Gu Jing’an nodded in agreement. He had come specifically to fetch Xie Yuechan, so it was only natural that he wait for her.
As he approached the main hall, ripples of laughter drifted out—Xie Yuechan’s voice, punctuated by the hearty, resonant tones of Grand Preceptor Gu. He stepped inside to find a scene of unexpected domestic harmony. Since it was a family dinner, the usual rigid separation of men and women had been waived; everyone sat together in a relaxed circle.
The Grand Preceptor and the Old Lady occupied the seats of honor. Xie Yuechan sat close to the Old Lady, attentively serving her portions of food. While the Old Lady’s expression remained cool and distant, everyone else wore a visible smile. To Jing’an’s surprise, his second brother and Princess Duanmin were also present—it had been days since he’d seen the two of them in the same room.
The scolding he had anticipated was nowhere to be found. The atmosphere was far from dire.
“Ah, Jing’an is here,” the Grand Preceptor noted first. His eyes twinkled with a touch of teasing. “Yuechan took over the kitchen personally tonight. Come, sit. You must try this… what did you call this porridge again, Yuechan?”
“Chaoshan Casserole Porridge,” she replied smoothly.
“Right, right. Casserole porridge. She says it’s a specialty from the Lingnan region.”
Jing’an took the empty seat beside her, his gaze landing on the large clay pot resting in the center of the table—the star of the evening. Surrounding it were a dozen side dishes: rouge-braised goose breast, sweet pickled radishes, cold-dressed fish skin, crispy fried peas, and salted dried fish. They lacked the overly polished look of the professional kitchen, suggesting Yuechan had prepared these herself with personal care.
To keep it warm, the clay pot sat atop a small brazier. The gentle heat coaxed the aroma outward, filling the room with a savory, oceanic scent.
Xie Yuechan maintained a practiced, elegant smile. Under the Old Lady’s watchful eye, she rinsed her hands, rose, and used a communal ladle to serve Jing’an a half-bowl of porridge. Every movement was the very picture of a well-bred lady from a noble house.
“Please, Husband, enjoy your meal,” she said softly.
The bowl was a treasure trove of crab, shrimp, and oysters; the grains of rice seemed almost secondary to the abundance of seafood. It was served with a side dish of fermented bean paste. Following her instruction, Jing’an stirred a spoonful of the golden paste into the bowl.
The fragrance was immediate. The porridge had been simmered until thick and creamy, reminiscent of the rice gruel fed to young children, yet elevated by the medley of fresh seafood. The oysters were tender and plump, possessing the delicate texture of soft tofu. Though it wasn’t peak crab season, the meat and roe were incredibly sweet. Combined with the salty bean paste, the flavors merged in a perfect, inseparable dance of brine and earth.
The shrimp were equally impressive—large, curled, and a vibrant pink, their flesh firm and snapping with sweetness.
Because the shrimp and crab were served in their shells, Jing’an found himself struggling slightly to extract the meat. He had noticed that Yuechan didn’t cook like the typical household chefs; she didn’t believe in deboning or deshelling everything for the master, nor did she care for the mushy, over-processed textures common in high-society meals. Initially, Jing’an had found this frustrating. However, after she taught him how to peel a shrimp with his teeth without staining his hands, and how to gnaw on a marrow bone, he had begun to find a primitive, tactile joy in the process.
It had taken him a long time to get used to her “rustic” style, yet he was surprised to see his father and the others enjoying it so thoroughly on their first try.
“Who was it that used to say Yuechan lacked proper etiquette?” the Grand Preceptor remarked, clearly delighted. Over the course of the meal, he had been so thoroughly charmed by her flattery that he had forgotten his previous grievances. “I think she’s doing wonderfully! Don’t you agree, Wife?”
Princess Duanmin murmured her agreement.
At the table, only the Old Lady remained unmoved. She hadn’t touched a single drop of the porridge, pointedly ordering a bowl of longan and lotus seed soup from the main kitchen as a silent snub.
Xie Yuechan, however, didn’t seem to care in the slightest. The others loved the food—some were even slurping quite loudly—and that was victory enough.
Inwardly, the Old Lady was fuming with regret. She had summoned Yuechan to serve dinner specifically to humble her and discourage her from trying to “buy” the family’s affection. She hadn’t expected the girl to be so unfazed by a strict mother-in-law, nor had she expected her to have mastered such a convincing veneer of noble grace. Even the Grand Preceptor had been completely fooled!
The situation with her second son and his wife was even more of a shock. Princess Duanmin was subtly but surely coming to Xie Yuechan’s defense, leaving the Old Lady with no opening to find fault. It was maddening.
A bit of seafood and a clay pot? she thought bitterly. A single bowl of porridge was enough to make them turn coat? Utterly spineless!
She consoled herself with the thought that, at this table, only her third son remained truly on her side. With a sense of pride, she looked toward her most accomplished child, only to find Jing’an clutching his bowl and drinking just as heartily as the rest—albeit with a slightly more elegant posture.
The Old Lady’s brief moment of comfort vanished instantly.
“One does not speak while eating or sleeping,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “Guzheng, where are your manners? Have you forgotten them entirely?”
Since the Grand Preceptor wouldn’t let her target Yuechan, she turned her blade toward her second son instead. Gu Zheng, ever the thick-skinned one, felt the sting of the verbal barb and cried out in genuine grievance, his voice booming.
“Mother, you’re playing favorites! Father and Third Sister-in-law are talking too, aren’t they?” he grumbled. “Why am I the only one getting caught?”
Her attempt to assert authority having failed, the Old Lady lapsed into a sulky silence, burying her face in her own bowl. She listened to the hum of conversation around her—mostly Yuechan weaving amusing anecdotes that had the Grand Preceptor and Gu Zheng roaring with laughter. To the Old Lady’s eyes, such unrefined joy was an eyesore.
A perfectly good dinner had been turned into a chaotic mess by this woman!
Clatter!
Xie Yuechan had just lifted a piece of cold-dressed fish skin to her lips when the sudden noise startled her. Everyone else turned in confusion toward the head of the table.
The Old Lady had slammed her bowl down with heavy finality. She remained silent for a long moment, letting the weight of their bewildered stares settle, as if the dramatic pause might vent some of her stifled rage.
“What is it now?” the Grand Preceptor asked, patting his wife’s hand in a patient attempt to soothe her.
“I’m finished. This meal is a headache,” she muttered. Her face dark, she swatted his hand away and rose, leaning heavily on Nanny Xu as she swept out of the room.
“Well then, I’ve had my fill as well,” the Grand Preceptor said, unfazed. He had no intention of forcing the younger generation to linger. He gave a casual wave of his hand. “It’s getting late. You all should head back to your own quarters.”
Leaving the Taoran Residence, Yuechan and Jing’an reached the small lotus-patterned gate by the north corner of the rockery, where they prepared to part ways with the second branch of the family.
“Second Sister-in-law,” Yuechan said, offering her thanks, “I truly appreciate your help today. If you and Second Brother hadn’t arrived when you did to break the tension, I…”
“You have to return tomorrow,” Princess Duanmin interrupted, her voice calm and steady. “Try not to be quite so… spirited in your words and actions as you were today.”
Watching his sister-in-law stand there, so composed and gentle, Gu Jing’an felt a pang of melancholy. He remembered when she first married into the family; he had been no older than little Changsheng back then. In those days, Princess Duanmin had been fiery and sharp, her very footsteps carrying the wind of a commander. She was a different person entirely now. Back then, she had been the primary source of his mother’s headaches, surviving every attempt at “re-education” unscathed.
In fact, his very first lessons in swordsmanship had come from her.
Years ago, Princess Duanmin had taken up her father’s mantle as commander. Commissioned as a Great General by the Emperor himself, she had spent three years fighting pirates. On the day of her triumphal return, the city streets had been packed with people welcoming the “Female Martial Star” who had secured the borders for years to come.
It was hard to imagine that such a vibrant, gallant woman could have her edges worn smooth by marriage. Even though Gu Zheng was his own flesh and blood, Jing’an couldn’t help but feel that the fault lay entirely with his brother.