The next morning, Shen Jin did something utterly out of character—she didn’t laze in bed. At the first hint of dawn, she crawled out from under the covers, startling Chun Tao, who had kept watch through the night.
“Y‑Young Miss? Why are you up so early?”
“I have things to do.” Shen Jin slipped on her outer robe and sat before the bronze mirror to comb her hair. “Make it neat, nothing fancy. Don’t stick a head full of gold hairpins in—it’ll just get in the way.”
“In the way? What are you planning to do?”
“Cook.”
Chun Tao’s hand trembled so badly that the comb nearly fell to the floor. “…Young Miss, you really mean to cook?”
“When have I ever lied to you?”
Chun Tao wanted to say *you used to lie every single day*, but swallowed the words. Lately, her mistress hadn’t lied at all—though half the things she said were baffling. She fixed Shen Jin’s hair into a simple double‑loop bun, secured with a single jade pin.
Shen Jin studied her reflection in the bronze mirror and nodded with satisfaction. Simple. Fresh. Practical for work.
“Chun Tao, dress plainly today. No bright reds or greens. We’re going to work, not to a matchmaking party.”
Chun Tao glanced down at her pink dress, sulked a little, then obediently changed into a blue one.
The two slipped quietly out through the back gate of the General’s manor.
Although Shen Chongyuan had lifted her confinement, Shen Jin still avoided the main gate. Too many eyes there, and Madam Zhou’s people were always watching. If she went out that way, she’d be interrogated endlessly.
The back gate was peaceful.
On the street, early vendors were already busy: steam rising from the bun shop, farmwives balancing baskets of vegetables on their way to market. The capital’s morning brimmed with the warmth of everyday life.
Shen Jin drew a deep breath. *This—this is what real living feels like.*
“Young Miss, how shall we get to Sweetwater Alley? Should I call for a sedan chair?”
“No need. We’ll walk.” Shen Jin strode forward. “Walking’s good for the body.”
Chun Tao scurried after her, panting. The Young Miss, who once refused to leave the house without a sedan chair, now wanted to walk? The change was staggering.
Tianshui Lane lay east of the city, about half an hour’s walk from the General’s manor.
The lane was narrow, flanked by old houses with gray walls and tiled roofs, so quiet you could hear birdsong.
Shen Jin stopped before the dowry residence, pulled a bronze key from her sleeve—something she’d found in the original owner’s memory and kept close, never shared with anyone. The lock was new, not like it had been left untouched for years. She frowned, but slid the key in and turned it.
The door creaked open. Inside, the courtyard was far cleaner than she had expected. No cobwebs, no heavy dust—only a thin scatter of fallen leaves on the stone path, as though someone had swept it not long ago.
“Chun Tao, when was the last time you came here?”
“Last autumn, when Young Miss sent me to fetch something. The courtyard was thick with dust then—you couldn’t even step inside.”
Shen Jin crouched and rubbed her fingers across the ground. The dust was thin, no more than three days old. Someone had been here before her. Someone had cleaned. She straightened, scanning the surroundings.
The courtyard walls were low but intact. The main hall had three rooms, two side wings, and behind them a small yard. She circled to the back—and found the kitchen.
It wasn’t large, but everything was in place: stove, chopping block, water jar, cupboard. Most surprising of all, a small bag of rice, a jar of oil, salt, and a few seasonings sat neatly on the stove. This was no coincidence.
Shen Jin stood at the doorway, inhaling deeply.
*Xiao Heng.* No one else would do such a thing. He hadn’t just sent people to shadow her—he’d come ahead, cleaned the house, and stocked the kitchen with supplies. What exactly was this man planning?
“Young Miss…” Chun Tao whispered nervously behind her. “It looks like someone’s been here. Maybe we should go back?”
“Not going back.” Shen Jin rolled up her sleeves. “Someone’s already cleaned the place for us—saves us the trouble. Come on, help me light the fire.”
“L‑Light the fire?”
“You used to help in the kitchen, didn’t you?”
“That was years ago…”
“Then remember how.”
Chun Tao braced herself, crouched by the stove, and after a whole cup of tea’s worth of fumbling, finally coaxed the flames to life—her face now smudged like a little soot‑cat.
Shen Jin checked the supplies. Salt, soy, vinegar, sugar—the basics were all there. The oil was rapeseed, fragrant and fresh. Rice, yes. But vegetables? She searched the kitchen and found a bamboo basket tucked in the corner: a handful of baby bok choy, two radishes, a knob of ginger, and a few scallions.
Xiao Heng had even prepared the produce.
Shen Jin’s expression grew more complicated.
“Young Miss, what exactly are you planning to make?”
Shen Jin lifted the bok choy. Fresh, crisp. The radishes, too.
“Spicy hotpot.”
“Sp‑Spicy… hotpot? What’s that?”
“You’ll know once you taste it.”
She set to washing and chopping. The original body’s pampered hands were clumsy, unused to kitchen work. Cutting radish slices, she nearly nicked her finger.
“Careful, Young Miss!” Chun Tao squeaked.
Shen Jin steadied her grip and kept going. *No problem. Practice makes perfect. Back in modern times, I cut myself plenty when I first learned to cook.*
Radish sliced thin, bok choy halved, scallion and ginger minced. No meat—pity. But vegetables would do for a start. Next, the broth. The soul of hotpot lies in the soup base. She searched—no Sichuan peppercorns, no chilies. Of course. Ancient times had chili, but it was not widely used yet. Xiao Heng had stocked rice and oil; she couldn’t expect more. Fine. A clear broth version, then.
She sautéed the scallion and ginger, added water, salt, and a splash of soy sauce, then covered the pot. When it boiled, she dropped in the radish slices, then the bok choy. No meat, no tofu, no noodles—just two vegetables. Too plain.
She rummaged deeper in the cupboard and struck gold: a small handful of dried wood ear fungus and a few dried shiitakes. Delighted, she soaked them, sliced them, and tossed them in. A rich aroma began to waft through the kitchen.
Chun Tao’s eyes widened. “Young Miss… it smells amazing!”
Shen Jin picked up a radish slice with chopsticks, blew on it, and tasted it.
Cooked. Flavor… not bad. No chili heat, no numbing spice, no sesame paste or crushed peanuts—but the clear broth had its own virtue: the pure taste of the ingredients: sweet radish, crisp greens, savory mushrooms.
“Chun Tao, bring bowls.”
She fetched two coarse pottery bowls. Shen Jin ladled soup and vegetables into them. “Try it.”
Chun Tao sipped cautiously—and her eyes lit up. “Young Miss! It’s delicious!”
“Delicious?”
“Yes! I’ve never had soup like this—fresh, fragrant, even a little sweet!”
Shen Jin tasted her own. Honestly, compared to modern hotpot, this was just clear broth with vegetables. But in an age without MSG or bouillon cubes, a soup coaxed from mushrooms and radish was truly a luxury.
“Young Miss,” Chun Tao mumbled between bites, “when did you learn to cook? I never knew.”
Shen Jin lied without blinking: “Dreamed it.”
Chun Tao: “…”
She was starting to think her mistress had been blessed by some kitchen god in her sleep.
After a few mouthfuls, Shen Jin set down her bowl. Something was missing. Right—staple food. Vegetables alone wouldn’t fill the belly. She eyed the bag of rice and an idea sparked.
“Chun Tao, can you cook rice?”
“Yes, I used to help in the kitchen.”
“Good. Make just a small bowl, not too much.”
Chun Tao went to cook.
Shen Jin stood at the stove, gazing at the remaining broth, mind racing.
Once the rice was done, she could pour it into the soup—turn it into rice‑in‑broth. The greens’ freshness, the mushrooms’ savor, all soaking into the grains. Every bite is satisfying. Back in modern times, this was her favorite winter comfort food. Simple, cheap, and warming.
The rice was done. Shen Jin tipped it into the soup pot, stirred with a spatula, and let it steam under the lid for a while. When she lifted it again, every grain had drunk in the broth—plump, glistening, distinct. She scooped a bowl and tasted. *Yes. That’s the flavor.* Not hotpot, but just as delicious.
“Chun Tao, here—try this.”
Chun Tao took the bowl, ate a mouthful, and froze.
“Young Miss…” her voice trembled, “did you secretly take a god as your master?”
“Less nonsense. Good or not?”
“Good! So good! I’ve never eaten anything like this!”
Watching Chun Tao slurp happily, lips shining with oil, Shen Jin couldn’t help but laugh. It seemed her cooking skills could hold their own—even in ancient times. Now, two problems remained: ingredients and seasonings. If only she had chili, Sichuan peppercorn, sesame paste, crushed peanuts, tofu skin, vermicelli, meatballs… Just imagining them made her mouth water. No—don’t get carried away. First, perfect this rice‑in‑broth. Then slowly branch out.
“Chun Tao, finish up and tidy. We’re going to the market.”
“The market? To buy vegetables?”
“Yes. And don’t call me Young Miss outside—it’s inconvenient.”
“Then… what should I call you?”
“Call me… sister.”
Chun Tao blinked, eyes suddenly red. She was an orphan, sold into the General’s manor as a child. She had never had a sister. “Si… Sister.” She tried the word.
“Mm.” Shen Jin answered casually, like calling to her own kin.
Tears spilled down Chun Tao’s cheeks.
Shen Jin pretended not to notice and kept eating—some people you treat kindly without needing a reason. Chun Tao’s loyalty was to the original Shen Jin. But since she now occupied that body, she owed Chun Tao kindness in return. That was called *repaying peach with plum*. Or *softened by another’s gift*. No—better: *a drop of kindness should be repaid with a spring*.
As she ate, Shen Jin made a mental note: if she ever opened a restaurant, the first thing would be to raise Chun Tao’s wages.
Meanwhile, at the mouth of Tianshui Lane, inside an unremarkable carriage— Xiao Heng reclined against the wall, holding a celadon bowl.
Inside: half a bowl of rice‑in‑broth.
On the low table before him sat a food box, containing the same dish, freshly taken from the little kitchen.
Steward Chen stood outside, reporting softly: “Miss Shen cooked this… I don’t know what to call it. She boiled soup with mushrooms and radish, then poured rice in to simmer. The taste… is unusual.”
Xiao Heng lifted a spoonful to his lips. His expression shifted. First a faint frown, then his brow eased, and finally—he took a second spoonful.
A third.
A fourth.
Steward Chen waited outside, but no orders came. At last, he peeked through the curtain.
The heir was bent over the bowl, eating with full concentration. The bowl was nearly empty.
“My lord…” Steward Chen ventured.
Xiao Heng set the bowl down, silent for a moment. “Find out,” he said, “did Miss Shen ever learn to cook?”
“Already checked,” Steward Chen replied quickly. “She never entered a kitchen. The manor’s cooks swear she never even approached the stove.”
“Never cooked before… and yet she made this?”
Steward Chen had no answer.
Xiao Heng glanced at the empty bowl. “Is there more?”
“…Pardon?”
“This rice. Is there more?”
Steward Chen blinked, then hurriedly said, “Yes, I had them prepare another bowl.”
“Bring it.”
He handed it in.
Xiao Heng took it and kept eating.
Steward Chen stared, dumbstruck. The heir always ate with perfect restraint, never speaking at table, never more than eighty percent full. But now—two bowls.
Two bowls, scraped clean.
Steward Chen swallowed hard and let the curtain fall. Some things were better left unseen. Knowing too much shortens one’s life.
Inside, Xiao Heng finished the second bowl, leaned back, closed his eyes, and savored the aftertaste. The flavor wasn’t refined—rough, even. But there was a kind of comfort in it—indescribable. Like a bowl of hot soup had smoothed out some hidden crease in his heart.
He opened his eyes, staring at the carriage roof. This woman… just how many secrets did she hold? She could tie a belt backward, speak in strange turns of phrase, and cook dishes no one had ever tasted before. And still treat him with indifference.
Xiao Heng suddenly felt an urge to see her again. Not through coded reports. Not from the shadows of a carriage at the alley’s mouth. Face to face. Properly. Sitting across from her, watching her, listening to her speak.
The thought startled him. Then he laughed. Softly, but genuinely.
“Shen Jinshu,” he murmured to the roof, “just what kind of person are you?”