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Summary
Gao Tu put it to his lips and drank. It burned its way, his tongue and his bottom lip and the roof of his mouth, and burned all the way down his throat and into his stomach. “This is the best tea I’ve ever tasted,” he said, and meant it. Shen Wenlang didn’t smile.
“I can imagine,” he said. His eyes flicked over Gao Tu’s form. “You’ve lost some weight.”
“I want more,” he told Shen Wenlang, his voice growing stronger.
“No,” Shen Wenlang said, flat and uncompromising.
“Please—”
“No. If you have any more, you will be sick.” Shen Wenlang’s tone implied that by ‘sick’, he meant dead, and there was not going to be any arguing. Gao Tu, though he could have screamed, got the idea, and went quiet, sipping his tea.