Chapter 3

Li Mao froze. He hadn’t expected me to refuse Noble Consort Ning’s reward, much less insist on doing business with her on equal terms. His eyes grew more searching.

“I’ll convey your words to Her Highness exactly as you’ve spoken them.”

He took the bracelet, bowed, and led his men away.

I knew I’d made the right move. I couldn’t simply be her cook. I had to be her business partner. The more unusual she found me, the safer I would be.

At noon, instead of rushing to cook, I heated water in the new pot and enjoyed a thoroughly refreshing bath. Then I found Xiaoyun on her nightsoil rounds.

I took fifty taels’ worth of silver notes from my hundred-tael bundle and pressed them into her hand.

“An advance. From now on, you work for me. Run errands, help me with whatever needs doing, and I’ll pay you ten taels a month.”

She stared at the thick bundle, her hands shaking, then dropped to her knees.

“My lady, this… this is too much!”

“Take it.” I helped her up. “Your brother needs medicine, and your family needs to eat. Work for me, and I promise you’ll all have a better life.”

She cried and nodded.

“From now on, my life belongs to you!”

Money, help, and a powerful backer. My little eatery in the Cold Palace was officially open.

I looked at the plump Sanhuang chicken in the food box. A dish came to mind: red-braised chicken, rich with soy sauce.

The sweet-and-sour pork had whetted an appetite. The deep, meaty aroma of braised chicken would really bring the wolves to my door.

This time I wasn’t fishing for just one customer.

I wanted the whole palace to smell what was cooking here.

05

I chopped the chicken into even pieces, put them in cold water with ginger slices and wine, and blanched them to remove the blood. Then I rinsed them in warm water and left them to drain.

I worked at an easy, unhurried pace. A new stove and new tools had done wonders for my mood. I even hummed my favorite song from the kitchen of the modern restaurant where I’d worked.

No one here would understand it.

I set the wok on the stove. Instead of ordinary oil, I used the leaf lard Noble Consort Ning had sent, which gave stir-fried food a particularly good fragrance.

Once it was hot, I didn’t add the chicken. I threw in a handful of rock sugar and stirred it slowly over low heat, watching it change from white to pale gold, then to a luscious, deep jujube red. Tiny bubbles seethed across the surface.

Now.

I tipped in the drained chicken.

Sizzle.

The skin met the caramel and instantly took on a glossy red sheen. I stirred briskly, coating each piece. The aroma began to spread: meat and sweetness, with a hint of caramelized richness that made the mouth water.

Next came lengths of scallion, slices of ginger, a few points of star anise, a cinnamon stick, and two bay leaves—all top-quality ingredients from Li Mao.

The hot fat released their deeper, more complex fragrances. I was only sautéing the aromatics, and already the smell was utterly unreasonable.

A swirl of light soy sauce for savory depth, another of dark soy for color. The chicken grew redder and glossier, its simple meaty fragrance becoming rich with soy.

I poured in boiling water to cover it, put on the lid, and lowered the heat.

Now came the waiting. Waiting for the meat to grow tender and absorb the broth. Waiting for the liquid to reduce to a thick sauce, drawing all that richness into every fiber.

The pot bubbled softly.

The aroma, however, seemed alive. It refused to stay confined in my little courtyard. It climbed the high palace walls and rode the wind into the distance.

The palace guards followed fixed patrol routes. One squad happened to cover the area outside the Cold Palace. Day after day, they marched through it in heavy armor, halberds in hand, faces blank.

Dry. Dull. Repetitive.

Suddenly the leading guard stopped and sniffed hard.

“What’s that smell?”

The man behind bumped into his back.

“Why have you stopped?”

“Just smell it…”

His voice sounded almost dreamlike.

Soon they all caught it: a rich, commanding scent of meat, enough to shake their very souls.

“Good heavens! What divine dish is that?”

“It smells so good I’m drooling.”

“Is it coming from the Cold Palace?”

“Impossible. How could those madwomen make something like this?”

Their formation began to unravel. Without thinking, they drifted closer to my courtyard wall, stretching their necks like hounds drawn to a meaty bone, greedily inhaling.

Discipline and regulations had gone clean out of their heads.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

An angry voice cut through the air.

Their captain, Zhang Meng, strode over, his face dark as a soot-blackened pot. One by one, his men were clinging to the Cold Palace wall, practically dripping saliva onto the ground.

Not a trace remained of the Imperial Guards’ dignity.

“Have you all got a death wish, gathering here?” His voice shook with fury. “Abandoning your posts while on patrol! Do you call yourselves Imperial Guards?”