Guided by the moonlight, Li Miaomiao made her way behind the stove, selecting two heavy, sturdy pieces of firewood. She carried them outside and dragged the small wooden stool Xiao Xian had been sitting on over to the doorway.
Stepping up onto the stool, she gauged the circular hole in the door and quickly assessed what needed to be done. She began whittling the firewood down to the required thickness. Since she had widened the hole in the wooden plank, the end of the peg that would connect to the door pivot needed to be tapered slightly smaller.
Once the wooden peg was inserted into the hole, she picked up the remaining piece of firewood and used it as a mallet.
“Thump.”
“Thump.”
The dull, resonant sound of wood striking wood echoed through the room. To Xiao Xian, however, the noise was grating and irritating. It reminded him of the chaotic roar of the crowd at the execution grounds that day—a sound that left him feeling suffocated.
Lying on the bed, he stared through the jagged, broken window at the woman bustling outside. His soft, peach-blossom eyes were cold and filled with malice. On his way here, his former subordinates had investigated the background of everyone in this village.
How could a lazy, useless good-for-nothing like her know how to repair a door, and with such practiced skill?
Li Miaomiao hopped off the stool and pushed the wooden door back and forth. Seeing that it was no longer wobbling, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and let out a sigh of relief.
“Finally, that’s fixed.”
To her, a door represented privacy; leaving it open felt like having her personal life exposed, which made her deeply uncomfortable. She slid the bolt into place, wiped the stool clean with her sleeve, and returned it to its spot. Gathering the wood shavings and the discarded scraps, she headed toward the kitchen.
As she reached the step, she paused, lowered her gaze in thought, and then changed direction.
Seeing her approach, Xiao Xian masked the coldness in his eyes.
“Knock, knock, knock.”
The door was open, but Li Miaomiao knocked out of habit before poking her head inside. The room was pitch black, save for a sliver of moonlight resting on the bed, just enough to catch the faint outline of the man’s profile.
Li Miaomiao cleared her throat and asked, “What would you like for dinner tonight?”
“Whatever.”
His voice was cold and distant. It seemed he was still angry about her shameless pestering.
“Alright, then I’ll just make whatever I please.”
A heavy silence was her only reply.
Li Miaomiao puffed out her cheeks and pursed her lips. Not wanting to subject herself to any more cold shoulders, she turned and walked into the kitchen.
There was a tung oil lamp on the stove. Usually, in these earthen stoves, the fire starter was kept in a small cavity between the two burners. She tossed her firewood into the pile and reached into the small hollow.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
Just as I thought. It’s right here.
She lit the lamp, and for the first time, the entire kitchen came into view. A cutting board sat on a square table, and a long table against the wall was cluttered with bowls, chopsticks, and various jars. Two large urns stood in the corner and near the center of the room.
She held the lamp up and took a peek inside each. The one in the corner was for rice; the one in the middle held water. Moving to the table, she opened the jars—the large one held flour, and the three smaller ones contained salt, soy sauce, and lard. Hanging on the wall were a slab of cured meat, some fresh scallions, and a string of dried garlic.
Li Miaomiao arched an eyebrow, her inner suspicions rising again. The house is falling apart, so why is the kitchen so well-stocked?
Forget it, she thought. Don’t dwell on the strange stuff. Let’s focus on dinner first.
She scanned the kitchen once more, her eyes widening in delight.
“I know exactly what to make.”
She took off her scarlet outer robe, hung it on the wall, and rolled up her sleeves, revealing a scarred forearm. She glanced at the mark briefly before looking away.
She scooped a few ladles of water into the large iron pot and went behind the stove to build a fire. As the flames began to roar, she stood up, washed a few stalks of fresh scallions, and chopped them into rings to keep in a bowl. Then, she scooped two bowls of flour into a basin and began kneading the dough, adding water bit by bit.
She possessed a long list of flaws, but her one redeeming quality was that she loved to eat. It was just a shame her grandfather had never allowed her to attend culinary school.
She had been forced to learn on her own during her spare time. She was no master chef, certainly, but for a simple home-cooked meal, she was more than capable.
Outside the window, the night was sparse, and the moonlight casting into the kitchen felt cold and lonely. Only the soft rhythmic sound of kneading dough and the occasional crackle of burning firewood in the stove brought a touch of vitality to the space.
“Gurgle~”
Li Miaomiao glanced down at her flattened stomach. She figured if she waited for the dough to rise properly, she’d likely faint from hunger first.
She ignored the stinging in her palms, kneading the dough with vigor, folding and working it repeatedly before rolling it out thin with a rolling pin. She folded the sheet of dough and sliced it into half-inch strips. Once the water in the pot reached a boil, she tossed the noodles in, then drained them and plunged them into cool water to set.
After emptying the pot, she scrubbed it clean. While the iron pot was still hot, she raked out most of the firewood, leaving only a small, steady flame. She scooped half a spoonful of lard into the pan, and once it melted, she added the chopped scallions. In moments, the savory, intoxicating aroma of sizzling scallions and lard began to drift through the kitchen.
Li Miaomiao used her chopsticks to nudge the scallions, holding them near the tung oil lamp to check their color. Seeing them turn a perfect golden-brown, she fished them out. She poured two spoonfuls of soy sauce into an empty bowl and added the fragrant scallion-infused oil.
She dipped a chopstick in to taste it. “A little light on the salt, but it should be just right for mixing with the noodles.”
She divided the noodles into two ceramic bowls, drizzled the scallion oil over them, and topped them with the crispy, fried scallion bits. A perfect bowl of scallion oil noodles was ready.
Balancing the tung oil lamp in one hand and the two bowls in the other, she carefully made her way to Xiao Xian’s room. She stepped over the threshold, a small, cheerful smile playing on her lips.
“Dinner’s ready.”
The furnishings in Xiao Xian’s room were simple—a bed, a low table, and a dilapidated cabinet. While the pieces were worn, the room itself was kept neat and tidy. Knowing it was difficult for him to get out of bed, she carried his bowl to his bedside.
“Here.”
Xiao Xian stared at the dark, saucy noodles in the bowl, his brows knitting slightly. His long lashes cast a shadow over his deep, inscrutable eyes, making it impossible for Li Miaomiao to read his expression. When he didn’t reach out to take the bowl, she assumed he was still fuming over the “dowry” incident.
She bit her lip, placed the bowl firmly into his hands, and headed out with her own.
The warmth of her hands still lingered on the rim of the bowl. Xiao Xian glanced toward the oil lamp on the low table, then his gaze drifted outside.
Li Miaomiao was sitting on the threshold of the main room. A few slivers of moonlight fell upon her, highlighting her figure. She had been humiliated during her marriage, forced to settle for a crippled husband—one would expect her to be downcast and miserable.
Yet, she didn’t seem sad in the slightest. She was slurping down those dark, simple noodles with such gusto, one would think she was eating a royal feast.
He looked down at his own bowl of sauce-colored noodles. Is it really that good?
His fingertips paused for a second before he picked up his chopsticks.
Li Miaomiao had finished her meal long ago. She sat on the threshold for a while, gazing up at the crescent moon, before heading into the small room next door.
Eight large chests sat inside.
In a fit of madness, the original owner of this body had chosen to marry Xiao Xian, lying to everyone and claiming these chests were filled with a dowry. The village chief, eager to put an end to the chaotic spectacle, had united the village elders to appeal to Xiao Xian’s sense of duty and reason to convince him to take her as his wife.
But the moment they returned home that day, the original owner had burst into mocking laughter. She revealed that the chests were filled with nothing but eight heavy stones left behind by her father. Neither her stepmother nor her stepsister had known, and she had laughed at Xiao Xian, calling him a fool.
In the original owner’s memories, Li Miaomiao recalled that Xiao Xian’s eyes had been dark and heavy, impossible to read.
All of this made it difficult for Li Miaomiao to face him with any real confidence. After all, she was the one who had provoked him first.
Even though this era lacked modern conveniences and came with plenty of flaws, she had been granted a second chance at life. And she was determined to live it well.