Some days demanded decisions, whether she was ready for them or not.

  Morning arrived as usual in her new life—a mix of the old and new. She sighed, chewed on a twig, then took a mouthful of saltwater and swirled it around.

  After ensuring her belongings were safely hidden, she prepared for the day ahead. She slipped into one of the new robes Madam Cheng had given her and was relieved to find it didn’t itch. Perhaps, she mused, today would be kinder.

  It was still early, but Kevin had likely already headed out to the fields. As for Zack, she’d give him the space he needed.

  She also didn’t go see Stacie. Everybody had something that kept them going and she had learned the hard way not to disturb her morning meditation.

  Moving quietly down the stairs, Gracie carefully skirted around a hideous vase perched on a nearby stand. She slipped through a side door and stepped out onto a street alive with early activity. Before her stretched a long road bustling with traveling merchants—some solitary, others in small groups. Donkey carts laden with heavy cargo rolled by, their wheels carving deep tracks into the earth.

  Turning left, then right, Gracie soon arrived at a building marked by a simple, bold plaque: “Cheng Family Teahouse.”

  Although tea lessons wouldn’t begin until the afternoon, the least Gracie could do was observe and take notes on the process. After all, politeness and the right attitude were essential if they wished to remain guests. Besides, she had no desire to stay cooped up inside.

  A hesitant breath filled her lungs as she took in the teahouse’s appearance. It was fine. She could do this.

  Squaring her shoulders, she reached for the door and stepped inside.

  “Ah, Miss Song, you're quite the early riser! Here to observe the old Madam’s tea-making again? Indeed, the early bird catches the worm. If only my granddaughter were as diligent.”

  For a moment, Gracie was taken aback—she hadn’t expected to be addressed by her assumed family name. Turning, she saw an elderly man with a kindly, weathered face. One of Cheng He’s old friends, known for his friendly visits, was standing there.

  It wasn’t particularly surprising to find him here. Retired folks often sought ways to stay occupied, and visiting a tea house in the morning was much like stopping by a café.

  Still a little unused to the fact that strangers approached her so easily, she forced a smile and replied, “Oh, thank you—Mr. Wen, was it? As you said, I’ve found it much easier to follow Madam Cheng before the bustle begins. Besides, it’s not like I have anything else to do.”

  Wen Bo’s eyes softened with nostalgia. “Very good. Hmph, I really should have my granddaughter follow your example. These days, she doesn’t even bother to learn her old man’s craft.”

  Gracie nodded politely. She had seen that disappointment before—elders watching their children drift from the paths set for them. Her own parents were no exception, their endless warnings a weight she could never escape, blind to how their expectations only pushed her further away.

  If only they could see that she had simply chosen what was best for her.

  Wen Bo let out a small huff before shaking his head. “Pray tell, how is Cheng He treating you? If you want, I can convince him to let you learn calligraphy from me. He still owes me one for the sign out front.”

  Gracie blinked, a flash of old, familiar frustration rising within her. Another person trying to steer me towards a path I don’t want. “Oh, I—”

  “Now, don’t be shy, girl,” Wen Bo interrupted with a knowing grin. “Calligraphy is a noble art! A delicate hand like yours would do well with a brush, better than smacking tea leaves all day.”

  Some twenty to thirty years ago, King Wei III had proclaimed that it was of utmost importance for both men and women to choose a trade early in life and gain the skills to support themselves. While this decree greatly increased the popularity of apprenticeships, it also meant that once a person committed to a trade, they were unlikely to switch paths. Unfortunately for Wen Bo, he was a perfectionist who sought apprentices that were mature, responsible, and devoted—an expectation that caused him to lose many promising candidates.

  There was no polite way to admit that she wasn’t interested in either option and just wanted to go home as soon as possible.

  Gracie let out a small, uncertain chuckle. “That’s… kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “Nonsense.” Wen Bo waved her off. “The offer stands. Just tell old Cheng He that he still owes me—he’ll grumble, but he won’t dare refuse.”

  His gaze drifted toward the teahouse’s sign, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the air as if recalling the strokes of the brush. “That old scoundrel never had the patience for writing. But his daughter—ah, now she had the diligence for it. A steady hand, a keen mind… She reminded me of you, in some ways.”

  For a moment, his expression clouded with something unreadable. “You know, you really are quite similar to her. Cheng He’s late daughter, I mean. Earnest, hardworking—too much for her own good.”

  Gracie frowned, her curiosity piqued. “Cheng He had a daughter? He never mentioned her. What happened to her?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Cheng were both quite reserved in their demeanor. Though they treated others kindly, they kept their personal lives guarded. Gracie made several attempts to break through the walls around their hearts, but when she saw they remained steadfast, she realized a gentler approach would be more effective. It was akin to convincing a cat to trust you—too much eagerness would only send them running in the opposite direction.

  Wen Bo hesitated, as if weighing the appropriateness of his next words. Finally, he sighed. “He still hasn’t gotten over it. I’ll tell you, but only so you know not to mention it to him. As I said, his daughter was dutiful and respectful. Yet, on a bright day like today, while she was making tea, she caught the eye of a mysterious patron.”

  He paused before continuing, “It wasn’t the first time she had caught someone’s fancy. But if she didn’t want to marry, no one would force her. Alas, who could have imagined that this time it would be the King himself, seeking a brief escape from his many duties? Naturally, he could not be refused.”

  Gracie was stunned. She had always assumed the household was empty due to infertility—but to think… Still, something didn’t quite add up.

  “Pardon me, but how did that lead to her… passing?” she asked softly.

  Wen Bo beckoned her closer and whispered, “At first, everything was perfect. But as with all good things, there was a catch. I don’t know all the details—only that the Imperial Concubine had a hand in it.”

  Gracie nodded slowly, but her mind was racing. The King himself? The Imperial Concubine? There was more to this story—there had to be.

  She glanced at Wen Bo, noting the way his fingers tapped idly against the wooden counter, his usual ease now replaced with something heavier. He had said enough. Perhaps more than he should have.

  Still, she couldn't let it go just yet.

  “That’s… tragic,” she murmured, choosing her words carefully. “And he still grieves for her?”

  Wen Bo gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Wouldn’t you?” His gaze flickered to the back room, where the master of the house was likely steeped in silence, just as he had been for years. “She was his only child.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down Gracie’s spine.

  But before she could push further, Wen Bo clapped his hands together, a forced brightness in his tone. “Alright, enough whispering about ghosts. Time to work. Best get back to roasting some tea, heh? Soon, merchants will flood this place, and you’ll have come for nothing.”

  Gracie seemed to remember why she had come in the first place. She bowed slightly and thanked him.

  Wen Bo waved her away with a chuckle. “Oh, don’t let what I’ve said scare you. Even if a merchant fancies you, I’m sure old Cheng will chase him away.”

  Ignoring his teasing, Gracie turned and walked down the corridor into a room filled with the rich, soothing scent of tea.

  A dutiful daughter, a King's fancy, and a life cut short.

  She didn’t believe in bad luck, but she did believe in power. And power, when left unchecked, had a habit of crushing the people in its path.

  What exactly had happened to that girl?

  She stood by the doorway, watching as Madam Cheng moved with the effortless grace of years spent in quiet mastery. Every motion—each precise gesture—seemed second nature, as if the art of tea-making had long since fused with muscle memory.

  With practiced ease, Madam Cheng reached for a bamboo scoop, measuring out a small portion of tea leaves from a carved wooden caddy. The soft rasp of leaves shifting against wood was barely audible, yet it carried a sense of reverence, of ritual.

  Gracie watched, transfixed. Madam Cheng could probably make tea blindfolded.

  Next came the preparation of the teapot. She rinsed the small clay vessel with hot water, allowing the excess to spill into a waiting waste bowl, its warmth priming the teapot for the infusion to come. With the delicate precision of someone handling fine silk, she added the tea leaves and lifted a brass gooseneck kettle. The water, just shy of boiling, poured in a steady, measured stream, unfurling the leaves and releasing a fragrant mist that curled into the air like whispers of steam.

  A pause. A breath.

  Then, with a steady hand, Madam Cheng poured the first infusion into a tea pitcher, ensuring an even distribution before filling the waiting porcelain cups.

  Gracie inhaled deeply as Madam Cheng slid one of the cups toward her. “Observe,” the older woman murmured. “Color, clarity, fragrance. Tea is not just taste—it is experience.”

  Lifting the cup with both hands, Gracie studied the liquid’s golden hue before bringing it closer. The earthy aroma, tinged with something floral, wrapped around her senses. She took a sip. Warmth spread across her tongue, smooth and rich, carrying a depth she couldn’t quite name.

  Madam Cheng gave a satisfied nod and glided away, the tea pitcher swinging gently in her grip as she moved to serve the waiting table.

  Gracie barely managed a whispered, “Madam Ch—” before instinct pulled her gaze toward the clay stove.

  “Shh.” A faint smile played on Madam Cheng’s lips. “Come. Try making some Oolong tea. I will watch over you.”

  There was no room for protest—not that Gracie truly wanted to argue. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward and carefully selected a teapot. The weight of it felt solid yet fragile in her grasp.

  She began the ritual with deliberate care, just as she’d observed. Warming the teapot first—just enough to awaken it—she then discarded the rinse water in one smooth motion. The tea leaves, meticulously arranged on the bamboo mat, lay waiting like tiny jade curls.

  With a steadying breath, she transferred them into the teapot.

  Now, the water pour.

  She lifted the gooseneck kettle, feeling its heat radiate through the handle. Her fingers tensed slightly, recalling how effortlessly Madam Cheng had controlled the flow. Carefully, she tilted the spout and began to pour.

  The first trickle met the leaves, and a soft hiss filled the air. A nutty, floral scent drifted up, delicate yet distinct. Encouraged, she continued.

  Then—too fast.

  A sudden rush of water. Steam billowed upward, curling around her hands, and the tea leaves shuddered under the force.

  A gentle weight settled on her shoulder.

  “Hold the teapot steady,” Madam Cheng murmured, her voice calm, grounding. “Water should caress the leaves, not overpower them.”

  Gracie inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Slowing her movements, she adjusted the flow, watching as the tea darkened into an amber hue. The scent deepened, richer now, layered with something almost sweet.

  When it was ready, she poured the infusion into two small cups—one for Madam Cheng, one for herself.

  Madam Cheng gestured for her to sit. “Now,” she said, settling in, “let’s see how you’ve done.”

  "Acceptable," she said at last. "That is, for someone new to the art of tea-making."

  Gracie gave a small, uncertain nod. "Uh—thanks."

  It was clear that Madam Cheng had more to say. There was a weight behind her gaze, a deliberate pause that spoke volumes. Gracie's mind raced with possibilities. Had they overstayed their welcome? Their hostess would never say so outright—such things were rarely spoken plainly—but there were subtler ways to make one's wishes known. If that was the case, better to address it now than let it fester. In her experience, unspoken grievances had a way of becoming something far worse.

  The thought of being asked to leave unsettled her. She and her companions—yes, companions, not just friends—had nowhere else to go.

  Perhaps there was room for negotiation. A compromise. She could offer to help around the tea house, take on some of the daily tasks in exchange for their stay. It wasn’t ideal, but if it bought them more time, it was worth considering.

  But then, Madam Cheng spoke again.

  "How are you settling in? Are the rooms to your liking?"

  Gracie blinked. That wasn’t what she had expected.

  "The rooms?" she echoed, scrambling to regain her composure. "Oh, yes. They’re lovely—much more comfortable than I’m used to."

  Madam Cheng studied her, her expression giving nothing away. Then, with a small nod, she took another sip of tea. "I see."

  Gracie resisted the urge to fidget under the older woman’s gaze. There was something about her presence—quiet yet commanding—that made one tread carefully.

  "And the others?" Madam Cheng continued. "How are they faring?"

  Ah. So that was it.

  Gracie chose her words with care. "They’re managing—adjusting, just as I am. We’re all grateful for your hospitality. And I wanted to thank you for the robe. So far, I’ve been spared that awful itch."

  Madam Cheng hummed in acknowledgment, her face unreadable. "Oh, that old thing? Some rich lady passed it down to us—one who, coincidentally, bore a striking resemblance to you. It had just been sitting around collecting dust, so it’s best to put it to good use."

  A flicker of curiosity sparked in Gracie’s mind, but before she could ask anything further, Madam Cheng moved on.

  "Tell me, is something weighing on your mind?" she asked, setting her cup down with careful precision. "Yesterday, I felt it—and today, while you try so hard, something still holds you back. You may speak freely."

  Caught off guard, Gracie hesitated. Was it that obvious? Maybe Madam Cheng had noticed the way she faltered, the slight uncertainty in her hands as she prepared the tea. She wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about learning this craft—it must have shown.

  She cleared her throat, grasping for the right words. "Ah—well, maybe it’s just because I’m new to this. I never expected to be, well… making tea."

  Madam Cheng regarded her with a knowing gaze. "Let’s be honest, dear. That’s not the real issue, is it?"

  Her voice was calm but firm, her patience unwavering. She studied Gracie, waiting, offering space for truth without forcing it.

  Gracie hesitated, then finally admitted, "I… I’m having a hard time settling in."

  Madam Cheng exhaled softly, neither in approval nor reproach. She lifted her cup once more, swirling the tea inside with the slightest tilt of her wrist. Gracie watched the amber liquid ripple against the porcelain, her own thoughts feeling just as unsettled.

  "Hm," Madam Cheng murmured. "That is a heavy thought for one so young. Tell me, have you ever tasted a tea that felt unfamiliar at first?"

  Gracie frowned slightly. "I… suppose so."

  "And what did you do?"

  "I took another sip."

  Madam Cheng gave a knowing nod. "And did the tea change, or did you?"

  Gracie hesitated, looking down at her own cup. The surface was still now, smooth and undisturbed. "…I changed," she admitted. "I got used to it."

  The older woman’s lips curved ever so slightly. "Exactly." She folded her hands over the table, her voice as warm as the steam curling between them. "Settling in is much the same. At first, everything tastes strange, feels out of place. But sip by sip, moment by moment, you adjust. You learn its notes, its rhythm."

  Gracie traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip. "And what if I never do?"

  Madam Cheng arched a brow. "Have you ever brewed a pot of tea only to discard it too soon, before its true flavor had time to emerge?"

  "…No."

  "Then do not be so quick to discard this place in your heart, either."

  Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Gracie absorbed the words, letting them steep in her mind. There was wisdom in them—wisdom that did not demand an immediate answer, only patience.

  Madam Cheng, sensing she had said enough, lifted her cup once more. "For now," she said lightly, taking a sip, "I suggest you drink your tea before it cools."

  Gracie followed suit. The warmth seeped through her fingers, grounding her. She still wasn’t sure if she could truly call this place home. But maybe, just maybe, she could give it another sip.

  Madam Cheng studied her a moment longer before standing. "Good. Then, if you are determined to learn, go fetch more water. We will brew another pot."

  Just like that, the conversation was over.

  Gracie let out a quiet breath and rose to her feet.

  And so, the lessons truly began.