Yuanfeng 8th year, fourth month. After the ascension ceremony, life seemed unchanged, yet everything felt different.
The palace still had the same walls, the same corridors, the same eunuchs and palace maids walking with lowered heads. But something extra lingered in the air—something I couldn't quite name. It felt as if an invisible net had been quietly cast over everyone, and now we all lived cautiously within its mesh. Whenever I walked through the corridors, sweat soaked the inner layer of my clothes; when the wind blew, it felt chilling. From the direction of the Funing Hall came the occasional dull thud of striking a bronze vessel—used during the Empress Dowager's regency hearings—each sound striking straight into people's hearts, as if measuring time.
I still went to the Imperial Kitchen every day, still made congee every day, and still had the young eunuch deliver it to Zhao Xu. Every day he sent messages back—sometimes "Today's congee tasted good," sometimes "Use less osmanthus," and sometimes nothing at all, just the empty bowl returned. An empty bowl was more reassuring than any words—at least he had eaten.
But I knew he was getting busier and busier.
Decrees from the Empress Dowager came one after another. Ministers flowed in and out. The hours spent in discussion grew longer. He had to rise before dawn every day to attend court at the Funing Hall, then return to study—reading, memorizing, and being tested afterward. The grand tutors took turns: one teaching the classics, one teaching history, one teaching the art of governance. He was only nine years old, yet he had to learn more than I had learned in my entire life.
When the young eunuch came to collect the congee, he sometimes added a few extra words: "His Majesty only drank half a bowl today." "His Majesty said he had no appetite." "His Majesty stayed up until midnight memorizing texts; his voice was hoarse this morning."
I would ladle the congee into the earthenware jar and sprinkle in an extra handful of osmanthus.
"Tell him that even if he has no appetite, he still needs to eat. Without food, how can he have the strength to study?"
The young eunuch shrank his neck. "I wouldn't dare say that."
"Just say I said it."
He hugged the jar and ran off. Watching his back disappear around the corner of the palace path, I suddenly felt a flicker of unease. What was I, really? A mere sweeping palace maid, secretly altering ingredients from the Imperial Kitchen and passing messages to the emperor as if giving orders. If someone with ill intentions overheard, a single charge of "overstepping one's station" would be enough to kill me ten times over. I rubbed my fingers and pushed the unease down.
That night, when the jar was returned, there was an extra note at the bottom of the bowl. The characters were a little larger than before, as if he was afraid I wouldn't see them clearly:
"I ate it. Tomorrow I want egg fried rice."
I smiled at the note. At least he was still ordering dishes—that was good.
The next day I made egg fried rice. The day after, osmanthus sugar congee again. The fourth day, the fifth, the sixth—he ordered every day, and I cooked every day. Egg fried rice, osmanthus sugar congee, egg fried rice, osmanthus sugar congee. The cycle repeated like the sun rising and the moon setting over the palace walls. Every time I cooked, I would glance at the tally marks on the wall. Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three. The days simmered slowly, like congee.
On the seventh day, when the young eunuch arrived, I asked one more question: "How is His Majesty's mood today?"
The young eunuch thought for a moment. "His Majesty finished memorizing the last chapter of the Analects today. The grand tutor praised him."
"Was he happy?"
"He was happy for a moment, then said, 'We are hungry.'"
I paused, then smiled. Hungry was good. Hungry meant he was still a child.
That night, I didn't make egg fried rice or osmanthus sugar congee.
I made Fengzhen braised pork noodles.
It was Grandma's recipe. The taste of Suzhou.
The way of kneading the dough was what Grandma had taught me—"The dough must be firm, rested long enough, and kneaded thoroughly." As I kneaded, I wondered whether she had taught my mother the same way back in her noodle shop on Shiquan Street. My mother probably hadn't learned it well; otherwise, why would she have sent me to New York to study?
I pressed and folded the dough on the board over and over until the base of my palms turned red. On the thirtieth knead, I stopped and glanced at the tally marks on the wall. Fifty-four. Fifty-four days.
I rolled out the dough, cut it into thin strands, dusted them lightly with flour, and laid them out to dry. Next came the broth. For Grandma's Fengzhen braised pork noodles, the soup had to be simmered overnight with pork bones, snail shells, and yellow eel bones until it turned milky white—rich but not greasy. The Imperial Kitchen had no snails or eel bones, only pork bones and chicken carcasses. After hesitating, I added some dried scallops and ham—my own idea. Grandma would probably scold me for "randomly changing the recipe" if she knew.
The broth bubbled away on the stove, steam rising like a thin mist that enveloped the entire Imperial Kitchen. The flames flickered up and down. I sat by the stove, staring at the fire in a daze. Sometimes the flames leaped high, sometimes they dipped low, reminding me of the candle holders in the coffee shop downstairs from my New York apartment. Every Friday evening, Emily would order an Americano while I ordered hot cocoa. We would sit by the window, watching people walk by outside. She would talk about her internship, I would talk about my thesis. She would ask, "What are you actually going to do after graduation?" I would answer, "Open a noodle shop." She would say, "In New York?" I would say, "In Suzhou." She would fall silent for a moment, then say, "Then I'll come find you in Suzhou."
I never told her that I didn't actually know if I would ever return to Suzhou.
Now, I knew even less.
When the broth was halfway done, footsteps sounded outside. Not the quick steps of the young eunuch, but the heavy, firm tread of boots on stone slabs. I shot to my feet, heart leaping into my throat—night patrol guards. No one was supposed to be in the Imperial Kitchen at this hour. If I was discovered, my "private alteration of imperial ingredients" would no longer be a secret. In a panic, I shoved the earthenware jar deeper behind the stove; the lid nearly fell. A few drops of broth splashed onto the back of my hand, burning me so badly I gasped.
The footsteps drew closer. I shrank behind the stove and held my breath. The flames still danced, the broth still bubbled. I wished I could smother the entire pot.
"Eunuch Li, you haven't retired yet?"
"I'm about to, I'm about to. You all continue your patrol; I'll just lock the door."
It was Eunuch Li's voice. My heart relaxed halfway, then tensed again. The footsteps faded. Eunuch Li pushed the door open, glanced at me, then at the pot of broth on the stove.
"Making something for His Majesty again?"
"Yes." My voice trembled slightly.
He was silent for a moment, then walked over, pulled a piece of cloth from his sleeve, and handed it to me. I looked down—there was a red burn on the back of my hand, already starting to blister.
"Young lady, you have quite the courage." He shook his head, walked to the door, poked his head out to check outside, then closed it gently. "In the future, at this hour, don't light such a big fire. The flames show through the window cracks and can be seen from far away."
I was stunned. He wasn't here to catch me. He was here to warn me.
"Eunuch Li…"
"Enough, enough. Go on with your noodles. Finish quickly and leave." He waved his hand, sat down by the door, as if keeping watch for me.
I squatted back in front of the stove, the cloth he gave me cool against the burn. The broth continued to simmer. I added a bit more fire, then quickly pulled it back. Not too big. Eunuch Li was right.
Two shichen later, I lifted the lid. The rich aroma of meat rushed out. The pork was braised until meltingly tender—a single poke with chopsticks went straight through. The skin was chewy, the fat had melted, the lean meat was flaky. I picked up a small piece to taste—not quite flavorful enough, not rich enough. It wasn't Grandma's exact taste.
But my nose still stung.
I dropped the noodles into the pot, boiled them briefly, then lifted them out. I poured the broth over, laid the meat on top, and sprinkled a handful of chopped green onions. As I carried the bowl out, Eunuch Li stood up and brushed the dust from his robe.
"Tomorrow, bring an extra cloth to wrap your hand. If you burn yourself and can't cook, His Majesty will go hungry."
I turned to look at him. He walked away with his hands behind his back, his figure disappearing around the corner of the palace wall as quietly as he had come.
When the young eunuch came to collect the noodles, his eyes widened. "What is this?"
"Fengzhen braised pork noodles. From Suzhou."
"His Majesty didn't order this…"
"I know. I wanted him to try it."
He took the bowl; it trembled slightly in his hands—the broth was too full. I quickly steadied it. The two of us held the bowl together, as if carrying something fragile. When the bowl was stable, the back of my hand brushed the rim and I flinched from the heat.
"Sister, what happened to your hand?"
"It's nothing. Hurry and deliver it. It won't taste good if it gets cold."
He carried the bowl away more slowly than usual, afraid of spilling the broth. I stood in the corridor and waited. The wind blew in from the palace path. It was already April, yet the wind was still chilly.
I waited a long time. Longer than usual. The jar wasn't returned, and there was no note. I began to regret it. What if he didn't like it? What if he found it too greasy? What if he said, "Egg fried rice is still better"? The feeling was a bit like submitting a paper at Columbia—the moment I hit "submit," my heart would race, convinced it was garbage and that my advisor would scold me the next second.
Finally, a figure appeared in the distance. The young eunuch was running over, panting, the veins on his forehead faintly pulsing. He was carrying the empty bowl; the bottom was scraped completely clean, not even a drop of broth left.
"His Majesty said—" he bent over, catching his breath, "His Majesty said, 'What is this? Why is it so delicious?'"
I smiled. The paper had passed.
"And then?"
"Then His Majesty took three bites, stopped, and said, 'We shall eat slowly.' And he really did eat slowly, lifting the noodles strand by strand into his mouth, taking a long time. After he finished, he drank all the broth. The bowl was spotless. Eunuch Li was watching and said His Majesty had never eaten so much before."
The young eunuch pulled a note from his sleeve. It was larger than the previous ones and folded neatly.
I opened it.
This time, the characters were no longer so crooked. Each stroke was steadier, more controlled than before.
"Aheng, what kind of noodles are these? Can I have them tomorrow? The day after? And the day after that?"
I clutched the note, standing in the corridor, and laughed out loud. As I laughed, tears fell again.
I spoke to the note: "Yes. You can have them every day. As long as you eat properly, I'll make them for you every day."
Then I folded the note carefully and slipped it under my pillow.
Grandpa's note, Zhao Xu's first note, second, third—now there was a fourth. I lined them up neatly and looked at the once-crooked characters that had gradually grown steadier. Fifty-five tally marks. Today another one was added.
As I turned to head back to my pallet, I caught a glimpse of a figure at the corner of the corridor. A palace maid I didn't recognize stood in the shadows, her gaze fixed on the empty bowl in my hand. When she saw me looking at her, she lowered her head and hurried away. I stood there, that faint unease rising in my chest again. Eunuch Li could help me hide from the guards, but he couldn't block everyone's eyes.
The osmanthus outside the window had not yet bloomed. It would have to wait until autumn. But I still carried the faint fragrance of last year's petal in my palm—thin, golden.
Tomorrow, I would make another bowl of Fengzhen braised pork noodles. I wanted him to know that besides egg fried rice and osmanthus sugar congee, there were many other delicious things in this world. And many more days ahead. Many, many more.
Next time, I would try Grandma's three-shrimp noodles.
[End of Chapter 4]