The wooden tag engraved with the character for “Meal” burned in Lin Qianshan’s hands like a red-hot coal, making her restless and uneasy.
As soon as Uncle Fu left, dozens of eyes seemed to weave around her like a spiderweb. The other maidservants in the small kitchen, still busy with their tasks, kept sneaking glances at the badge in her hand—some envious, some jealous, some blatantly scrutinizing. Even Chuntao, usually the most lively, was unusually quiet, moving with cautious care.
Chef Zhang had “called in sick” and didn’t appear. His usual ebony-handled knife lay abandoned on the cutting board, gleaming coldly, like a silent protest.
“Qianshan,” Chuntao sidled over, lowering her voice, her face filled with worry. “What are you going to do now? Chef Zhang’s been in the manor for years; his influence is deep. You… you have to be careful.”
Lin Qianshan carefully tucked the badge into her robe, patted Chuntao’s hand, and forced a reassuring smile. “I know. I just need to do my duty.”
Though she spoke confidently, she knew how difficult “doing her duty” truly was.
The prince had granted her privilege, but in doing so, had torn away the protection she once had. Now she was a target.
She moved to the ingredient area, thinking about the evening soup. Lotus root was cold in nature and not suitable for consecutive meals. She needed another ingredient that was equally gentle, yet could nourish the spleen and stomach.
She finally settled on a section of fresh Chinese yam. This ingredient strengthens the spleen and lungs, benefits the kidneys, and is mild in nature—perfect for the purpose.
Holding her badge, she entered the manor’s storeroom for the first time. The storekeeper, clearly already instructed, bowed respectfully at the sight of the badge and allowed her to select freely. Inside, ingredients of every kind—dried, fresh, rare, exotic—were laid out, many she didn’t even know the names of.
She did not indulge. She chose only the best section of the iron-stick Chinese yam, a few dried shiitake mushrooms, and a small piece of high-quality Jinhua ham for its savory umami.
Back in the small kitchen, she deliberately avoided Chef Zhang’s usual large, bright stove, opting for a slightly smaller stove by the window.
She carefully washed the yam, scraping off the skin with a bamboo knife (as the yam’s mucilage could cause itchy hands) and cut it into uniform chunks, immediately soaking them in water with a few drops of vinegar to prevent discoloration.
The shiitakes were soaked in warm water and sliced thinly, and only the leanest part of the ham was diced finely.
No complex cooking techniques were used.
She simmered everything slowly over gentle heat.
The ham and mushroom slices were briefly sautéed in a minimal amount of oil to release their aroma, then spring water was added. Before the water boiled, she skimmed off any floating oil, added the drained yam chunks, and seasoned lightly with two slices of ginger and a pinch of salt, then covered the pot, letting time and heat coax out the true flavor of the ingredients.
Several unfamiliar older maids wandered in, claiming to inspect something, but their eyes flicked repeatedly toward Lin Qianshan and the bubbling clay pot. She ignored them entirely, focusing on controlling the heat.
When the soup was ready, its aroma, unlike the sweet freshness of the lotus root soup the day before, was richer and more mellow, carrying the powdery essence of the yam, the earthy umami of the mushrooms, and the ham’s subtle savory highlight. The fragrance was delicate yet lingering, refined without showiness.
At dinner, Leng Feng arrived on schedule to collect the meal. When he saw the milky-white soup, thick and rich, his eyes flickered slightly. Without a word, he carried the food box and left in silence.
This time, the wait for a response felt especially long.
Chuntao nervously twisted her sleeves, peeking out from time to time. Lin Qianshan appeared calm, cleaning utensils, yet her heart was just as anxious. She couldn’t predict whether the prince’s taste was so particular that even subtle variations would be rejected.
After more than half an hour, footsteps sounded outside the courtyard.
It wasn’t Leng Feng who appeared, but Uncle Fu.
His expression bore a smile that revealed nothing, but his gaze settled on Lin Qianshan. “Miss Lin, the prince has had his dinner. He finished most of the soup. He said… it is acceptable.”
The word “acceptable,” coming from the prince’s mouth, was already rare praise.
Lin Qianshan’s heart relaxed slightly, and she bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you, Uncle Fu.”
Uncle Fu nodded, then lowered his voice slightly, offering advice with a hint of warning. “Miss Lin, it is good for the manor that the prince’s appetite is restored. But as a tall tree attracts wind, you are young. Some things require careful judgment; know your limits.”
Though polite, Lin Qianshan understood his meaning. Uncle Fu was warning her not to become overconfident in her sudden favor and to remain wary of the hidden dangers around her.
“Thank you for the reminder, Uncle Fu. Your servant will remember,” she said sincerely. In this sprawling manor, guidance from the steward was rare and precious.
Satisfied, Uncle Fu added a few instructions regarding ingredient management before departing.
Once he left, Chuntao exhaled in relief, her face bright with joy. “That’s amazing, Qianshan! The prince liked it!”
Lin Qianshan could not smile. Uncle Fu’s warning lingered.
Chef Zhang’s “sickness” was silent defiance. And the other scrutinizing eyes? They were potential threats too.
She had to remain cautious.
Over the next two days, Lin Qianshan continued varying the soups daily. She made a clear broth with minced chicken breast, paired with tender greens; a creamy white fish broth using fresh fish bones, strained and combined with crisp bamboo shoots. Each dish adhered to the principle of light and stomach-friendly flavors, with subtle variations to avoid boring the prince while remaining inconspicuous.
Chef Zhang remained “sick,” and though the kitchen appeared calm on the surface, a subtle undercurrent of tension ran beneath.
One afternoon, while Lin Qianshan was cleaning ingredients for dinner, a well-dressed maid with sharp, shrewd features entered—the personal attendant of Consort Liu, Cui’er.
Cui’er’s gaze swept the kitchen before settling on Lin Qianshan. With a raised chin and a condescending tone, she said, “You must be the new kitchen maid, Lin Qianshan?”
Lin Qianshan set down her work and lowered her head. “Yes, your servant.”
“Our Consort has been feeling unwell lately, with a poor appetite,” Cui’er said leisurely. “She has heard that your soups are quite good. Tonight, she wants to try your skill. Prepare a soup similar to what you made for the prince and send it to Lanyue Pavilion.”
Lin Qianshan’s heart sank. Here it comes.
Consort Liu was openly using her to test the prince’s taste, even trying to steal the prince’s attention for herself.
If she agreed, she would be dragged into the inner palace’s power struggle, offending far more than just Chef Zhang. If she refused, she would immediately offend the consort.