When Master Zhang was dragged away, his desperate wails pierced through everyone in the small kitchen like icy daggers.
The others lowered their heads, holding their breaths, not daring to take even a single inhalation.
The air was thick with fear and unease.
Lin Qianqian stood by the stove, her bandaged arm throbbing faintly, while her palms, clenched tightly, were damp with cold sweat.
The temporary authority granted by Xiao Yu felt like a searing hot iron pressed against her mind, leaving her uneasy.
She could clearly feel the eyes from all directions—the west, north, south, and east—upon her: some filled with reverence, some scrutinizing, but most masked envy and suspicion beneath polite appearances.
“Everyone, disperse and return to your duties,” she said, taking a deep breath and forcing her voice to sound calm. “Chuntao, please see to it that this place is cleaned up.”
“Yes, Qianqian… Steward Lin,” Chuntao replied quickly, her eyes full of concern.
“Steward…” The title twisted bitterly on Lin Qianqian’s lips. She had never wanted power; all she wished was to live quietly by her skills. But in this deep, sprawling mansion, nothing was ever up to her.
Over the next two days, Lin Qianqian’s injured arm prevented her from cooking the prince’s soups herself. She had to stand aside, giving verbal guidance instead. She chose Aunt Zhou, a quiet but meticulous and dependable woman in the kitchen, to take charge of the cooking.
“Aunt Zhou, please finely chop this chicken breast into a paste—the finer, the better. Soak it in water, add two slices of ginger, and stir in one direction…” Lin Qianqian stood nearby, her voice gentle, carefully instructing every step.
Aunt Zhou spoke little, nodding silently, yet her hands moved with perfect precision. She could tell that the newly appointed “Steward Lin” truly had skill—the combination of ingredients and attention to cooking times was beyond the ability of an ordinary kitchen maid.
The other servants noticed that Lin Qianqian did not flaunt her newfound authority but remained humble. Their hearts eased slightly, and they began to work more diligently. The small kitchen surprisingly maintained an outward appearance of calm.
But Lin Qianqian dared not relax for even a moment. She knew that beneath this calm surface, dark currents churned. Master Zhang’s downfall had cut off many people’s sources of income and connections, and the faction of Consort Liu would certainly not remain idle.
That afternoon, as she watched Aunt Zhou prepare ingredients for dinner, a young servant hurried in carrying a food box.
“Steward Lin, this was sent from the Lanyue Pavilion on orders from Consort Liu. She wishes to present it to you,” the servant said, placing the box on the table with a fawning smile.
The box was made of fine redwood, carved with intricate patterns. Chuntao peered curiously and whispered, “Why would Consort Liu send you a gift?”
Lin Qianqian’s heart sank slightly. When a weasel wishes you well, what good can come of it? She signaled Chuntao to open the box.
Inside were several exquisite pastries: hibiscus cakes, almond jellies, and a small plate of crystal-clear dumplings—each so delicate that they made one’s mouth water at first glance.
“Wow, they’re beautiful!” Chuntao exclaimed.
Lin Qianqian’s gaze, however, lingered on the pastries. She lightly sniffed them. Amid the sweet fragrance, there was a faint, strange scent that did not belong to the food itself. She picked up a hibiscus cake with her uninjured right hand. The texture was unusually soft, nearly falling apart with a gentle squeeze.
The cake’s delicate flakiness far exceeded normal standards.
And that strange fragrance…
She had seen too many cases in the modern world where people abused additives in pursuit of extreme texture. The overly “perfect” appearance and abnormal scent made her instinctively wary.
“The Consort also said,” the young servant added, “she heard that Steward Lin’s skills are superb and specially asked me to send this for your tasting and guidance.”
Tasting? Lin Qianqian sneered inwardly. If she ate it and something happened, she could claim it was her own body reacting, unrelated to the pastries. If she refused, she would offend the Consort—a label of being “ungrateful” would immediately fall on her.
A no-win situation.
She gently set the hibiscus cake down, wiped her hands with a cloth, and showed just the right mix of fear and gratitude on her face: “Consort Liu’s generosity overwhelms me. I am truly grateful. However, my arm is injured, and the physician has prescribed a bland diet, avoiding sweet and greasy foods. I am unable to properly enjoy these exquisite pastries. I dare not waste such a treasure; please return them in their original condition and convey my deepest thanks to the Consort.”
Her tone was respectful, her excuse flawless—there was no way to refute it.
The young servant’s smile froze; he had not expected her to refuse so decisively and yet without giving cause for argument. “But… this was the Consort’s intention…”
“Precisely because of the Consort’s kindness, I dare not misuse it,” Lin Qianqian interrupted, her tone calm but firm. “Please ensure the box is returned.”
Seeing her resolve, the young servant could only awkwardly pick up the box and take his leave.
Once he was gone, Chuntao asked worriedly, “Qianqian, do you think this will offend Consort Liu?”
Lin Qianqian stared in the direction the food box had disappeared, her expression grave. Offense was inevitable. From the broken clay pot to this seemingly exquisite box of pastries, Liu Rusi’s methods had grown more vicious and harder to guard against each time.
She turned to Aunt Zhou and the other kitchen staff who had been eavesdropping, and said, “Did you all see that? In this mansion, caution in speech and action is the first priority. Do not touch what shouldn’t be touched, do not eat what shouldn’t be eaten. Control your hands and your mouth, and you may live long.”
Everyone’s expressions tightened, and they bowed their heads in agreement.
But Lin Qianqian did not relax. Liu Rusi had failed this time, but with her nature, she would not stop at a setback. What would come next?
She walked to the window, watching the setting sun cast a melancholy orange glow over the courtyard. Her injured arm throbbed faintly, reminding her of the harshness of reality.