Business at the Four Seasons Eatery was visibly booming, and Qin Yaoyao realized she absolutely needed a helper.
She had already turned away two people sent by the talent broker. The first walked in and asked if the job “included wine,” so she sent him packing; the second was brawny and burly, and with one chop, he cracked her cutting board, so she didn’t keep him either.
On the third day, she finally settled on a woman in her early forties. The woman, surnamed Zhou, wore a worn, washed-out blue cloth vest, her sleeves rolled tight. Her hands were thick with callouses, yet the skin between her fingers was scrubbed spotlessly clean.
“I used to work the chopping block at Shunke Tower in the West City. Manager, see if I’m up to the task,” Auntie Zhou said, not one for small talk, her voice deep and steady.
Yaoyao handed her a kitchen knife and pointed to a stalk of green onion on the board. “Show me how you cut these.”
Auntie Zhou said nothing. She stepped forward and gripped the handle. She didn’t rush to strike; instead, she tapped the back of the knife against the wooden board twice.
Testing the wood by sound.
A flicker of surprise crossed Yaoyao’s eyes. This habit wasn’t something a common shop hand would know; it was the mark of someone trained in imperial kitchens or the great aristocratic estates.
Before she could dwell on it, Auntie Zhou’s wrist flicked, and the knife flashed repeatedly. The onion slivers were as fine as ox hair, perfectly uniform in length. The most impressive part was that the moment she finished, the tip of the knife hovered just a fraction of an inch above the board, never once making contact. The “suspended-thread” technique was incredibly demanding on the wrist, designed specifically to cut delicate ingredients without bruising them against the wood.
“You’re hired,” Yaoyao said, her mind made up, though her expression remained calm. “Arrive before the chen hour (7:00 AM) each day. Two meals provided, eight hundred copper coins a month, one day off every five days. There aren’t many rules here, just keep your hands clean and your mouth shut.”
A hint of gratitude showed on Auntie Zhou’s wooden face. She nodded repeatedly, tied on an apron, and immediately turned to the back courtyard to chop wood and wash pots, working with exceptional efficiency.
With Auntie Zhou’s help, Yaoyao finally had the breathing room to plan for bigger things.
As the night wind rose and the hustle of the alley faded, Yaoyao tidied the kitchen and carried a bowl of warm red bean porridge through the curtain into the front hall.
Behind the counter, the oil lamp flickered. Qin Xiaoman was hunched over, his small abacus clicking “clack-clack-clack.”
“Thirty-seven orders of spring rolls, twelve bowls of shepherd’s purse soup, six combo plates…” The boy’s eyes were bright, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “Sister! At this rate, we’ll save nearly three guan of cash this month!”
Yaoyao gently set the porridge bowl beside him and sat on the bench. “Xiaoman, tomorrow, you’re going to the Bailu Academy in the South City.”
The clicking of the abacus stopped abruptly. Xiaoman looked up, his smile freezing. “Go to the academy? What for?”
“I’ve already looked into it,” Yaoyao said, watching him. “Headmaster Song of the academy has a peculiar temper—he insists on examining every student himself—but his tuition is fair. One guan and two hundred coins per season. Including brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones, just over two guan will be enough. You are going to study.”
“I’m not going!” Xiaoman stood up as if a cat had stepped on his tail, his neck stiff with a boy’s stubbornness. “The shop is just starting to make money, and you want to throw it away? Auntie Zhou is capable, but she doesn’t know how to handle the markets or inventory; I have to stay and help you. Besides, I can run dishes and keep the books—why spend that money?”
“Are you going to spend your whole life running tables and keeping petty accounts just to save two guan?” Yaoyao’s tone was level, but it cut deep.
Xiaoman was stunned.
“You are ten years old, and you know fewer than three hundred characters.” Yaoyao’s gaze was scrutinizing, piercing straight into his eyes. “That snobbish scholar who ate here the other day—why was he able to point out the typos on our menu at a glance? When the thugs from the Chen shop came to cause trouble, why did they dare block our door so brazenly?”
Xiaoman bit his lip and stayed silent.
“Because they are certain we are just uneducated commoners who don’t know the law.” Yaoyao tapped her knuckles on the table. “If you don’t read, even if the business grows, you won’t be able to tell if someone cooks the books. I don’t fear you suffering alongside me, but I will not let you suffer from blind ignorance.”
In the kitchen, the water vat leaked—drip, drip.
Xiaoman’s eyes turned red, and his voice thickened with emotion. “But Sister… after Father and Mother passed, you carried this family on your shoulders alone. We’ve finally earned some money, and you want to sink it all into me. What about you?”
Yaoyao’s heart softened. She sighed and pushed the red bean porridge closer to him.
“I know how to cook,” she said, her voice turning gentle, filled with quiet confidence. “As long as I have my craft, I can support us with nothing but a wok. But you are different. You must go further for me, to see a wider world. If Mother and Father were still here, they would have planned exactly this.”
Xiaoman lowered his head, staring at the porridge. The red beans had been boiled until they turned to a soft, sandy paste, a shimmering luster on the surface and a faint, lingering scent of osmanthus flowers wafting into his nose. That was the osmanthus honey his sister had brewed last autumn; there was only one small jar, and she usually didn’t even let him touch it.
He sniffed, his voice gruff. “I heard that Headmaster Song is incredibly strict. What if I can’t pass his test?”
“Then you test again. Test until he agrees to take you.”
“What if the other students laugh at me for being poor?”
“Are the people laughing at you more vicious than the Chen shop’s thugs with knives?” Yaoyao’s lips curled into a faint smile. “You dared to curse the gate gods of the Chen shop; are you afraid of a few sour scholars?”
Xiaoman was speechless. He picked up the bowl, gulped down a large mouthful of porridge, and mumbled, “Then I’ll get up at the mao hour (5:00 AM) to go to the market first, then go to the academy. And on my days off, I must help in the shop. You’re not allowed to stop me!”
“As you wish.” Yaoyao ruffled his hair, a smile finally reaching her eyes. “Study hard. Earn a title one day, and you can keep the big accounts for your sister.”
After tucking Xiaoman into bed, Yaoyao returned to the kitchen. On the far corner of the counter sat a gold-traced red-wood food box—the empty container returned by Chang An that day.
Yaoyao wiped her hands and opened the lid to check it. Resting in the bottom tier was a square, neatly folded slip of paper. It was the watermarked stationery used exclusively by the Dali Temple, the paper stiff and high-quality.
She unfolded it. The handwriting was lean and sturdy, the brushstrokes sharp like blades, carrying a cold, detached air of authority—it was a flawless example of the official Taige style.
The note contained only one line: “The spring chill is biting; remember to drink your own porridge, Manager.”
Yaoyao clutched the note, standing under the dim oil lamp, dazed for a moment. Ever since she began delivering meals, she had written over ten notes full of health advice in the food box. That high-ranking official had never given so much as a word in response; she had assumed they were all thrown away.
A smile curled involuntarily on Yaoyao’s lips. She folded the note carefully and tucked it into her thick book of recipes. Turning to the page where she recorded Bai Qi’s pulse and dietary restrictions, she dipped her brush in ink.
“Tomorrow, adding Goji and Yam Cake—good for the spleen and qi. Sweet flavor for pairing with tea.”
After writing it, she added four small characters at the bottom: “Thank you for your concern.”
At midnight, the wind turned bitter, and Bianjing City fell into a deep sleep.
In the North City, at the Dali Temple offices, the study was brilliantly lit. Several braziers of silver frost charcoal burned intensely, yet they could not dispel the cold, somber atmosphere of the room.
Bai Qi sat behind the long rosewood desk, still wearing his dark-blue official robes, holding a cinnabar brush. His gaze was locked on a yellowing canal shipping ledger.
“Knock, knock.” A light tapping sounded at the door.
“Enter.”
Chang An pushed the door open, bringing a gust of cold wind with him. He hurried to the desk and reported in a low voice: “My Lord, the patrol office in the South City just sent word. Just past the zi hour (midnight), the back gate of the Chen Family Restaurant opened. They pulled in three large carts of vegetables and meat—more than double their usual amount.”
The cinnabar brush in Bai Qi’s hand paused. A drop of blood-red ink hung on the tip, on the verge of falling.
“Destination?” His voice was colder than the night wind outside.
“After leaving the back gate, it was all sent in batches to the ice cellar of the Zui Xian Lou,” Chang An replied.
Bai Qi’s eyes turned glacial. He placed the brush on a white porcelain mountain-shaped rest.
“Twice the goods they need—clearly not for sale. This is fabricating flow on the ledger to launder silver,” Bai Qi sneered. “Lin Chongyuan, that old fox, has finally lost his patience. He wants to fill the 170,000-tael hole in the Ministry of Revenue before the canal shipping case is closed for good.”
Chang An looked grave. “My Lord, should I take men to the Chen shop and drag them in for interrogation?”
“Absolutely not,” Bai Qi rejected the idea flatly. “Chen Defu is just a dog Qian Mao raised; Qian Mao is just Lin Chongyuan’s money bag. If you touch the Chen shop now, you’ll just alarm the snake in the grass. Lin Chongyuan will cut off all leads instantly, and this rotten account will become an unsolvable mystery.”
Bai Qi reached out, pulled another register from beneath the thick pile of dossiers, flipped to a page, and tapped his fingertip on the name “Qian Mao.”
“Send the order: withdraw half the patrols. Keep the surface loose but the internal watch tight. Stare fixedly at the Chen shop’s accountant.” Bai Qi’s gaze was like a blade drawn from its sheath. “Since they are in such a hurry to balance their books, this ledger will be the death warrant that nails Lin Chongyuan to the wall.”
“Understood!” Chang An bowed and withdrew.
The door closed, and the room returned to silence. Bai Qi leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment to rest. When he opened them again, his gaze inadvertently fell to the corner of his desk.
There sat the unremarkable red-wood treasure box, containing the neatly stacked notes written by Qin Yaoyao over the past few days.
His mind conjured an image of the young girl in the green dress, holding a kitchen knife in the Taiping Ward, calm and composed. The Chen shop was busy laundering money for their masters; logically, they shouldn’t have time to worry about a street-side eatery. But Qian Mao was inherently suspicious, and Chen Defu was vengeful. That girl’s stubborn refusal to buy from Chen shop’s supply chain was akin to driving a thorn into their money-laundering machine.
“Don’t get yourself killed,” Bai Qi murmured.
He opened his drawer, took out a black iron token engraved with a wolf’s head, and rubbed it between his fingers for a long time.