Xiao Heng had said, “I’ll come again tomorrow.” Shen Jin thought he was just being polite. After all, he was the heir of a marquisate—how could he possibly have the leisure to come freeloading every single day? But she had underestimated Xiao Heng.
The next morning, just after the hour of *chen* (around 7 a.m.), he showed up again. This time he brought beef, beef bones, a packet of braising spices, a bag of flour, and even a jar of honey.
When Shen Jin opened the door, she saw him once more standing in the morning light, with the same two attendants carrying food boxes behind him, looking even more at ease than yesterday.
“Heir, don’t you have to attend court?” Shen Jin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“I took leave.”
“Took leave? Just to come freeloading?”
“Not freeloading,” Xiao Heng said with perfect seriousness. “I came to deliver ingredients. And, incidentally, to freeload.”
Shen Jin drew a deep breath. Fine. He had a point. She stepped aside to let him in. Chun Tao was already stoking the kitchen fire; when she saw Xiao Heng again, the fire tongs nearly slipped from her hands.
“Heir—you came again?”
“Mm.” Xiao Heng set the ingredients down. “Today we’ll have beef noodles.”
Shen Jin gave him a look. “Who said we’re making beef noodles?”
“I did.” He opened the food box. “The beef was slaughtered this morning, the bones make the richest broth. The flour is finely milled, perfect for chewy noodles. The spice packet was prepared by the imperial physician—better than anything from the market.”
Shen Jin looked at the ingredients, wanting to say “I’m not cooking.” But the words stuck in her throat—because the fragrance of simmering beef bones was already wafting out. Back in the modern world, her favorite food had been beef noodles. Especially in winter, a steaming bowl could bring her back to life. Even though it was spring now, beef noodles were good any time.
“Fine.” Shen Jin rolled up her sleeves. “Beef noodles it is.”
Xiao Heng’s lips curved faintly as he crouched down to wash the bones.
Chun Tao stared, dumbfounded.
The Heir’s skill looked less like someone freeloading for the second day, and more like someone who had lived here for years.
Shen Jin began kneading the dough. Flour, water, a pinch of salt—worked into a smooth ball, covered with a damp cloth to rest.
The beef bones were placed in cold water, blanched to remove odor, and then rinsed clean. A pot of fresh water, bones, ginger slices, scallion stalks—brought to a boil, then simmered low and slow. Meanwhile, the braised beef: cut into chunks, blanched, then simmered with yellow wine, soy sauce (her homemade mix of caramelized sugar and soy), rock sugar, and the spice packet, until tender. Two pots bubbled away, filling the kitchen with rich aromas.
Shen Jin rolled out the dough, folded it, and cut it into fine noodles.
Xiao Heng watched her, gaze intent. She worked with quiet focus, lips pressed, brows lightly furrowed—as if the world had vanished, leaving only her and the dough.
“What are you staring at?” Shen Jin didn’t even look up.
“At you, rolling noodles.”
“What’s so interesting about that?”
“It’s beautiful.”
Her hands paused, then continued cutting. The noodles were shaken loose, dusted with flour to prevent sticking. After an hour, the bone broth had turned milky white, shimmering with a sheen of oil. The braised beef was tender, chopsticks sliding through easily.
Shen Jin boiled the noodles, rinsed them in cold water, drained them, and placed them in bowls. She ladled on the steaming broth, topped with slices of braised beef, and sprinkled scallions and cilantro. A bowl of beef noodles—complete.
Xiao Heng looked at it in silence for a long time.
“What’s wrong?” Shen Jin asked. “Doesn’t look good?”
“It looks good.” He lifted the bowl. “But I want to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Who are you, really?”
Shen Jin froze. In the corner, Chun Tao’s chopsticks halted midair.
The courtyard fell quiet.
Shen Jin met his gaze. His eyes held no suspicion, no interrogation—only a sincere desire to know.
“I’m Shen Jinshu,” she said.
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“The old Shen Jinshu couldn’t do this.” He pointed at the noodles. “She didn’t even know which way the kitchen door opened. Tell me—how did you learn all this in just ten days?”
Shen Jin stayed silent. She couldn’t say she had transmigrated. That would mark her as mad—or worse, a monster. Neither outcome was good.
“I dreamed it,” she said.
The same excuse.
Xiao Heng studied her for a long time. “Fine,” he said at last. “If you won’t tell me, I won’t force you.” He lowered his head and began eating.
Shen Jin watched him, her chest tightening. He knew she was lying, yet didn’t expose her. He could have pressed but didn’t. This man was gentler than she had imagined. She picked up her own bowl and ate.
The flavor was excellent. The broth rich and fragrant, the beef tender and savory, the noodles chewy and satisfying.
Chun Tao had already finished a bowl in the corner. She came over holding the empty bowl. “Miss, is there any more?”
“There is. There are still noodles in the pot and broth, too.”
Chun Tao happily went to ladle herself a second bowl.
Shen Jin watched her maid’s back, then glanced at Xiao Heng quietly eating beside her, and a thought suddenly surfaced.
Days like this… weren’t so bad.
Someone to help wash vegetables and stoke the fire. Someone to sit with her, eat, and talk. Someone who, when trouble came, would ask, “Do you need me to do anything?” Even if that someone was a scheming, shadowing, cat-gifting, meal-freeloading heir of a marquisate— It didn’t feel all that unpleasant.
On the third day, Xiao Heng came again.
Shen Jin no longer bothered asking why he wasn’t at court. He came anyway, and she couldn’t drive him off, so she might as well put him to work. This time he brought lamb, lamb bones, white radish, and a packet of cumin.
When Shen Jin saw the cumin, her eyes lit up. “Where did you get this?”
“From Western merchants. Do you like it?”
“I do.” She took the cumin and inhaled its fragrance. “Today we’ll make cumin lamb.”
Xiao Heng had no idea what cumin lamb was, but seeing her eyes brighten, he thought the cumin was worth every coin.
Shen Jin was in high spirits.
Cumin was one of the spices she had missed most since crossing over. In the modern world, her favorite food had been barbecue—especially lamb skewers dusted with cumin. No charcoal here, so no skewers—but cumin lamb would do. She sliced the lamb thinly and marinated it in yellow wine, soy sauce, and starch. Oil the wok, add the lamb, and stir-fry until just colored, then set aside.
In the same wok, she heated cumin, chili powder (also brought by Xiao Heng, from the Western regions), and minced garlic until fragrant. Then the lamb went back in, was tossed until evenly coated, and was finished with a sprinkle of sesame seeds.
The kitchen filled with a heady aroma.
Chun Tao sneezed from the spice but refused to leave.
Xiao Heng stood in the doorway, watching Shen Jin’s busy figure through the smoke, his gaze softening into liquid warmth.
“All done!” Shen Jin plated the cumin lamb. “Try it.”
Xiao Heng picked up a piece and tasted. Tender lamb, cumin and chili bursting across his tongue, with a hint of char. Delicious. Not refined, but the kind of flavor that made you want to gulp down rice and swig wine—wild, hearty, irresistible.
“How is it?” Shen Jin asked eagerly.
“Delicious.”
She smiled, eyes curving like crescents.
Xiao Heng’s heartbeat stumbled. No—too fast, pounding so hard he could hear it himself. He lowered his head, eating to cover his lapse.
Shen Jin didn’t notice, busy serving herself rice.
Cumin lamb with rice—perfect.
The three of them were eating when the courtyard gate suddenly swung open.
“Elder Sister! I came—” Shen Mingzhu’s voice cut off. She froze at the doorway, food box in hand, eyes wide as copper bells. Because she saw Xiao Heng seated at the stone table, bowl in hand, dishes spread before him.
The Heir. The heir of Marquis Dingyuan. Eating in her sister’s residence.
Shen Mingzhu’s mind blanked for three seconds. Then she reacted—slammed the door shut, turned, and fled.
“Mingzhu!” Shen Jin called.
Her steps faltered, but she didn’t turn back. “Elder Sister,” her voice trembled, “I didn’t see anything.”
“Come back.”
“I really didn’t see anything.”
“Shen Mingzhu!”
She drew a deep breath, turned, and walked back. At the table, she bowed to Xiao Heng. “Greetings, Heir.”
He nodded.
She set her food box down, opened it—inside was osmanthus cake she had made. “Elder Sister, I made osmanthus cake today. I used less sugar. Please taste it.”
Shen Jin looked at her, knowing Shen Mingzhu had a thousand questions but asked none. This younger half-sister truly had grown more sensible of late.
“Sit and eat with us,” Shen Jin said.
Shen Mingzhu glanced at Xiao Heng, then at Shen Jin, hesitated, and sat.
Chun Tao brought out another set of chopsticks.
Shen Mingzhu tried a piece of cumin lamb. Her tense face melted into delight. “Elder Sister, what is this? It’s so good!”
“Cumin lamb.”
“What’s cumin?”
“A spice from the Western regions.”
Shen Mingzhu’s eyes sparkled as she ate another bite. After two mouthfuls, she suddenly remembered something. She set down her chopsticks and pulled a card from her sleeve.
“Oh right, Elder Sister—I nearly forgot. Madam asked me to give you this.”
Shen Jin unfolded it. It was an invitation from the Yongning household.
Madam Yongning—Su Qingyin’s mother—was hosting a flower-viewing banquet, inviting the young ladies of the capital to admire blossoms at her estate. The date was set for three days hence.
Shen Jin looked at the invitation, her brows faintly furrowed. Su Qingyin’s mother was hosting a flower-viewing banquet. In the original story, this banquet was a pivotal turning point. It was there that the former Shen Jinshu was trapped by Madam Zhou and Lin Wanqing, lured into a secluded pavilion to “accidentally” encounter a strange man—her reputation nearly ruined. Though Su Qingyin eventually saved her, the damage was done. That disgrace was one of the forces that drove the original Shen Jinshu toward despair and suicide.
Shen Jin folded the invitation, her mind clear. Madam Zhou hadn’t sent this to offer her amusement. The trap was already dug, waiting for her to fall in.
“Elder Sister, will you go?” Shen Mingzhu asked.
“I will.” Shen Jin tucked the invitation away. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Xiao Heng’s gaze lingered on her, a flicker of worry in his eyes. “Do you need me to do anything?” he asked.
Shen Mingzhu glanced between him and her sister, her expression turning subtle. So there *was* something between her elder sister and the Heir.
Shen Jin thought for a moment, then smiled. “No need,” she said. “This time, I’ll handle it myself.”
She would turn Madam Zhou’s trap into Madam Zhou’s own grave.
Shen Mingzhu shivered at the smile on her sister’s face. It was beautiful—but beautiful in a way that frightened, like a blade hidden among blossoms.
Xiao Heng watched that smile, his lips curving slowly. He remembered what she had said that day:
“I want her to believe I’m still the old Shen Jinshu.”
“But you’re not,” he had replied.
“No. I’m not. That’s why she’ll lose.”
He lifted his teacup and drank. He could hardly wait to see that day arrive.