~A meal shared in silence feeds more truth than words ever could.~
-*-
By late afternoon, the Prime Minister's residence in the western quarter of Li City glowed softly beneath the pale sunlight. Smoke curled gently from the kitchen chimney, carrying the rich fragrance of beef and ginger through the air. Servants moved about quietly, their steps quick and orderly-none dared raise their voice when the old matriarch herself was in the kitchen.
Old Madam Lin, mother of the Empress and grandmother to the two imperial princes, was not a woman who tolerated fuss. Despite her years, her posture remained straight as a sword, her eyes still keen enough to pierce through deception and politeness alike.
***
The royal carriage arrived at the side gate, not the main entrance. The guards outside recognized the crest immediately-a golden phoenix entwined with a silver crane-and bowed deeply without question.
When the carriage stopped, Murong Chen stepped down unhurriedly.
The familiar scent of sandalwood and fresh ink seemed to follow him wherever he went. Yin Li, ever alert, stepped forward to announce his arrival, but the butler simply smiled and bowed.
"There is no need for formality, Your Highness," the old man said with warmth.
"Old Madam is expecting you."
Murong Chen nodded faintly. "Lead the way."
The butler guided them through the quiet courtyard, where early plum blossoms swayed in the wind. The residence was grand but unpretentious, a reflection of its master, Prime Minister Lin Rui-disciplined, austere, and utterly without frivolity. Even the flowers here seemed to bloom modestly.
***
As they approached the small kitchen hall, the smell of home cooking grew stronger-braised beef with herbs, steamed buns, and the light sweetness of honey lotus root.
When Murong Chen entered, the old lady was already seated by the stove, stirring a pot with her sleeves neatly folded up. The maid at her side quickly stepped back to bow.
"Chen'er," Old Madam Lin greeted, not rising but smiling faintly. "You are thinner again."
He bent slightly in greeting, voice calm as ever. "Grandmother."
"Come, sit. I've made your favorite dishes. I won't have my grandson fainting in the middle of court again."
He sat where she pointed, folding his robe neatly before taking his seat. His movements were quiet, precise, and devoid of wasted effort-every gesture like a painter's careful brushstroke.
She lifted the pot from the fire herself, refusing help from anyone, and ladled a portion into a porcelain bowl. "Eat while it's hot."
The steam rose between them. Murong Chen obeyed, taking up the chopsticks without a word. The food was simple but fragrant-ginger-soaked beef slices, tofu with greens, rice warm and soft.
For a while, the only sounds were the soft clink of porcelain and the bubbling from the stove.
"I heard about what happened at Phoenix Palace," Old Madam Lin said at last.
"Consort Lin is lucky my daughter was present, or she might have left the hall without her tongue."
Murong Chen swallowed and set down his chopsticks. "Her hairpin offended the eyes."
The old lady gave a low chuckle. "And your temper?"
"Unmoved," he said simply.
That answer earned another laugh. "Good. Never let anger rule you. A Lin never acts out of emotion."
Her tone softened. "Your mother worries. You frighten her sometimes, you know."
He lowered his eyes slightly. "She worries too easily."
"You're her son," she said. "She has reason. Every end of the month, the Phoenix Palace turns to ashes. She never says it aloud, but I see it in her letters."
His jaw tightened, just barely. "It's nothing new."
"Doctor Wen still comes?"
"Yes."
"And still no cure?"
He met her gaze. "There never was one."
Old Madam Lin's eyes dimmed for a moment, but she did not sigh. She had long stopped sighing over things that could not be changed.
"Then eat," she said. "At least eat well. If you must fight Heaven, do it with a full stomach."
He obeyed again, finishing the last of the rice. When he set down the bowl, she watched his hands closely. His skin was pale, the veins faintly visible beneath the surface. The fingertips were colder than they should be, even in a warm kitchen.
"Still cold," she murmured. "Always cold."
"It keeps me awake."
"Mm. You always did hate warmth." She smiled faintly. "When you were a child, you'd crawl away from the brazier and sleep on the marble floor instead. Your mother nearly cried herself sick."
He said nothing, only glanced toward the window where sunlight was fading into a pale gray.
"Your grandfather is not home today," she said after a pause. "He's at the Council Chamber. But he told me to remind you-stay clear of the Ministry of Revenue."
Murong Chen raised a brow. "Why?"
"Rot beneath the grain sacks," she said meaningfully. "Someone's been eating from both ends."
He gave a short nod, the barest acknowledgment. "Understood."
Her tone softened again. "He also said that your brother worries about you too much."
"He always has."
"And you?"
"I worry just enough."
Old Madam Lin chuckled again, the sound surprisingly gentle for someone known to terrify half the court.
"You sound like your grandfather."
"I suppose that can't be helped."
When he finished eating, she motioned for the maid to clear the dishes, then gestured for Yin Li to bring something over.
"Yin Li," she said, "take that small wooden box from the shelf."
The aide obeyed, presenting a narrow lacquer box lined with green silk. Inside rested a folded bamboo fan, its surface still blank.
"Your grandfather said you should finish this," she said. "He began painting a bamboo grove on it years ago but never completed it."
Murong Chen accepted it, examining the brushstrokes. The half-drawn leaves were elegant yet restrained, each one precise but incomplete-just like his grandfather's life of restraint within politics.
"I will," he said softly.
"Good. Send it back when it's done. He says he'll hang it in the study when you do."
He inclined his head in quiet agreement.
Then, unexpectedly, the old woman leaned forward, her eyes sharp again.
"Chen'er," she said, lowering her voice, "whatever your father plans next, remember this-he moves pieces not out of anger, but fear. Fear for you."
He blinked, once, slowly. "I know."
"He believes you will die before him."
The words landed like stones in still water. He didn't flinch, didn't react. Only the faint movement of his sleeve betrayed the tightening of his fist.
"He may be right," he said finally. "But I won't die quietly."
The old lady smiled-not sadly, but proudly. "That's my grandson."
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that could only exist between two people who understood that words were unnecessary.
When the maid returned, she handed Murong Chen a small clay jar. "This is from your grandmother," the old woman said.
"Ginger and honey. For the chill."
He accepted it with both hands. "Thank you."
As he rose to leave, she studied him once more. "You're growing colder," she said softly.
"The frost runs deeper every year."
He paused at the doorway. "Perhaps it's not frost, but armor."
Old Madam Lin's eyes softened. "Even armor can crack, Chen'er."
He inclined his head respectfully and stepped out into the evening air. The sun was setting, and the first traces of winter wind swept through the courtyard, lifting the plum blossoms from their branches.
Yin Li followed silently behind, glancing once at his master's hands-still pale, the knuckles faintly trembling.
***
They returned to the carriage. Before climbing in, Murong Chen looked back at the residence once. The golden light from the kitchen spilled onto the snow-dusted stones like a quiet promise of warmth he could never quite touch.
"Let's go," he said.
The wheels began to turn, slow and steady, fading into the dusk.
Inside the kitchen, Old Madam Lin poured herself a cup of tea and stared into the steam.
"Born in frost, living in frost," she whispered.
"When will the sun reach you, child?"
The tea grew cold before she finished it.
-*-