The food box sent by the Bai Manor was made of woven bamboo, divided into four tiers, and crafted with meticulous detail. The clasps were inlaid with brass-chased plaques, which were clearly not the sort of common ware found in ordinary street-market households.
Qin Yaoyao took the box and gently lifted the lid. Inside, the base was lined with snow-white oil paper, laid perfectly flat without even a single crease. Such meticulous attention to detail reminded her of the standards from her previous life, though she kept her expression neutral as she turned and walked into the kitchen.
She had been planning today’s menu since last night and had prepared the ingredients well in advance. While stir-fried river shrimp with yellow chives was a seasonal dish, a meal intended for the Bai residence could not be treated like a simple shop offering. Bai Qi’s battered digestive system could handle river shrimp, but it couldn’t tolerate the harshness of stir-frying in hot oil; it required a more refined approach.
She washed her hands and set to work. She shelled and de-veined the live shrimp caught that morning. The shrimp meat was crystal clear; she added a pinch of fine salt and egg white, gently folding them together to coat. In the iron wok, she added a thin layer of vegetable oil, keeping the heat extremely low. The shrimp were slid into the wok, tossed lightly, and cooked almost instantly. The yellow chives were cut into inch-long segments and, without a drop of lard, cooked in the clear, savory broth made from the shrimp shells before being tossed and removed from the heat. The entire process, from putting it in the wok to plating, took no more than three breaths of time. The shrimp were tender, the chives crisp and sweet, and the broth pure—a dish with distinct, layered flavors.
The second dish was spring bamboo shoots stuffed with meat. She scooped the bitter cores out of the tender early-spring shoots, filled them with minced pork seasoned with five spices, and steamed them thoroughly in a bamboo basket. The meat filling required its own skill—she had specifically selected front-leg pork with a ratio of three parts fat to seven parts lean. After finely mincing it and adding a bit of high-quality lotus root starch, the texture remained dense and moist rather than dry.
As for the third dish, Qin Yaoyao didn’t make a savory course; instead, she prepared a bowl of glutinous rice ball soup. The balls were stuffed with freshly toasted sesame and crushed peanuts, while the broth was a sweet, light infusion of red dates and goji berries. After Jingzhe (the Awakening of Insects), as the seasonal “yang” energy rises, those with a weak or cold constitution are prone to flare-ups of old ailments; they need warmth to nurture the stomach. This sweet soup was intended to settle his stomach.
As for the shredded tofu with Chinese toon that he had personally requested, Qin Yaoyao dared not be careless. She blanched the tenderest early-spring toon buds to remove their astringency, minced them finely, and folded them into fresh, tender tofu. She finished it with just a dash of sesame oil and a hint of salt, allowing the natural, vibrant scent of spring to shine through.
The four dishes were placed into the food box in order, with thick cotton cloths tucked between the tiers to keep them warm. Before closing the lid, Qin Yaoyao folded the note she had written—”Spring Qi begins to stir”—and placed it beside the top dish. On the back, she added a line in neat, small script: “Springtime calls for warm nourishment, and one should avoid raw or cold foods. All four dishes are safe to eat.”
The delivery boy was waiting outside. When he took the box, his arm sank abruptly; it was significantly heavier than when he had arrived. A flicker of joy crossed the boy’s eyes, and after thanking her repeatedly, he carried the box and quickly vanished into the alley.
As the sky began to brighten, the sound of the chen hour (7:00 AM) watchman’s gong drifted in the distance. Qin Yaoyao walked to the doorway, glanced at the street scene of Taiping Ward, and efficiently dismantled the shop’s wooden panels one by one.
Today, the ward was even more bustling than yesterday—the free pot of shepherd’s purse soup had been incredibly effective. Before the mao hour (5:00 AM – 7:00 AM) was even half over, people were already peeking around the corner, too shy to sit down directly but unwilling to walk away.
As soon as the panels were opened, the white porridge on the stove was bubbling away, the fragrance of rice filling the air. The first to cross the threshold was Old Huang, who carried his carrying pole yesterday. He didn’t come empty-handed today, even bringing a companion along. “Little Miss Qin, what fresh eats are in the shop today?”
Qin Yaoyao held a long-handled wooden spoon, stirring the porridge slowly. “Dishes for the Jingzhe season: stir-fried river shrimp with yellow chives, fried spring rolls, and stuffed spring bamboo shoots.”
Old Huang’s eyes widened. “River shrimp? The new catch from the wharf this morning?”
“Caught at the mao hour; they’re still kicking in the basin,” Qin Yaoyao replied in a steady tone.
Old Huang turned and slapped his companion on the shoulder. “See? Did I tell you a single word of a lie yesterday?”
The two took a table against the wall, ordering the stir-fried shrimp with yellow chives and an extra serving of fried spring rolls. The spring rolls were Qin Yaoyao’s centerpiece for the day. The thin wrappers were stuffed with a generous amount of shepherd’s purse and pork, fried in oil until the exterior was golden and crisp. Upon biting into one, it cracked with a satisfying crunch, and the piping hot, savory juices spilled out. Old Huang took a large bite, exhaling sharply from the heat, unable to speak for a long moment. After swallowing, he slammed the table. “Absolutely peerless!”
Once there was a leader, the customers poured in like a flowing stream. The poor scholar who had drunk the soup yesterday bit the bullet and brought two classmates to try the new dishes; the neighborhood auntie who was usually frugal, having only planned to buy a bowl of plain porridge, couldn’t resist the scent of the spring rolls from the next table and ended up adding two to her order.
The front hall was a hubbub of noise, while in the back, Qin Xiaoman was squatting by a wooden basin, scrubbing bowls for dear life. Her fingers were bleached white from the soaking, and she whispered to herself about how many portions they had sold. Qin Yaoyao stood alone by the two clay stoves, tossing the wok, seasoning, and plating—never resting for a moment. She stood tall, her movements methodical, not even losing the rhythm of her breathing. A few splatters of oil dotted her coarse cloth apron, and a thin sheen of sweat beaded on her forehead.
During the height of the lunch rush, four orders came in from outside in quick succession. Qin Yaoyao flicked her right wrist, tossing the ingredients into the air, while her left hand precisely dropped two slices of ginger into the clay pot beside her. Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she saw Qin Xiaoman carrying a hot bowl of soup with hands that were shaking violently. Her voice was low but carried a steady, grounding strength: “Hold it steady.”
Qin Xiaoman straightened her back, bit her lower lip, and carried the soup bowl out with perfect balance.
It wasn’t until well past the shen hour (3:00 PM – 5:00 PM) that the crowd began to thin. Qin Yaoyao used iron tongs to clear the last of the stove ash and wiped the counter until it gleamed like new before turning to prepare dinner for the Bai Manor. She hadn’t been explicitly told, but she had a fair idea of that gentleman’s status. Ordinary wealthy families didn’t use guards who carried blades, nor were they so notoriously picky. Since this was her first long-term catering engagement, she had to put in twelve-tenths of her effort.
She opened the notebook where she kept records of dietary needs. Evening meals should be easy to digest, so she planned a steamed sea bass, a bowl of yam and Job’s tears porridge, and a dish of cold-dressed tender tofu skin with sesame oil.
The freshly arrived sea bass was exceptionally delicious, yet it carried a faint, muddy odor. Qin Yaoyao marinated the fish in fine Huadiao wine and thin ginger slivers for fifteen minutes before sliding it into the bamboo basket to steam over a fierce fire for exactly six seconds—not a moment longer. When finished, she drizzled it with her own handmade sweetened soy sauce. Scallions and ginger were pungent, and since his stomach was weak and cold, he couldn’t handle the sharp bite, so she didn’t even use scallions as a garnish.
After securing the meal in the box, she called for Qin Xiaoman. “Do you know the way?”
“I do!” Xiaoman patted her chest, promising. “The Bai residence on Yanqing Lane—the house with the big locust tree to the left of the gate!”
“Be respectful when you get there. Don’t linger at their door; hand over the food and leave immediately,” Qin Yaoyao instructed in detail.
“Got it, Sister.” Xiaoman carried the box and hurried out of the door with a light step.
Qin Yaoyao took a cloth and wiped her fingers one by one. She sat on a small stool by the stove, her back leaning against the slightly warm brick wall, and exhaled a long, heavy breath. Today’s profit was double that of yesterday. If this trend continued, she would recover her initial investment in less than half a month. Yet, her brows didn’t relax; instead, they slowly knitted together. The men from the Chen Family Restaurant hadn’t appeared all day—this was highly irregular. Manager Zhou had been a tyrant in Taiping Ward for twenty years; he was not a forgiving man. Beneath this seemingly calm situation often hid the most fatal of crises.
She sat silently for a moment, forcing these chaotic thoughts deep into the recesses of her mind. Thinking more was useless; she could only meet each move as it came. She stood up, picked up a charcoal pencil, and began calculating the ingredients she needed to purchase at the market tomorrow.
Dali Temple, Official Study.
The night was deep and dark. Four ox-horn lanterns were lit in the room, making it as bright as day. Bai Qi sat upright behind the rosewood desk, his posture tall, though his face revealed obvious exhaustion. Stacks of dossiers were piled over a foot high on his desk. On top was an old case just transferred from the Ministry of Justice that morning: the Bian River canal shipping shipwreck case. On the surface, it only involved the loss of some provisions, but in reality, it exposed a massive, ongoing deficit in the grain granaries of the capital region. The accounts had been forged flawlessly, and the trail had gone cold three times just as it reached the critical point—clearly someone was working in the shadows to erase the tracks for those “rats.”
Bai Qi had been at his desk since the chen hour (7:00 AM) until the end of the shen hour (5:00 PM), not drinking a drop of water, having only taken two sips of warm tea.
He had eaten more than half of the food box sent from the Four Seasons Eatery that morning. The stir-fried shrimp with yellow chives was fresh and appetizing; he had finished it all. He had only sampled a single piece of the stuffed bamboo shoots, but he had polished off the warm glutinous rice ball sweet soup, broth and all. The neatly folded note was resting quietly in the rosewood treasure box to his right.
A light knock sounded on the door, and Chang An entered, carrying a black lacquer tray. On the tray was the dinner prepared by the Dali Temple kitchen: a bowl of overcooked, watery white porridge, a small plate of pickled melon, and a hard, dry steamed bun. Bai Qi didn’t lift his head, his vermilion brush moving across the page without pause.
Chang An knew his master’s temperament well. The meager fare of the Dali Temple would be hard for even the low-ranking foot soldiers to swallow, let alone a master as picky and digestively fragile as Lord Bai. He placed the tray carefully on the corner of the desk and did not immediately retreat.
“My Lord, regarding Taiping Ward…” Chang An weighed his words. “I sent someone to check earlier; the lights are still on at the Qin family shop. If you are feeling hungry, I can ride over right now.”
Bai Qi’s brush paused slightly. “What time is it now?”
“Returning to my Lord, it is already the third quarter of the xu hour (8:45 PM),” Chang An replied.
Bai Qi raised his eyes and looked out the window. Twilight had deepened into night, and the lanterns outside the ward walls had been lit one by one. The spring chill was biting, and the night dew was heavy. At this hour, ordinary eateries should have closed long ago. The Four Seasons Eatery served the common folk; it was not a private kitchen kept by him, Bai Qi. Both the sister and brother had been working hard all day, and they must be exhausted. To demand service at this hour just to satisfy his own appetite would be truly improper.
“Forget it.” Bai Qi put down the vermilion brush and pressed his throbbing temples with his knuckles. “Take the porridge away and heat it up; I will make do with a few bites.”
Chang An’s lips moved, but he didn’t dare say more, picking up the tray and bowing as he retreated. Walking along the corridor, Chang An looked back at the closed study door. The Master had been rubbing his temples frequently since the afternoon—it must be that chronic stomach ailment acting up again. If he could manage three bites of the flavorless, watery soup from the kitchen, it would be a miracle.
He was just sighing to himself when a messenger at the gate reported someone approaching, accompanied by the crisp, bright voice of a young boy.
“Brother, may I ask if Lord Bai is working here? I went to the mansion on Yanqing Lane earlier, but the gatekeeper said he hadn’t returned. I specifically brought his dinner over!”
Chang An stopped in his tracks, turned, and strode toward the gate.
In the lamplight under the gatehouse stood a sturdy, bright-eyed young boy. Qin Xiaoman held the woven bamboo food box steadily, standing on his tiptoes to peer into the strictly guarded government office, his small face flushed red by the night wind. Tied to the handle of the box with a thin string was a bow, and beneath the bow sat a squarely folded sheet of rice paper.
Chang An walked up and took the surprisingly heavy food box. He lowered his head, using the light from the corridor to clearly read the ink on the note. The handwriting was graceful yet possessed a certain strength: “After the Awakening of Insects, the night wind is chilly and easily hurts the stomach. This porridge nurtures the stomach; please, I beg you to eat it while it is still warm.”
Chang An gripped the handle tightly, then turned to look at the window of the study, which emitted a warm, yellow glow. The corners of his cold, hard mouth couldn’t help but tug upward, just slightly.
That Little Miss Qin was truly a perceptive person. He had thought she only knew how to run a business, yet who would have thought that in a Bianjing City nearing a torrential storm, she would still be thinking of leaving a bowl of warmth on the stove for the coldest, most formidable figure in the Dali Temple.