When Shen Jin stepped out of Marquis Dingyuan’s residence, Chun Tao was already waiting at the gate, eyes straining with impatience.
“Miss! Why were you inside for so long?” Chun Tao hurried over, lowering her voice. “What did you say to Young Master Xiao?”
“Something serious.”
“What kind of serious?”
“Counter‑surveillance.”
Chun Tao blinked in confusion. “Counter… counter what?”
Shen Jin only smiled, offering no explanation. She glanced back at the plaque above the Marquis’s gate, silently calculating. Xiao Heng had agreed to help, but she couldn’t pin all her hopes on him. She needed her own plan.
Madam Zhou wanted to tail her? Fine—let her follow. But whatever Zhou learned had to be exactly what Shen Jin wanted her to see. That was called “feeding information.” In modern terms, it was “public opinion guidance.” In ancient times, it was “turning the enemy’s scheme to one’s own advantage.”
Shen Jin climbed into the carriage, leaned against the wall, and spent the ride with her eyes closed, thinking. Back at the General’s Manor, she went straight to Jinse Pavilion. Yuanbao was sprawled on the windowsill, basking in the sun. At her return, the cat lazily lifted its eyelids, then shut them again.
Shen Jin walked over and stroked its head. “Yuanbao, starting today, we’re going to war.”
The cat yawned.
“Not with blades and spears—this is a battle of wits.”
Yuanbao rolled over, exposing its belly.
“Can’t you at least pretend to care?”
The cat tapped her hand with its paw, as if to say: *Got it, got it. Now let me sleep.*
Shen Jin sighed. This cat was even better at slacking off than she was.
That evening, she had the small kitchen stew a pot of chicken soup. Not because she wanted to drink it, but because—its aroma carried far.
Madam Zhou lived in the main courtyard, which sat upwind of Jinse Pavilion. The fragrance would drift straight to her.
Sure enough, within half an hour, Bi Tao came knocking. “Miss, Madam asks what you’re cooking. It smells wonderful.”
Shen Jin opened the gate and smiled. “Chicken soup. If Madam likes, I’ll send her a bowl.”
Bi Tao relayed the message, then returned. “Madam thanks you, but says there’s no need.”
Shen Jin nodded and closed the door.
Chun Tao frowned. “Miss, why did you want Madam to know you were making chicken soup?”
“Because I want her to know,” Shen Jin replied, “that whatever I do, I’m not afraid of her knowing.”
Chun Tao half‑understood.
Shen Jin ladled herself a bowl, took a sip, and winced. Too bland. In modern times, she’d add red dates, goji berries, codonopsis, angelica—then the broth would be rich and nourishing. Ancient kitchens didn’t have those, or at least hers didn’t. Tomorrow she’d visit the market.
Still, the soup couldn’t go to waste. She had Chun Tao deliver bowls to Shen Mingzhu, Shen Chongyuan, and Shen Zhao.
When it came to Shen Zhao, Chun Tao balked. “Miss, the eldest young master bullied you plenty before. Why send him soup?”
“Precisely because he bullied me,” Shen Jin said. “Now he won’t be able to guess what I’m thinking.”
Chun Tao considered, then nodded. It made sense. The young lady’s new way of doing things left everyone baffled. And when people were baffled, they dared not act rashly.
Shen Zhao was in his study when the soup arrived. He stared at the bowl for a long time. “From the young lady?” he asked the maid.
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Eldest young master has worked hard. Drink some chicken soup to nourish yourself.’”
Shen Zhao’s brows furrowed. Shen Jinshu sending him chicken soup? That was stranger than the sun rising in the west. In the past, she’d meet him with eye‑rolls or cold snorts. Soup? She wouldn’t even spare him a glance. And now—this sudden gift. What did it mean? Flattery? Impossible. Shen Jinshu was not the type to curry favor. Show weakness? Even less possible. That woman had steel in her bones. Which meant—she had another agenda.
Shen Zhao lifted the bowl of chicken soup and sniffed it. Fragrant. But he didn’t dare drink. He set it down on the desk and told the maid, “Pour it out.”
The maid hesitated. “Young Master, this is the young lady’s kind gesture…”
“I said pour it out!”
The maid dared not argue further and carried the soup away.
Shen Zhao sat in the study, fingers tapping the desk. Shen Jinshu, what scheme are you playing at?
The next morning, Shen Jin left with Chun Tao. This time she didn’t slip out the back gate—she walked openly through the front.
Madam Zhou was having breakfast when the news arrived. “Where is she going?” Madam Zhou set down her chopsticks.
Bi Tao replied, “The gatekeeper said the young lady mentioned going to the marketplace.”
“The marketplace?” Madam Zhou frowned. “What for?”
“No idea.”
Madam Zhou thought for a moment, then told her attendant, “Send someone to follow.”
“Yes, madam.”
At the market, Shen Jin didn’t head straight for any destination. She strolled, buying as she went. She picked up spices—Sichuan peppercorn, star anise, cinnamon bark, bay leaves. Some dried goods—wood ear fungus, shiitake mushrooms, daylilies. A slab of pork belly, two ribs, a perch. Five kilos of rice, two kilos of flour, a jar of yellow wine.
Chun Tao’s hands were full; her face twisted in misery. “Miss, with all this, are you moving house?”
“Not quite moving,” Shen Jin said, dropping a bag of red dates into the basket, “but we need to prepare for a long campaign.”
Chun Tao didn’t understand what “long campaign” meant, but she was used to the young lady saying things she couldn’t grasp.
After shopping, Shen Jin didn’t return to the manor. She went instead to the house in Tianshui Lane.
Chun Tao thought she would cook, but Shen Jin only set the goods down, stood in the courtyard for a while, and then left.
“Miss, aren’t you going to cook?”
“Not today.” Shen Jin locked the door. “Today is just to let them know—I have this place.”
Chun Tao suddenly understood. The young lady was… laying out her board.
On the way back, Shen Jin passed a teahouse. From an open window on the second floor, a man in a moon‑white robe sat watching. When Shen Jin lifted her head, her gaze met a pair of familiar eyes.
Xiao Heng. He was “passing by” again.
Shen Jin drew a deep breath, didn’t stop, and kept walking. After a few steps, footsteps followed.
“Miss Shen.” Xiao Heng’s voice.
Shen Jin halted and turned to face him. “Such a coincidence, Young Master,” she said flatly.
“Not a coincidence.” Xiao Heng came closer. “I was waiting for you.”
Behind them, Chun Tao sucked in a sharp breath. The heir of the Marquis is waiting for the young lady? Waiting?
Shen Jin’s cheeks flushed faintly, but she quickly regained composure.
“Waiting for what?”
“To tell you something.” Xiao Heng lowered his voice. “I’ve identified the people your stepmother sent to tail you. Four in total—two close by, two around the General’s Manor.”
Shen Jin’s heart sank. Four. More than she’d expected.
“And another thing,” Xiao Heng’s voice dropped further. “Your stepmother has planted people inside your mother’s dowry house as well.”
Shen Jin’s hand tightened. That house was her mother’s legacy, her most private refuge in this world. Madam Zhou had even invaded there.
“What do you plan to do?” Xiao Heng asked.
Shen Jin was silent for a moment, then raised her eyes to his. “I want her to believe I’m still the same Shen Jinshu as before.”
“But you’re not.”
“No, I’m not.” Shen Jin’s lips curved. “Which is why she’ll lose.”
Xiao Heng looked at her smile; something inside him lightly jolted. “What do you need me to do?”
“For now, nothing.” Shen Jin turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, Yuanbao is doing well. Eats a lot, sleeps a lot, and knows how to annoy people.”
Xiao Heng chuckled. “Just like you.”
Shen Jin shot him a glare and walked off without looking back.
Xiao Heng stood at the teahouse door, watching her figure vanish into the crowd.
*Just like you.* Those were the words he’d said. And when she glared at him, her look was the same as that morning by the carriage—not anger, but embarrassment.
His lips curved upward. “Steward Chen.”
Steward Chen emerged from the teahouse. “Young Master.”
“Find out what Miss Shen bought at the market today.”
“…Yes.” Steward Chen no longer bothered asking why. If the heir wanted to know, then he would know—even if it was just a single scallion, the heir would want to know what kind of scallion it was.
Half an hour later, Steward Chen returned with the report. “Young Master, Miss Shen bought Sichuan peppercorn, star anise, cinnamon bark, bay leaves, wood ear fungus, shiitake mushrooms, daylilies, pork belly, ribs, perch, rice, flour, yellow wine, and red dates.”
Xiao Heng listened to the list in silence. “She’s preparing for winter?”
Steward Chen stifled a laugh. “Young Master, it’s spring.”
Xiao Heng glanced at him, and Steward Chen instantly swallowed the laugh.
“She bought these to cook,” Xiao Heng murmured. “Peppercorn, star anise, cinnamon, bay leaf—that’s braising spice. Pork belly, ribs—that’s braised meat. Perch—steamed or braised. Flour, wine, red dates—likely pastries.”
Steward Chen stared, dumbfounded. Since when did the heir know so much about cooking? “Young Master, how do you know all this?”
Xiao Heng didn’t answer. Of course he knew. Because every dish she made, he had tasted from the secret food boxes delivered by his spies.
Fried rice, rice in broth, hot‑and‑sour shredded potatoes, tomato scrambled eggs. Each one was a flavor he’d never had before. Each one was something he wanted to taste again.
“Steward Chen.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow, when she goes out again, inform me in advance.”
“What will you do, Young Master?”
Xiao Heng thought for a moment. “Taste her cooking.”
Steward Chen’s mouth twitched. “Young Master… in what capacity?”
“As a customer.”
“…Miss Shen’s cooking is only for herself and her maid. She doesn’t sell it.”
“Then from now on, she does.”
Steward Chen opened his mouth to protest, but seeing his master’s *decision‑made* expression, he swallowed the words. “Yes. I’ll arrange it.”
Back at the General’s Manor, Shen Jin had barely stepped into Jinse Pavilion when she saw Shen Mingzhu waiting in the courtyard.
“Elder Sister!” Shen Mingzhu jumped up. “You’re finally back!”
“What is it?”
“Nothing, I just missed you.” Shen Mingzhu linked arms with her. “Sister, you went to the market today? What did you buy?”
Shen Jin studied her. This half‑sister had been visiting far too often lately. Either she truly wanted to mend ties—or she had another motive. “Some spices,” Shen Jin said.
“Spices? For what?”
“Cooking.”
Shen Mingzhu’s eyes lit up. “Sister, you can cook?”
“A little.”
“Then can I taste it?”
Shen Jin hesitated at her eager look. “Fine. Tomorrow. I’m tired today.”
“Great!” Shen Mingzhu nearly bounced with joy. “Then tomorrow I’ll come find you!”
After she left, Chun Tao whispered, “Miss, Second Miss seems to have changed a lot lately.”
“How so?”
“Before, whenever she came to you, it was always with an agenda. Now… it feels like she just wants to see you.”
Shen Jin thought for a moment, but gave no judgment. Time would tell.
If Mingzhu were sincere, she would accept it.
If Mingzhu was false, Shen Jin wasn’t afraid.
One Madam Zhou was already enough to deal with—why fear one Shen Mingzhu?
That night, Shen Jin lay in bed, replaying the day’s events in her mind.
The trackers: four.
From Xiao Heng’s side: one favor owed.
From Shen Mingzhu’s side: keep her at arm’s length.
From Madam Zhou’s side: take it slow.
And then—her mother’s death.
A thought struck her, one she had never considered before. How did Lady Shen die? In the original body’s memory, Lady Shen had died of illness. But what illness, how, when—she didn’t know. No one had ever told her.
The more Shen Jin thought, the less it made sense. If Lady Shen had died of a natural illness, why would Madam Zhou be so wary of her stepdaughter? Unless—Lady Shen’s death had something to do with Madam Zhou.
Shen Jin sat up. The idea was enormous. If Madam Zhou truly had a hand in Lady Shen’s death, then Madam Zhou was not just a stepmother—she was a murderer. And a murderer would not hesitate to kill again.
Cold sweat broke across Shen Jin’s back. She had to find out the truth. But how? The original body had been only five when Lady Shen died. A child of five remembered nothing. The servants of the General’s Manor had been replaced again and again. Those who knew the old stories might already be gone.
After long thought, Shen Jin remembered one man. Steward Zhou, by Shen Chongyuan’s side. He had served in the General’s Manor for thirty years, Shen Chongyuan’s most trusted aide. He must know what happened back then. But how to make him speak? Shen Chongyuan would never allow it. Madam Zhou even less so.
Unless—she had leverage.
Shen Jin lay back down, staring at the canopy.
Leverage. What leverage did she have? Nothing. No money, no power, no connections. The only thing that could count as leverage was Xiao Heng.
But could she use him? Every time she did, she owed him a favor. Once, one favor. Twice, two favors. Pile up too many, and how would she ever repay?
Shen Jin rolled over and pulled the quilt over her head.
Enough. Stop thinking.
Tomorrow, she still has to cook for Shen Mingzhu.
At Marquis Dingyuan’s residence, Xiao Heng sat in his study with a letter spread before him. It had come from the General’s Manor, only a few lines long: “Miss Shen has been frequently visiting the house in Tianshui Lane. Today she purchased large amounts of food at the market, seemingly preparing to use the house long‑term. Miss Shen’s relationship with her half‑sister Shen Mingzhu appears improved; she has invited her to dine tomorrow at Jinse Pavilion.”
Xiao Heng’s gaze lingered on the three characters: Shen Mingzhu.
Shen Zhao’s full sister, Madam Zhou’s foster daughter. That woman had never meant well toward Shen Jinshu. Now suddenly drawing close—was it genuine, or a ploy?
“Steward Chen.”
“Here.”
“Investigate Shen Mingzhu. Who she’s met, what she’s said, what’s changed.”
“Yes.”
Xiao Heng folded the letter and tucked it into his sleeve. Shen Jinshu, you have plenty of enemies—stepmother, half‑brother, half‑sister. Can you handle them all alone? If not, it didn’t matter. Someone was helping you, even if you didn’t know.
His lips curved faintly. He picked up a brush and wrote four words: ‘Yuanbao, behaving?’
Then he frowned, crumpled the paper, and tossed it aside. But he picked it up again, smoothed it out, folded it neatly, and sealed it in an envelope.
“Steward Chen.”
Steward Chen entered.
“Deliver this letter to Miss Shen.”
Steward Chen took the envelope and glanced at the blank cover. “Master, who is this addressed to?”
“Shen Jinshu.”
Steward Chen lowered his eyes and saw the four words scrawled inside: ‘Yuanbao, behaving?’—and his mouth twitched. He drew a deep breath and left. Lately, he sighed more than in the past ten years combined.
Master, if you’re going to write love letters, at least make them look like love letters. ‘Yuanbao, behaving?’—what nonsense is this? But he dared not say it. Silently, he delivered the letter to the General’s Manor, slipping it through the crack of Jinse Pavilion’s door.
The next morning, Shen Jin opened her door and found an envelope on the ground. She picked it up and opened it.
‘Yuanbao, behaving?’
Shen Jin stared at the paper for a long time. Then she laughed. She laughed so hard she squatted down, unable to get up.
Chun Tao was startled. “Miss, what’s wrong?”
Shen Jin handed her the paper.
Chun Tao read it, baffled. “What is this? Who wrote it?”
“Xiao Heng.”
“Why would Young Master Xiao write this?”
Shen Jin wiped tears of laughter from her eyes, flipped the paper over, and wrote two words: ‘Very good.’ She folded it, slipped it back into the envelope, and gave it to Chun Tao. “Take this to Marquis Dingyuan’s residence. For Xiao Heng.”
Chun Tao accepted it, still dazed, and left.
Shen Jin stood, watching Yuanbao chase butterflies in the courtyard, smiling.
“Yuanbao, your master is an idiot.”
Yuanbao paused, looked back, and meowed. As if to say: You’re only realizing that now?