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As it turned out, mastery in cultivation did not necessarily equate to skill in brewing tea.
The tea Piaomiao brewed was completely off. It had been steeped far too long, so it was bitter, harsh, and thoroughly unpleasant to drink.
Yet, Zhao Changhe acted as if it tasted wonderful. He sat there calmly, leafing through a book, sipping cup after cup without complaint or comment.
Piaomiao ventured tentatively, “How is it?”
“Hm, quite good.” Zhao Changhe raised his head and smiled. “Bracing and refreshing. Reminds me of a local specialty back in my hometown called coffee. I wonder if Tang Buqi’s maritime traders have discovered it. Next time I see him, I’ll have to ask.”
“Coffee?” Curious, Piaomiao poured herself a cup, took a cautious sip, then promptly spat it out in embarrassment. “Allow me to prepare another.”
“No need.” Zhao Changhe lowered his eyes back to the book. “What’s important isn’t the tea itself, but that Piaomiao is brewing it for me.”
“Even if it tastes terrible?”
“I think it tastes wonderful.” Zhao Changhe paused, suddenly laughing. “Ah, come to think of it, every holiday and festival, we offer wine and rituals to honor you.”
Piaomiao asked softly, “And that’s why it feels different when I brew tea for you instead?”
“If I claimed I’m pursuing you solely for this sense of achievement, would you find that easier to believe?”
“You can tell I find your words insincere?”
“Mm… You’re even more inexperienced than Yangyang in these matters; your thoughts are practically written on your face.”
Piaomiao silently complained to herself, Inexperienced? Your “little Yangyang,” inexperienced? She’s probably the most knowledgeable among all of us. Just how little do you understand your own...
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