The news that Master Fu personally oversaw the medicinal herbs spread like an invisible wind, quietly touching every corner of the prince’s residence.
In the days that followed, the herbs delivered to the small kitchen were indeed of the finest quality, accompanied by detailed notes on their properties—no anomalies whatsoever.
Chef Zhang’s expression darkened visibly. His glances toward Lin Qianshan were like shards of poisoned ice, but he remained silent, no longer daring to approach her stove. This calm before the storm only made Lin Qianshan more alert.
She knew her adversary was merely lying in wait, biding time for a safer opportunity. And she could not afford to sit idly by.
Xiao Yu’s stomach ailment was her only leverage. Though he had not visited the kitchen in the middle of the night these past few days, every day when Leng Feng came to collect the soup, Lin Qianshan would ask quietly, feigning concern: “Has the prince’s complexion improved today?” or “Is the soup’s seasoning still to his taste?”
Most of the time, Leng Feng would merely nod or shake his head, sparing words as usual. But on this day, he hesitated briefly, and unusually, spoke a few more words: “Last night the prince was reviewing documents until late. It seems his old injury caused some discomfort.”
Old injury!
Those two words struck like lightning, illuminating the fog in Lin Qianshan’s mind. Of course!
How had she not realized?
Xiao Yu was a war hero, a general who had fought countless campaigns—how could he not carry old injuries? The fatigue etched between his brows, the occasional stiffness in his posture, perhaps it was not all due to his stomach—it could well be linked to these past wounds!
Small details she had overlooked now resurfaced: he sometimes braced his fists against his lower back unconsciously; the soups and medicinal concoctions he drank, while primarily meant to strengthen the spleen and stomach, always seemed to carry a faint, subtle bitterness—perhaps for invigorating blood circulation or alleviating pain…
If the root of his issue lay in old injuries causing stagnation of qi and blood, which in turn affected his digestive system, then merely tonifying the spleen and stomach would be like scratching an itch through boots—superficial and ineffective.
Her heart raced at the thought.
She needed to verify it.
The opportunity came sooner than expected. That afternoon, Madame Zhao came to give instructions: the prince had been busy recently, and tonight’s dinner required a soup that would calm the mind and aid sleep.
A calming, sleep-inducing soup… Lin Qianshan’s mind raced. She gathered the usual calming ingredients—lily bulbs, lotus seeds, longan—but at the last moment, she requested an additional ingredient from the storeroom: sour jujube seeds.
Sour jujube seeds nourish the heart and liver, calm the spirit, and reduce night sweats. Their properties also interact subtly with certain blood-activating herbs. She intended to use this to conduct a bold test.
For dinner, she made a thick, smooth soup of lily, lotus seed, and jujube seed. The soup carried the delicate sweetness of lily and the slight tartness of the jujube seeds.
When the soup was taken away by Leng Feng, Lin Qianshan’s heart lifted with it. She waited quietly in the kitchen, watching. She was gambling—that there must be a court physician knowledgeable in herbs, observing the prince’s meals; she was also gambling that Xiao Yu himself was not entirely unaware of his own condition.
Time crept forward, leaving her alone in the kitchen. Occasionally, the lamp flickered, sending a soft pop into the silence.
Finally, steady footsteps approached—not Leng Feng, but a slightly unfamiliar attendant of Xiao Yu’s.
“Miss Lin,” the attendant spoke with courtesy, yet his tone brooked no denial. “The prince requests your presence.”
He’s here!
Lin Qianshan took a deep breath, suppressing the waves of anxiety in her chest. She smoothed her clothes and lowered her head to follow. She did not know what awaited her—thunderous anger… or perhaps a sliver of opportunity?
She was led to the outer study of Xiao Yu’s quarters. It was her first time entering the core area of the front courtyard. The study glowed with lamplight, carrying faint scents of ink and subtle medicinal aroma.
After announcing her, the attendant opened the door.
Inside, Xiao Yu was not seated at his desk, but reclined against the window on a zitan wood couch, dressed in dark regular attire, a thin silver-gray fox fur covering his legs. He held a scroll in his hand, though his attention was not on it; his gaze rested quietly on Lin Qianshan as she entered.
On a small side table beside him sat the very bowl of lily-lotus-jujube soup she had prepared, only a few spoons taken.
Master Fu stood at attention nearby, his expression grave. What made Lin Qianshan’s heart skip a beat even more was the elderly man standing beside him: white-haired, lean-faced, clad in the official garb of a court physician, his gaze sharp and scrutinizing, fixed upon her.
The air seemed to freeze.
Lin Qianshan held her breath, stepped forward a few paces, and knelt: “Your servant, Lin Qianshan, pays respects to the prince.”
Xiao Yu did not immediately tell her to rise. His gaze, weighty as if tangible, lingered on her for a moment before he finally spoke, his voice unreadable:
“You added the jujube seeds to this soup?”