawing the character 永 in steady, precise movements: “Forever,” the word composed of the eight brushstrokes from which all characters were formed. “You’ll never grow if you only do what you’re good at,” she had said. “The most difficult things are often the most worthwhile.”

Reluctant to leave the haven of my memory, I opened my eyes slowly. The other contestants wrote with a frenzied calm, bent over in concentration. I stared at the painting, no longer thinking of what might please the judges, but how much I missed my mother until it hurt. Lifting my brush, I wrote the following lines:

花瓣凋零，芬芳褪尽，

曾映骄阳，却落泥霜.

The blossoms fall, their sweet fragrance is lost,

Once warmed by the sun, now sunken in frost.

When my couplet was read aloud, there were a few nods and appreciative murmurs. Mine was far from the best, but I was just grateful to not have disgraced myself. After the empress selected Lady Lianbao’s as the winner, I clapped along with the audience.

As the painting was carried away, several attendants entered, bearing large trays piled with food for the afternoon meal. I lost count of the staggering number of dishes as the tables heaved under platters of prawns simmered in golden butter, roasted pork, chicken braised with herbs, delicate soups, and vegetables artfully shaped into flowers. It smelled delicious yet I could only manage a few bites before my stomach churned in protest. I laid my chopsticks down, looking up to see Lady Lianbao pushing the food around her plate with as little enthusiasm. There was an incessant flow of chatter around us, but all I could think of was what would come after—the last challenge which only we would participate in. When our eyes met, I shot her a tentative smile, which she returned after a moment’s hesitation.

After the plates and remaining food had been whisked away, the clang of the gong rang out once more. The chief attendant announced loudly, “For the final challenge, Lady Lianbao and Attendant Xingyin will each select an instrument to perform a song of their choice. The winner will be chosen by Her Celestial Majesty and His Highness.”

My heart leapt. Finally, something I possessed some skill in! The desks had been cleared and a vast assortment of instruments laid out. Lady Lianbao bowed to the dais, before selecting the qin and taking her seat. She played a beautiful melody—a classic about the leaves in the mortal world changing their color from jade to russet—her fingers plucking the strings masterfully. While I admired her ability, my confidence dipped with each perfect note.

It was my turn. As everyone swung toward me, my palms broke out in a sweat. I wiped them against my skirt, trying to calm myself. I had only ever performed in front of my mother and Ping’er. A most amiable audience, a most forgiving one. With wooden steps, I made my way toward the center of the pavilion. My eyes darted over the zithers and lutes, glazing over the chime-bells and drums . . . but there was no flute. I paused before the qin, the only one familiar to me here. However, it was not my best instrument and Lady Lianbao had played it far better than I ever could. To select it would be to choose defeat, and a lifetime in the Golden Lotus Mansion would not bring me one step closer to my dream.

Grateful that the long skirt hid my shaking legs, I bowed to the dais. “Your Celestial Majesty, Your Highness. There is no flute here. May I play my own instrument?”