The Tea Tasting Convention was proceeding in full swing.
As it neared its conclusion, the grades for the independent growers’ teas had all been settled. After strolling for about a few days, Lord Song finally awaited his opportunity to judge. Accompanied by several heads of the tea guilds, he ascended to the summit of Mount Yuming early this morning.
Outside the octagonal pavilion at the summit, an array of implements had already been set in place. Neatly lined red sandalwood tables display tea bowls in assorted hues along with water carafes, silk cloths, and bamboo scoops. The tea cauldrons for boiling water were, of course, indispensable. Each person was provided with a portion of Mount Yuming Spring water sealed with a round lid to prevent floating debris from falling in and spoiling the water quality. Beside the water container sat a small woven bamboo basket containing several pieces of fine charcoal specifically for boiling tea, which emitted a faint, fruity fragrance.
The handling of charcoal was precise, and the water brewing tea was treated with equal care. It could not be heated too slowly or too quickly; reaching “three boils” was the accepted standard. At the first boil, a faint sound arises; at the second, bead-like bubbles gather along the rim like a spring beginning to stir; by the third, the water surges and rolls within the cauldron, showing it has reached the perfect heat.
At this stage, drawing the water even a moment too soon renders it “tender,” while lingering just a little longer lets it turn “old.”
As tea for every household was different, the boiling point required for the water also varied. For instance, the Lin family’s “Pine Clusters Crane Rain” could not be brewed with water that was too hot. If scalded with boiling water, the tender processed buds would be “killed” instantly; the resulting tea liquor would be bitter in taste and yellow in color, characteristic of an inferior grade.
Both “Pine Clusters Crane Rain” and “Auspicious Carved Lotus” were made from fresh buds pressed into cakes, and their techniques for whisking tea were largely similar.
This round of the competition placed these two families together. If the Fang family failed to whisk a “white froth” or produce a clear, white tea liquor, they would have to surrender their position among the Four Great Families. The Lin family would then take their place and face off against the other three finalists to determine the leader who would manage the affairs of the Tea Merchants’ Guild.
There was not much suspense regarding the wins and losses of the other three families. Though the current head of the Hu family had been held up by household affairs, he had reached Yunhe Tower the night before. If Hu Yunshan’s tea-whisking skill fell short of his father’s, then this Head Merchant of the Hu family had truly surpassed the old man; fittingly, his name was also that of a tree, Hu Ruosong.
“I’ve never quite understood your father’s fixation with trees. Your name is still fairly ordinary, but isn’t your second brother’s name; Hu Sibo, a little too casually chosen?”
At the mountain summit, the appointed time for the competition had yet to come. Lord Song, Wang Xiuhe, and the others sat within the pavilion sipping tea, while Fu Jingxuan stood on the rocky slope behind it, chatting with the Hu family’s newly appointed head.
They belonged to the same generation and had all met as children. In those days, Second Master Fu had a lively temperament and loved playing pranks, often provoking Fu Shangyi to scold him all the way across the hills and attracting the attention of their peers. Hu Ruosong was an outlier; having been obedient and never scolded since childhood, he greatly admired Fu and was eager to befriend him. However, as they grew older and became preoccupied with their own affairs, opportunities to meet became scarce.
“My second brother is still distressed over that name to this day; when Father passed away, he nearly followed him to the grave.” Hu Ruosong, who was clad in a deep black-green round-collar robe, stood with his hands behind his back beside Fu Jingxuan. “I heard that you married Fang Zesheng in your sister’s stead?”
Fu Jingxuan nodded.
Hu Ruosong smiled and asked, “Was it a lucky stroke of fate? Or a long-premeditated scheme?”
Fu Jingxuan cast him a look. “Master Hu, don’t talk such nonsense. How could a man taking his sister’s place to marry another man ever be called a ‘lucky stroke’?”
“Hahaha!” Hu Ruosong laughed heartily as he pointed a finger at Fu Jingxuan playfully. “I knew it. How could you ever let Fang Zesheng marry someone else? Not even your own younger sister.”
After laughing, he let out a long sigh and asked, “How is he now?”
Fu Jingxuan looked out at the distant mountain scenery filled with lush and misty clouds. “Not well. He fell ill just a few days ago and seems to have only woken up recently.”
The news about Fang Zesheng had been brought by Cui’er. Although Wang Xiuhe remained indifferent, she couldn’t withstand Fu Shangyi’s frequent inquiries. Left with no choice, she had sent Cui’er back to check on him and bring back a kind word to set others’ minds at ease. Fu Jingxuan did not trust her and naturally would not take her word for it; he sent San Bao back under the cover of night to bribe the gatekeeper, Zhou Qi. Only then was he certain that Fang Zesheng had woken up, though he had a poor appetite and was hardly eating or drinking.
Zhou Qi was the servant who had not been at the Fang household for long; although he had been recruited by Wang Xiuhe’s people, he was relatively kind-hearted.
San Bao hadn’t even really had to bribe him. He had only offered a bit of silver, which Zhou Qi declined and tried to return for a long while. In the end, having no other choice, San Bao had to force a few pieces of sugar cake upon him before he could extract the information and, in passing, ask him to help deliver a small item.
The guards in the inner courtyard had not been reduced. Having learned her lesson from last time, Cui’er did not dare to take initiative or reassign the personnel Wang Xiuhe had arranged.
Today.
Clad in simple grey short work clothes, Zhou Qi made a circuit around the entrance of the inner courtyard with a broom in hand. After straightening the hem of his clothes, he walked inside. The guards of the inner courtyard not only failed to question him but actually stood up straighter. Zhou Qi nodded with a solemn expression, circled to the door of the main house, poked his head inside, and casually tossed an object in. He then walked back out with the same solemn face and patted one of the guards on the shoulder. “You were dozing off just now, right?”
The guard hurriedly offered a fawning smile. “Brother Zhou, you’ve worked hard. Could you perhaps act as if you didn’t see anything?”
Zhou Qi said, “I can act as if I didn’t see it, but if Sister Cui’er returns one day, can she act as if she didn’t see it?”
The guard said quickly, “Brother Zhou, you are absolutely right.”
“Don’t ‘Brother Zhou’ me, I’m just doing what I have to do.” Zhou Qi appeared troubled as he patted the man’s shoulder again. “Don’t let it happen again. I’m leaving now.”
The guard busily escorted him a few steps, and when he turned back, his spirit was indeed much bolstered as he began pacing several laps around the main house.
The thick scent of herbal medicine was pungent inside the main house. Fang Zesheng sat leaning against the bed in a dark, wide robe, silent and still.
Beside the bed sat a bowl of white congee and a small side dish. The congee had been reheated repeatedly, causing the once-distinct grains of rice to melt into a thick, sticky paste. Beside the screen, the mute uncle sighed repeatedly. He stepped forward, touched the congee bowl that had once again gone cold, and lifted the wooden tray. He had intended to take the congee back to the kitchen to heat it up, but as he passed through the flower hall, he spotted a crumpled ball of paper on the hand-woven floral rug.
The mute uncle hastily set the tray aside, picked up the paper ball to see its contents, and ran back into the room with both surprise and joy before handing out the flattened, wrinkled scrap of paper to Fang Zesheng.
Fang Zesheng had been staring out the window the entire time. Seeing the mute uncle approach, he blinked and took the paper.
There were no confidential matters on that paper; just six simple characters written with extreme brevity:
“I’ll be back in five days. Don’t get thin.”
There was even a sketch of a tiny, thrashing figure with a horrifying grin, clutching its own neck next to the signature.
Fang Zesheng’s faint features instantly softened. He slowly raised a hand to pinch his slightly sunken cheek and whispered, “Have I gotten thin?”
The mute uncle hurriedly gestured with reddened eyes: Much thinner.
Fang Zesheng frowned and pondered for a long time. “Bring the congee.”
Feeling that wasn’t enough, he added, “Make it two bowls.”
