The arrival of Spring’s Beginning was quiet and subtle. In the shallow pond among the reeds, wild ducks stirred restlessly, flapping their wings in a flurry of competition. Huddled together, their feathers scattered chaotically, a single duck feather drifted onto the water’s surface, stirring faint ripples. Amid this flurry of feathers, they became the first creatures to experience the arrival of spring by taking to the water.
The temperature in the mountains was slightly lower than in the town below. The proud and resilient winter plum blossoms, which once stood alone in their cold elegance, had shed their petals, scattering a carpet of crimson. Though the spring chill remained sharp and new buds had yet to sprout, the bare branches silently whispered that winter was coming to an end.
Time passed unnoticed in the mountains. In the blink of an eye, the peach saplings in Moyi Yuan, planted in the same year Danqing was born, had grown sturdy and strong. While the peach trees at the foot of the mountain had yet to bud, the courtyard’s blossoms had become a unique sight within Zhiwei Guan. Against all odds, Danqing, the young mistress of Moyi Yuan, had survived to the age of six under the “meticulous care” of a group of Daoist priests, senior sisters, and acolytes with no child-rearing experience. Now, she could finally express her own desires and wishes.
With the courtyard’s peach blossoms in full bloom, studying and practicing calligraphy outdoors was far more pleasant than staying indoors. Even so, she neither liked nor was accustomed to kneeling on a stone stool to practice her characters—whether due to the complexity of traditional script or the discomfort of kneeling.
“Danqing.”
Danqing turned her head and, upon seeing the visitor, joyfully climbed down from the stone stool. Still clutching her brush, she ran toward the newcomer. Though she hadn’t knelt for long, it was far from comfortable. Bundled in layers of winter clothing, her movements were awkward and unsteady.
Graceful and poised, the visitor’s skirt swayed gently with each step. A delicate waist was accentuated by a sash of golden-threaded Qingrong Silk, while a jade arm adorned with an emerald bracelet carried a hexagonal vermilion lacquer food box carved with a hundred-flower pattern. Her dark hair was neatly pinned with a magnolia hairpin. People often said that beauty was like jade, but in Danqing’s eyes, Qianzhi’s beauty was like the wind—her demeanor and charm shifted with the seasons, something to be felt but never grasped.
In Danqing’s memory since arriving here, everyone in Zhiwei Guan wore smooth, cool fabrics. Even during snowy winter days, they dressed as if it were autumn, their bodies radiating warmth. In contrast, she was always bundled up tightly, yet her hands and feet remained cold—a source of constant frustration.
“Qianzhi,” she called out happily. “Did you bring me something delicious?” Her eyes, clear as ink, sparkled as she stared at the food box. The once quiet and focused calligraphy practitioner now brimmed with lively energy, her attention far more intense than when she studied or practiced writing.
In her previous life, Danqing had been an only child, with no older sisters or brothers, nor any habit of addressing others as such. Once she passed the babbling stage and grew familiar with the faces around her, she matched names to appearances and called everyone by their given names—never “brother” or “sister.” Even Fu Yun, who served as both her “foster father” and “master,” was addressed as “Shifu” only in the presence of strangers. Most of the time, she simply called him by his name.
“The little glutton of Moyi Yuan is getting more and more spoiled.” Qianzhi teased with a smile, her slender jade-like fingers tapping Danqing’s forehead lightly, without any real force. She took the Zihao brush from Danqing’s hand to prevent her from accidentally leaving ink stains on her clothes again. Danqing playfully covered her forehead and giggled, “My head hurts, I can’t remember anything except eating.”
A breeze rose, though not strong, scattering peach petals in its wake. One of the petals landed on Danqing’s braid, and Qianzhi gently picked it up, letting it drift away with the wind.
“The wind is picking up, be careful not to catch a chill. Come inside to ‘bite spring’ and try some Taohua Niang while you’re at it.” Qianzhi instructed Danqing to gather the paper and brushes from the stone table and bring them indoors.
“Spring has arrived so quickly, yet it’s still chilly.” Danqing muttered as she followed Qianzhi inside.
Qianzhi took out the dishes from the food box, while Danqing dutifully washed her hands. She picked up a Heye Bing, evenly baked and thin as paper. Qianzhi handed her chopsticks, and Danqing, according to her preference, selected dried tofu strips, bean sprouts, and spring chives from the Chunpan filled with various seasonal vegetables. Wrapping them up, she took a bite—the small, round cake, baked over low heat, was soft and tender, crispy on the outside and delicate within.
“Delicious.” Danqing narrowed her eyes in delight.
“You should eat some scallions and jujubes…” The food box contained a variety of dishes, but Qianzhi had only brought portions for Danqing alone, so she used delicate Yunwen Xiaodie plates, arranging seven or eight different items.
“Don’t like them…” Danqing frowned and mumbled, eyeing the scallions and jujubes with distaste.
“The liver governs spring. Since the beginning of spring, it’s the liver’s season to be nourished. The liver dislikes urgency, so sweet foods should be eaten to soothe it. The liver desires dispersion, so pungent foods should be eaten to disperse it. Pungent flavors supplement it, while sour flavors drain it.” Qianzhi set down her chopsticks and explained the principles from the Suwen Cangqi Fashi Lun, though she didn’t recite it verbatim. Instead, she extracted the parts about the liver and tailored them to what Danqing could understand.
“Hmm, so I should eat pungent foods and avoid sour ones?” Danqing’s half-baked grasp of classical Chinese only allowed her to comprehend this much. She bit her chopsticks, gazing longingly at the foods she liked, then glanced at the ones she disliked, pursing her lips.
Qianzhi shook her head with a smile and explained, “It’s best to eat pungent and sweet dispersing foods and avoid sour, astringent flavors. Eating more warm, dispersing foods like jujubes, fermented black beans, scallions, cilantro, and peanuts, combined flexibly, is always beneficial.”
“Oh.” Danqing nodded in agreement and picked up her chopsticks again. Agreeing, however, didn’t stop her from taking far less of the foods she disliked.
Tender celery in early spring makes the most fragrant filling for dumplings. Danqing scooped some into her bowl with a spoon, too eager to wait for them to cool. She blew on them and popped one into her mouth, scalding her tongue but unwilling to spit it out, instead puffing air and fanning with her hand to cool the dumpling.
“Eat slowly, no one’s competing with you.” Watching someone relish the dishes she had prepared filled Qianzhi with a quiet sense of happiness.
Speaking of no one competing, this year, there really was no one to fight over the food with her, which felt somewhat unfamiliar. After swallowing the dumpling in her mouth, Danqing cast a reluctant glance at the celery dumplings, Chunya Hua Rou Pian, and Tan Jidan before setting down her chopsticks and asking, “Where’s Fu Yun?”
“Only now do you remember the abbot? At least you have a conscience, not forgetting people when you see food.” Qianzhi teased. “Today, the old general’s wife from town came to visit the abbot, so he sent me ahead first. He’s probably busy with matters. He instructed you to have your spring bite, then practice calligraphy for a while on your own before going to Lanyue Ge to join him for dinner.”
Danqing looked out through the carved window lattice, where beyond the lush blossoms lay mountains like ink wash paintings. Zhiwei Guan was built following the mountain’s contours. The halls and buildings within the temple dedicated to the Sanqing Siyu Nanchen Beidou, where people came to pay homage, were all located on the front mountain, quite close to the town—only about half an hour’s walk away. Apart from the on-duty Taoist priests who stayed overnight in the simple houses near the Three Pure Ones Hall, the living quarters for the temple’s residents were accessed via the Baibu Ti behind Laojun Gong, leading to the back mountain. Moyi Yuan was situated halfway up the mountain, between the front and back peaks, on flat terrain. Nearby were several courtyards that could support one another, including Wuwei Yuan, where cooks sent by local townsfolk or distant officials and noble families came to hone their culinary skills, and Youlan Yuan, where female Taoists like Qianzhi resided.
As for Lanyue Ge, mentioned by Qianzhi, it was built atop the back mountain. It served as Zhiwei Guan’s library and was an excellent spot for stargazing and moon-watching. Six years ago, Danqing had been brought there and entrusted to Fu Yun for adoption.
It is worth noting that all the Taoist priests in Zhiwei Guan belonged to the Chunyang Gong Tianshi Dao. Followers of Tianshi Dao were permitted to marry and eat meat, did not grow beards, and wore their hair in the same style as laypeople. When not dressed in Taoist robes, others could not tell they were priests.
“What are you thinking about so deeply that you’re not even eating the food I made?” Qianzhi asked, noticing Danqing staring absently at the distant, faintly visible upturned eaves of Lanyue Ge.
“Nothing…” Danqing snapped back to reality, still reflecting on how, years ago, she had opened her eyes to find herself no longer in that vibrant, colorful world—a thought that inevitably brought a sigh. When she fully returned her attention to the table of dishes, she realized they had lost their warmth. It seemed if she didn’t eat soon, even the residual heat would vanish. “Ah! My food has gone cold!”
“I’ll warm it up for you.” Qianzhi took away the dumplings. Fortunately, out of the seven or eight dishes, four or five were cold dishes, so she could still eat while waiting.
Tender Malantou was sprinkled with a small spoonful of sesame oil. The fresh green vegetable shreds were dotted with minced dried tofu resembling crushed jade, pleasing to the eye and tempting to the nose. The aroma of sesame oil filled her mouth as she ate, and the chilled Malantou tasted exceptionally refreshing. Additionally, Chunya Hua Rou Pian was another dish Danqing loved in spring. Delicate, thinly sliced meat was arranged like the petals of a small lily, with red and green “stamens” peeking out from the center—red from carrots and green from chun sprouts. The willow-green fragrance lingered, and the faintly medicinal aroma of the leaves slowly awakened her taste buds.
For Danqing, biting into spring marked the beginning of a new year.
“Warm the Taohua Niang yourself when you have free time, but don’t drink too much. Only a small cup each time—this wine has a strong aftereffect. You must think of your own health and not regret it tomorrow with a cold, headache, or fever. Don’t be greedy with the cup, learning from your master’s ways.” Qianzhi instructed, carrying the steaming hot dumplings.
Danqing continued to nod in agreement. Previously, she had never touched alcohol, but who could have expected that after arriving here, Fu Yun—who was utterly inept at caring for children—would frequently dip chopsticks into mild wine and feed it to her to help her fall asleep. Some of the low-alcohol brews, made from fruits, tasted quite pleasant to Danqing at first, so Fu Yun would give her a few extra drops. It wasn’t until the next day, when the delayed effects kicked in with headaches and fever, that Danqing realized Fu Yun had been feeding her wine. Occasionally, when stronger, pungent liquor was used, she would immediately squirm and burst into loud cries. Over time, whenever Danqing couldn’t sleep and disturbed Fu Yun, and neither Fu Yun nor Qianzhi could soothe her, Fu Yun would resort to fruit wine to lull Danqing to sleep. This gradually developed into her current habit of frequently craving Qianzhi’s fruit brews.
After seeing Qianzhi off, Danqing practiced calligraphy for a while before setting down her brush and heading to Lanyue Ge.
The door closed, leaving the room in complete silence. Then, with a creak, the door was pushed open. “What fragrant wine! Fortunately, the occupant of this room has gone out.” It was only Shenshi (around 3–5 p.m.), with clear weather outside and the sun not yet ready to set early. The person dressed in Qinghongse Yishan entered Danqing’s quarters, bringing with them a fragrant breeze.