This year, for some reason, the spring rain in Bianjing seemed endless—once it started, it simply wouldn’t stop.
The road in Willow East Alley had become completely impassable, each step sinking into the mud. Eventually, all the households in the alley pooled their resources—those with money contributed silver, while those without offered labor—raising a total of three strings of cash. They hauled seven or eight loads of flat river stones from outside the city, packing them tightly into the mud. Only then did the residents no longer have to live in what felt like a swamp.
Shen Ji hadn’t gone to Lanxin Bookstore to copy texts for three days, though he hadn’t planned to anyway since his elder sister had taken on work from the Xie family. So when he heard the clamor of voices outside early that morning, he opened the courtyard gate to look and discovered the alley was busy laying the stone path.
Second Brother Gu and Uncle Gu were leading the effort. The father and son were both tall and burly, their skin so similarly sun-darkened that it was hard to tell them apart in the rain. Uncle Gu placed the stones while Second Brother Gu, stripped to the waist, carried a thick wooden post bound with hemp ropes on his broad shoulders. In time with Uncle Gu’s chants, he drove the post down with force, hammering the stones deep into the rain-soaked mud.
Perhaps it was Shen Ji’s imagination, but Second Brother Gu seemed to lay the section of road in front of the Shen and Gu households with extra care—more stones packed tighter than anywhere else. He even selected several uniformly sized square stones, arranging them neatly in front of the Shen family’s gate as if a proper flagstone path had always been there.
Aunt Li muttered her displeasure over this, but since Shen Miao had contributed a hundred coins for the roadwork—and since her own husband, Li Tiaozi, hadn’t lifted a finger—she could only grumble under her breath.
The real victims were Li Gou'er and Sister Xiang, who had secretly kept two tadpoles with not-yet-fully-grown tails in a muddy puddle outside their home—these creatures, halfway between tadpoles and frogs, were called "toad-fish" by the locals.
Rumor had it Sister Xiang had caught them with great effort while fetching water from the well with her elder sister.
But in the blink of an eye, Second Brother Gu’s stones crushed the poor creatures into flat, lifeless discs. Sister Xiang picked up the squashed remains, cradling them in her chubby little hands as she wailed loudly in the courtyard.
Shen Ji carried her on his back, trying to soothe her for nearly half an hour until his face turned red with exhaustion and he had to set her down. Yet she still clutched the grimy frog-pancake, shedding tears with every glance at it. At a complete loss, he suddenly had an idea and suggested, “Sister Xiang, why not feed it to the chickens? At least it wouldn’t have died for nothing.”
She lifted her tear-reddened eyes, staring at him in shock, before throwing her head back and wailing even louder.
Shen Ji was baffled.
Hadn’t she caught grasshoppers to feed the chickens before? In his mind, there was no difference between a toad-fish and a worm or a grasshopper. He couldn’t understand why she was crying so hard this time.
Eventually, his elder sister stepped out, bending down to whisper in his ear, “Ji, you don’t understand. Yesterday, she and Li Gou'er crouched by that puddle and fed these toad-fish two mosquitoes. So to her, they’re just like our chicks—once she’s raised them, they become something special in her heart.”
Shen Ji only grew more confused. Just because she’d fed them, did that mean they weren’t toad-fish anymore? Weren’t they still just ugly little creatures?
In the end, it was Shen Miao who managed to bake two frog-shaped "taiyaki" to perfection.
For the past two days, the continuous rain had kept them from setting up their stall at the bridge market, leaving them with an excess of pre-soaked red beans. Shen Miao had no choice but to find creative ways to use them up, so the Shen household had been eating red beans at every meal.
Yet, for Shen Ji and Sister Xiang, even a diet of nothing but red beans was something to look forward to—because their elder sister could turn red beans into something extraordinary.
That morning, they had started the day with a thick, warm bowl of red bean paste and glutinous rice ball soup. Each of them held a steaming bowl of the sticky, chewy dessert as they sat by the door watching the rain. Shen Miao had even added a touch of sweet fermented rice wine bought from the Gu family, giving the smooth, sandy-textured red bean paste a subtle, fragrant sweetness. Every bite was a burst of flavor, the chewy rice balls soft and springy with a natural rice aroma. By the time they finished, they were warmed from head to toe.
For lunch, they had the "taiyaki" Shen Miao had made to cheer up Sister Xiang.
She scooped a spoonful of batter and tested the heat of the griddle with her hand, thinking, "Proper taiyaki should be fish-shaped, but well… desperate times call for desperate measures. Today, I’ll try making a frog instead."
Without a mold, and with custom ones being both time-consuming and costly, she mixed eggs and wheat flour into a thick batter. Using a large spoon, she carefully drew a rough frog outline on the griddle.
Drawing with batter required a hot pan and a quick, steady hand—one wrong move, and the entire spoonful would splatter, forcing her to start over. Shen Miao ruined the first attempt but ate the failed piece herself, then gradually got the hang of it.
Once the outline was drawn, she waited a moment for it to set slightly, turning golden and bubbling faintly, before filling in the hollow center with more batter.
She removed a couple of logs from the fire to lower the heat, then watched as the center bubbled. Shen Miao spread a thick layer of red bean paste in the middle, covered it with another spoonful of batter, and flipped the pastry with a spatula. Once both sides were golden brown, it was ready to serve.
Made this way, the taste wasn’t far off from the molded version—still stretchy when eaten hot.
It just wasn’t as pretty. Shen Miao consoled herself: The presentation might be lacking, but the flavor is still delicious.
She carried the frog-shaped taiyaki, as big as Sister Xiang’s face, over to cheer her up. To her surprise, the little girl, eyes still brimming with tears, stared at it for a long moment without recognizing what it was. Still hiccuping from crying, she asked in confusion, "Elder sister, is this a flattened giant rat?"
Shen Miao choked. "...It’s a frog."
The answer made Sister Xiang take a closer look, and eventually, the sheer ugliness of the "ugly frog cake" made her burst into laughter, finally lifting her spirits.
By sheer accident, seeing Sister Xiang giggle as she held the misshapen pastry, Shen Miao couldn’t help but laugh too.
After lunch, Shen Miao began preparing red bean milk bread. Zhou Da, the Xie family’s coachman, had arranged a departure time with her the day before. Not wanting to keep anyone waiting, and with the cooler rainy weather in mind, she started kneading and proofing the dough earlier than usual.
Thanks to the unending rain, the Xie family’s carriage had been picking them up these past two days, saving Shen Miao from a logistical headache.
This gesture deeply touched Shen Miao. She was being paid for her work, so the Xie family sending an extra carriage was a kindness on their part.
That day, the Xie family’s coachman, Zhou Da, hopped down from the carriage and greeted Shen Miao with a clasped hand before explaining that their Ninth Brother Xie had noticed the heavy rain and insisted on sending the carriage. He added that since the ritual was meant to pray for blessings, it wouldn’t do to let others suffer for it.
His words put Shen Miao at ease without making her feel overly indebted.
Zhou Da, a round-faced man in his thirties with a naturally friendly demeanor, explained his purpose and then retrieved from the carriage an adult-sized raincoat and two smaller ones meant for children. "Please wear this one, Miss Shen," he said. "Yan Shu specifically asked us to bring these. The larger one was worn once by Shiyiniang, but she discarded it after a seam came loose. My wife took it home, mended it, and it’s practically new. The two smaller ones belong to Yan Shu and Qiu Hao, another attendant of Ninth Brother Xie. They’ve been washed and sun-dried—perfectly clean. Yan Shu also said to ask you to make do with them for now and not to take offense."
How could Shen Miao possibly mind? Aside from two umbrellas, her household hadn’t even had the chance to buy raincoats yet. The ones Zhou Da brought were neatly folded, lightweight, and comfortable. She thanked him sheepishly.
Zhou Da waved a hand dismissively. "It’s nothing at all."
After carefully wrapping the red bean buns in oilcloth, Zhou Da helped Shen Miao load them into the carriage. The interior was spacious, but with the steamers taking up most of the room, Shen Miao, Shen Ji, and Sister Xiang had to squeeze in together. Still, no one complained—it was far better than walking through the rain.
Just as they were about to depart, Shen Miao suddenly remembered something and lifted the carriage curtain.
Through the misty rain, Gu Tusu stood motionless at his doorstep, clad in a raincoat and bamboo hat, silently watching the carriage.
Zhou Da, who hadn’t yet boarded, tightened the raincoat on the chestnut horse and soothingly patted its wet head before climbing onto the driver’s seat. With a shout, he carefully maneuvered the carriage around the narrow alley and out onto the main road.
As the wheels splashed through puddles, Gu Tusu slowly raised his gaze, locking eyes with Shen Miao through the downpour.
The rain was too heavy, and the hat obscured half his face, making it impossible for Shen Miao to read his expression. All she could see was his tall figure, statue-like in the storm. She waved at him. "The rain’s too heavy, Second Brother Gu. You should go back inside."
Gu Tusu said nothing. Shen Miao waved again before letting the curtain fall.
Holding Sister Xiang close in the carriage, she sighed inwardly.
She wasn’t the real Shen Miao, so Gu Tusu’s affection left no ripple in her heart. She couldn’t respond to his disappointment, nor could she dwell on the complicated emotions he seemed to harbor.
And the truth of her transmigration—her deepest secret—was something she could never speak aloud.
Besides… Gu Tusu’s closeness was meant for the original Shen Miao, not "her." She had always been perceptive. The reluctant look in Aunt Li’s eyes hadn’t escaped her notice, and even Gu Tusu sometimes averted his gaze when she wielded a cleaver with practiced ease, splattering blood and bone without flinching.
The Gu family had been very kind to the original owner of this body, Shen Ji, and Sister Xiang in the past. Shen Miao didn’t want to erase such neighborly goodwill, nor could she forget Aunt Gu’s generosity in helping Sister Xiang and Shen Ji. For now, she could only keep her distance.
She had come to Bianjing not for anyone else’s sake—she simply wanted to live the life she desired.
Perhaps in a few days, she should find an opportunity to have a proper talk with Gu Tusu and clear the air.
Later, sitting in the carriage, Shen Miao glanced around at its furnishings and decorations, only belatedly realizing that this didn’t seem like a cart used by servants for transporting goods or picking up guests.
The interior was clean and tidy. A slightly raised seating platform held a small bamboo table and two woven rush cushions. A calligraphy scroll hung on the carriage wall. The platform had hollow compartments with two drawers, though Shen Miao didn’t dare open them. She guessed they might contain a chessboard or a tea set—because in the corner behind the table stood a tiny shelf. The top tier held a plate of Buddha’s hand citrus, the middle tier a bronze plum-blossom incense burner with intricate carvings, and the bottom tier two old books.
The carriage was simple yet elegant. Outside, the rain splashed up the scent of mud and grass, but inside, the fresh, fruity fragrance of Buddha’s hand lingered.
Shen Miao recalled the lantern hanging at the corner of the carriage, bearing the character "Xie" in Zhong-style calligraphy.
Whose carriage was this? She already had an inkling.
Afterward, she kept meaning to thank Ninth Brother Xie in person. But even when she baked red bean bread at the Xie residence, she never saw him again. The kitchen was occupied only by Chef Fang, who had grown much friendlier toward her, and Yan Shu, who occasionally sneaked in to mooch snacks.
In the blink of an eye, it was already the last day of the Xie family’s Dharma assembly.
After finishing the red bean bread, Shen Miao still had some time to spare. After some thought, she prepared a special box of pastries as a token of gratitude for Ninth Brother Xie.
By the time the pastries were done, Zhou Da had arrived to fetch her.
Soon after entering the Xie residence, she began baking with practiced ease. Chef Fang made idle conversation while Shen Miao lazily fanned the kiln, her attention half on Yan Shu and Sister Xiang sitting on the doorstep watching ants carry their spoils. She responded absently.
Both Yan Shu and Sister Xiang were holding enormous, properly shaped taiyaki stuffed with red bean paste—each one bigger than their faces.
This time, Shen Miao had molded them into sea bream shapes. She had made these in her past life, and her skill at shaping fish hadn’t faded, so they turned out far more lifelike than the "ugly frog cakes" from before.
Every time she came to the Xie residence, Shen Miao prepared different snacks for Sister Xiang, worried the girl might go hungry. The day before, she had made oversized peach-blossom red bean cakes. Yan Shu happened to sneak over and, seeing them, was green with envy. Sister Xiang, ever generous, painstakingly broke one in half to share with him.
Though mischievous, Yan Shu understood reciprocity. After receiving the red bean cake, he dashed back to his courtyard and returned with a handful of fresh cherries to share with Sister Xiang, explaining, "These are from the cherry tree in Ninth Brother’s courtyard! He always says cherries are the first fruit of the season, a true delicacy. Have you ever tried them?"
Of course, Sister Xiang hadn’t. She shook her head honestly.
So when it was time to leave yesterday, Yan Shu came panting back with a whole basket of cherries for Shen Miao. "Ninth Brother said to give these to you, Madam Shen, to take home. Otherwise, they’d just hang on the branches and end up as treats for the birds."
This must be a lie—cherry trees were difficult to cultivate in the Song Dynasty, and their fruit was exceedingly precious.
Shen Miao knew that cherries had been a tribute to the imperial palace since the Han Dynasty. The emperor’s inner court grew many cherry trees, and it was said that the first harvest each late spring was always sent to the ancestral temples and imperial mausoleums as offerings. Only after the rituals were completed would the cherries be presented on golden plates, paired with golden chopsticks and silver spoons, to be bestowed upon princes or high-ranking officials.
For common folk, if they happened to have cherries, they would never dare eat them. Instead, they would sell them to the nobility to make ends meet.
Seizing the opportunity, Shen Miao asked, "Is your Ninth Brother Xie at home?"
Yan Shu pouted, his tone tinged with complaint. "He is, and yet he isn’t! These past few days, the master keeps summoning him to entertain guests. He even sent him out in the rain for some literary gathering, saying something about 'spring rain being as precious as oil' and how the willows by the Jinming Pond looked especially poetic in the rain, worth composing poems about… As if they had nothing better to do! It’s worn our Ninth Brother out."
"Aren’t you going with him?"
"Ninth Brother wouldn’t let me. Said the rain was too heavy and told me to stay home." Yan Shu grinned, clearly delighted at the excuse to avoid the outing. He added with a cheeky wink, "I can’t read, so the tedious task of accompanying him to study and practice calligraphy falls to Qiu Hao."
Shen Miao chuckled. "Then what duties do you have?"
Yan Shu puffed out his chest proudly. "You wouldn’t know, Mistress Shen, but when I was little, there was a year when the north was plagued by war and snowstorms. My family was scattered in the disaster—though I don’t remember much. The mistress once looked into my background for me. According to the slave trader, when I was two or three, my family traveled all the way from Yanzhou to Yanzhou, but even there, there was no food. Eventually, my parents starved to death, and my uncle couldn’t feed me either, so he sold me for two sacks of grain. After that, the slave trader dragged me barefoot all the way to Bianjing… Later, Ninth Brother Xie bought me. Since then, the mistress has assigned me to accompany him on his travels and studies. She says I’m bold! Just as tough as Ninth Brother! And unafraid of hardship!"
Shen Miao’s heart ached at his story, and she couldn’t help but reach out and gently ruffle his hair.
What nonsense about being "tough." A child that young could only survive starvation if his parents had given him every last scrap of food they had. The way the Xie family’s mistress had recounted Yan Shu’s past to him spoke of her kindness… No wonder Ninth Brother Xie had grown up with such a gentle nature.
"But it’s a good thing my uncle sold me—otherwise, how could I have ended up with Ninth Brother?" Yan Shu, however, showed no trace of sorrow. He swung his legs contentedly. "Back then, I was stuffed into a flour sack and dragged through the streets like livestock while the slave trader hawked me. Ninth Brother saw me in the market and asked the mistress to buy me. Otherwise, the Xie family already had their own servants—they wouldn’t have bought someone from outside."
Shen Miao nodded, thinking to herself that Ninth Brother Xie, though young, was truly kind-hearted. Not just toward Yan Shu, but even toward her, a mere cook hired to make pastries—he had always treated her with courtesy and warmth.
Perhaps it wasn’t just Ninth Brother Xie, but the entire Xie family’s way of raising their children.
During her two days in the Xie household, she had noticed the changes to the reed shed—on the first sunny day, it had only a roof, but after the rain began, oilcloth was hung around the sides. Later, a charcoal brazier was added, along with a steady supply of tea brewed with ginger and malt sugar, day and night.
Shen Miao’s red bean buns were just part of the vegetarian meals provided for the monks, who enjoyed three dishes and a soup every day. Though Chef Fang didn’t specialize in vegetarian pastries, he and his kitchen staff had been working until dusk these past three days to prepare the monks’ meals.
After three days of chanting scriptures, the monks hadn’t lost weight—if anything, some had even gained a little.
"Yan Shu, look! My big brother is writing with ashes again," Sister Xiang suddenly whispered, leaning close to Yan Shu and discreetly pointing toward Shen Ji. "My brother is really good at studying, and he’s great at calculating money too!"
Yan Shu took a big bite of his taiyaki and nodded at Sister Xiang. "Your brother is so diligent. He’ll surely go far in the future."
"That’s right! Big Sister said there’s a summer exam next month for the Imperial Academy’s child scholars, and she wants him to try for it," Sister Xiang replied, taking a bite of her own. "So now, whenever he has free time, he studies."
Yan Shu tilted his head thoughtfully, then, as if struck by an idea, carefully rewrapped his half-eaten taiyaki. "Wait here for me. I’ll be right back."
He tucked the taiyaki into a vegetable basket behind Sister Xiang and dashed off.
Shen Miao was startled by his sudden movement. "Ah? Where’s Yan Shu going?"
Sister Xiang shook her head, equally puzzled.
Today, she was wearing another new outfit Shen Miao had made for her—a peach-pink short jacket with a matching six-panel skirt. Shen Miao had even embroidered tiny cherries along the sleeves and hem. To complete the look, she had styled Sister Xiang’s hair into adorable twin buns tied with red ribbons, each ending in a dangling pom-pom that swayed playfully with every step.
Shen Miao couldn’t help but smile at the way Sister Xiang tilted her head in confusion. She gave the girl’s chubby cheeks an affectionate pinch before returning to tend to the oven.
She hoped Yan Shu would come back soon. She had spent all afternoon preparing a box of pastries to send to Xie Qi through him.
Once this batch of 150 red bean buns was done baking, she might not return to the Xie household again. Such an illustrious family, with generations of servants and even their own secret recipes, rarely bought food from outsiders. No wonder Chef Fang had been so resentful when Shen Miao first arrived.
But she couldn’t leave without thanking Ninth Brother Xie for his kindness these past two days.
The pastries she had labored over that afternoon were a box of egg yolk pastries.
Why egg yolk pastries? The reasons were simple: delicious, beautiful, and novel.
The key to perfect egg yolk pastries lay in the flaky dough. Only with well-made laminated dough could the pastry achieve its signature crisp, delicate layers that crumbled at the slightest touch. Shen Miao had put great effort into crafting the dough, as well as preparing the outer pastry wrap.
The salted egg yolks had been purchased in advance from Aunt Li. Though Aunt Li was a bit petty and gossipy, she raised excellent chickens and ducks—and her salted duck eggs were top-notch. Shen Miao had a keen eye for selecting them: the best ones had a faint white frost on the shell, a slightly rough texture when rubbed, and a clean, smooth surface. Poor-quality eggs had dull, grayish shells with dark spots, and any cracks meant they weren’t fresh.
She had spent what felt like ages squatting in front of Aunt Li’s pickling vat, digging through the eggs until her legs went numb—all while enduring Aunt Li’s not-so-subtle probing: "Miss, how exactly did you get acquainted with such noble folk?"
For two consecutive days, the Xie family had sent their grand carriage to Willow East Lane to fetch Shen Miao for baked buns. Such a magnificent horse-drawn carriage naturally drew sidelong glances, and soon the news spread through every household in the alley.
As gossip tends to go, none of it was particularly kind. Human nature is ever-changeable—what had once been pity for her when she first returned had now twisted into envy. Some whispered that she had "once again" climbed the social ladder, others claimed she’d stumbled upon sheer luck, and there were even those who insisted she was preparing for a second marriage, all because a Xie family steward surnamed Zheng had come looking for her.
At first, Shen Miao tried to explain herself a couple of times, but the rumors only grew wilder. Eventually, she stopped bothering. The more you defend yourself, the more people latch onto your words, sensing your concern and doubling down on their gossip.
It was utterly absurd—even Zheng Neizhi, whose grandson was nearly a month old, had somehow become fodder for their wagging tongues.
In any case, the salted duck eggs she had carefully selected were excellent. The yolks, when bitten into, oozed fragrant oil and had a rich, grainy texture—perfect for making egg yolk pastries.
She swiftly rolled out the oil dough into strips, cut them into small portions, and shaped each into a ball. The shortcrust pastry was similarly divided and rolled.
Next, she flattened the dough into discs, wrapped them around the shortcrust portions, sealed them neatly, then rolled each ball into a tongue-like shape before folding it again. After repeating this process a few times, she set them aside.
Then came the red bean paste—she mashed the beans thoroughly into a paste, mixed it with honey, and set it aside. She took out five salted egg yolks, dried them over the stove, and crushed them. Each pastry was then flattened, filled with a half-crushed yolk wrapped in red bean paste, and sealed tightly into plump, round shapes. A double layer of egg wash and a sprinkle of sesame seeds later, they were ready to be baked in the Xie family’s large oven.
Modern egg yolk pastries often include mochi and meat floss for extra layers of flavor, but Shen Miao didn’t have time to prepare the latter, so she settled for a simpler version. Still, the results were delicious—each golden-brown pastry emerged plump and glossy, with a crisp shell and soft filling, the black sesame seeds on top adding a charming touch.
The aroma was delightful. Though lacking the buttery richness of modern versions, the pastry had baked to perfection.
She made a sizable batch and, once out of the oven, shared samples with Chef Fang, Shen Ji, and Sister Xiang to gauge their reactions. She tasted one herself—each bite revealed the crumbly yolk, the grainy sweetness of the bean paste, moist yet not dry, with layers of delicate texture.
It turned out even better than she’d hoped. She had worried that the old-fashioned kiln might not provide the right heat for the pastries to achieve that signature flakiness, but her experiment was a success.
Chef Fang’s reaction—tilting his head back, eyes closed in pleasure, smacking his lips in satisfaction—only confirmed it.
Even in the modern world, with its abundance of treats, egg yolk pastries remain a timeless favorite, reigning supreme among flaky desserts thanks to their rich fillings and eye-catching appearance. There’s a reason they’ve endured.
Besides, the Xie family was wealthy. She couldn’t afford to reciprocate with extravagant gifts, and after some thought, she realized her culinary skills were the only valuable thing she had to offer.
And, at least in the Song Dynasty, no one had ever tasted—or even heard of—egg yolk pastries.
Surely, Ninth Brother Xie would find them novel too.
The flickering firelight cast a warm glow on Shen Miao's face as she sat on a small stool, resting her chin on the back of her hand, lost in thought. If Yan Shu didn’t return, how would she deliver the egg yolk pastries? Chef Fang had mentioned he couldn’t enter the inner courtyard—they’d need someone to pass them along… but that would draw too much attention, and she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself.
Just as she was fretting, a voice as clear as a mountain stream suddenly sounded behind her.
"Miss Shen, I hope you’re well today."
