The water shimmered with rippling reflections, and the opera performance on the stage across the pavilion had already passed its midpoint. On such occasions in the past, the guests would have been cheering wildly, tossing flowers, fresh fruits, and even gold, silver, and fine fabrics onto the stage. But today was unusual—the guests first buried themselves in eating, then couldn’t stop praising the dishes to their neighbors. The spicy and rich pepper soup, amber in color, left some guests still craving more after finishing a bowl. One of them exclaimed to Feng Yuan in astonishment, "Such delicacy is truly unheard of! Has your household changed its cook?"
No one spared a glance for the clear, melodious singing on stage.
Before Feng Yuan could respond, another guest chimed in, "Where did you find such a skilled chef, Scholar Feng? His craftsmanship is extraordinary. I must hire him for my own banquets in the future." Another, still savoring the lingering taste of the pepper soup, murmured, "This soup… at first, it didn’t seem remarkable, but before I knew it, I’d emptied the bowl. Pity that pepper is so expensive—only at the Feng household can one enjoy such a treat."
Though the Feng family had fallen from their former glory, their ancestors had once been royalty of Northern Yan. It was said that during the late Tang dynasty, thousands of pounds of pepper were discovered in the Feng family’s underground storerooms across their estates, all later looted by Huang Chao’s rebel army. Still, as a centuries-old aristocratic family, they were like a dying ember that refused to extinguish. The Fengs lived modestly in the outer city, but whenever they hosted guests, rare delicacies like abalone, sea cucumber, badger, deer, beef, lamb, bird’s nest, and bear’s paw would appear on the table—hinting at their hidden wealth.
Yet, the Feng family’s cooks had always been mediocre, wasting such treasures.
Today’s banquet, though lacking such exotic ingredients, was far more delicious.
Undoubtedly, this was all thanks to the chef’s skill!
Feng Yuan scratched his head, equally baffled by the guests’ questions. Though he was the head of the Feng household, he had been away from home for a long time—in fact, he had arrived at the estate almost at the same time as the guests today.
Had it not been for his mother’s birthday, he would still be buried in his studies at the Piyong Academy’s back mountain.
Thus, whether the family had hired a new cook—and who it might be—was beyond his knowledge.
But one thing was certain: this was not the work of Feng Ershiwu. The Feng family’s cooks were hereditary servants, passed down through generations. However, due to wars and dynastic upheavals, many of their ancestral recipes had been lost. With the family in decline and the once-royal culinary arts forgotten, Feng Ershiwu was merely the best of a mediocre lot—barely passable. Worse still, the Fengs had a sweet tooth, and Feng Ershiwu had developed the habit of adding sugar to everything.
A spoonful of sugar in stir-fried greens, a spoonful in scrambled eggs, even a spoonful in braised beef—without sugar, he struggled to cook.
The Fengs, accustomed to this, never found it unpalatable—how could sweetness be bad? But outsiders had long criticized the family’s banquets, and Feng Yuan had heard whispers of this before. He had dismissed them as ignorant, assuming they simply lacked the refinement to appreciate such delicacies.
But today, tasting dishes so utterly different, he finally understood what it meant for food to be naturally savory without relying on sugar. The flavors were drawn purely from the ingredients themselves, creating an unparalleled feast. Only now did he realize the vast disparity in culinary skill.
The verdict was clear—those who had mocked, "The Feng family’s banquets taste dreadful," had not been lying. They had merely spoken the truth.
Now curious, he whispered to a servant, instructing them to bring the chef responsible for today’s feast.
Feng Qiniang was also intrigued by the mysterious cook.
She was perhaps the only one in the Feng household whose taste buds had not yet been dulled by the family’s sugary fare. She had long given up hope on their meals, let alone banquets like this. These past few days, her mind had been troubled by the calligraphy she had seen at Shen Miao’s noodle shop.
Handwriting revealed a person’s nature. The strokes of one’s brush could betray their temperament, even their mood at the time of writing—hurried when impatient, careless when distracted, steady when composed, light and airy when joyful.
Ninth Brother practiced Zhong Yao’s calligraphy, his strokes natural and unforced, free of artifice. She had originally studied the Wei style but later switched to Zhong’s script, copying the Xuan Shi Biao day after day. Thus, she knew Ninth Brother’s handwriting intimately.
She… was aware.
Ninth Brother had been betrothed since childhood to a noblewoman of the Cui family. Yet, she couldn’t suppress her admiration, contenting herself with distant longing, burying the ache in her heart. But recently, her mother mentioned that Ninth Brother’s engagement had been called off—the poor Cui girl was gravely ill, her lifespan uncertain. As her mother lamented Ninth Brother’s misfortunes in marriage, Feng Qiniang had been stunned, then shamefully flooded with hope and joy. She began visiting the academy to see him more frequently.
Yet, he treated her no differently than before, as if the broken engagement had changed nothing.
Feng Qiniang told herself she ought to grieve for Ninth Brother’s loss, but the wild happiness in her heart betrayed her. At least now, she thought, she no longer had to feel guilty for her secret affection. Perhaps, in time, he would come to see her merits. The Feng and Xie families were well-matched in status and longstanding friendship—surely, this would bring them closer?
But those two pieces of calligraphy shattered her illusions. The writing at Shen Miao’s shop had been so effortlessly graceful, as if dashed off in a moment of pure delight.
Ninth Brother might be free of his betrothal, but his heart could still belong to another—even a common girl selling pancakes on the street. Just not her.
These past days, Feng Qiniang had been drowning in sorrow, unable to eat or drink, burying her face in her blankets to hide her tears. Only the embroidered quilts and pillows knew the depth of her grief.
Today, for her grandmother’s birthday banquet, she had dressed meticulously, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ninth Brother. But the Xie family sent only Lady Feng, dashing her last hope. Listless, she sat beside her grandmother like a wooden doll.
Then the dishes arrived, their aromas rushing into her nostrils. Even her usually difficult grandmother grew quiet, too absorbed in eating to nitpick or torment Feng Qiniang’s mother. For once, she ate whatever the servants served—a rare sight indeed.
Feng Qiniang also took a sip of the soup in low spirits. The sudden, intense spiciness caught her off guard, making her cough and bringing tears to her eyes. She lowered her head, murmuring, "So spicy." Yet, in that moment, she finally allowed herself to cry freely.
The soup awakened her appetite, and every dish that followed suited her taste perfectly. By the time her stomach was so full that her belt felt tight, she suddenly realized she had devoured an entire bowl of soup, a bowl of noodle soup, a whole fish, a baked pancake, two emerald rolls, and even both desserts—leaving nothing behind!
Instantly, she was filled with regret. She had promised Eleventh Sister to practice restraint in her eating so that, come the depths of winter when the New Year celebrations arrived, she could don her newly tailored, elegant robes and step out with a willow-like figure and a slender waist to admire the snow and lanterns. Yet today, she had broken her vow again!
Just then, a man and a woman were escorted by servants through the winding corridor. Led by Feng Yuan’s personal attendant, they stepped onto the waterside pavilion. Feng Qiniang overheard the murmurs of the guests:
"Scholar Feng has invited today’s chefs."
"Really? I must see who possesses such extraordinary skill! This craftsmanship demands admiration!"
"Make way—let me see too! Who could have such a transformative touch?"
Though her family’s chefs couldn’t compare to today’s feast, calling their dishes "inedible" was too harsh! Feng Qiniang felt indignant. Hiding half her face behind a silk fan, she peeked around the screen to look.
The waterside pavilion connected to the corridor. The man had a square face and a sturdy build—nothing remarkable—but behind him walked a graceful woman.
She wore a fitted, jade-green linen jacket with narrow sleeves, tied at the waist with a green silk ribbon, and a plain pleated skirt. Her hair was adorned only with a silver hairpin. Yet, despite the simplicity of her attire, she carried an effortless elegance, as if untouched by ornamentation.
As she drew closer, her beauty became even more apparent—delicate brows and eyes, a petite, charming nose, and lips that seemed perpetually curved into a faint, welcoming smile. Her slender shoulders and tiny waist, almost small enough to encircle with one’s hands, made even her plain linen clothes appear refined.
Feng Qiniang was stunned. The other guests were no different. Many recovered from their surprise and began whispering among themselves:
"With such skill, I expected a white-bearded old man..."
"And one of them is a woman..."
"That woman is breathtaking! Her movements are as light as a swallow’s, and her bearing is extraordinary. Could she be a trained cook from some noble household?"
"She looks familiar somehow..."
Amid the murmurs, one guest suddenly stood up in excitement and exclaimed:
"It’s Lady Shen! Lady Shen from Shen’s Noodle House in East Willow Lane! I knew it! That lamb noodle soup tasted just like hers! I was right! Hahaha!"
The man was inexplicably overjoyed, nearly dancing as he grabbed his companion’s arm, spraying spittle in his enthusiasm. "Lady Shen’s cooking is divine! I’ve been dreaming of it day and night! Sometimes, I’ve even wished to move to East Willow Lane—if only there were vacancies! I’ve told you before, but you wouldn’t believe me! Seeing—no, tasting—is believing, isn’t it? Wasn’t it exquisite? Hahaha!"
Feng Qiniang froze. East Willow Lane? Shen’s Noodle House?
Why… why did that sound so familiar? Her head spun. Could such a coincidence exist?
Lady Feng and Lady Xi soon stood and warmly introduced the chefs, quieting the guests. Everyone learned the reason: the Feng family’s chef had fallen seriously ill, so they borrowed a chef from the Xie family, who then recommended Lady Shen. Now it made sense.
Many secretly thought: That Feng family chef fell ill at just the right time! Had he not, they’d have been stuck with another table of cloyingly sweet dishes instead of this feast!
Among noble families, banquets were frequent, and borrowing each other’s chefs was common. Every household knew which family had the best cooks and what specialties they offered.
Of course, no one had ever been desperate enough to borrow a chef from the Fengs.
But today, they all noted a new name:
East Willow Lane, Shen’s Noodle House—Lady Shen!
Shen Miao stood there with a practiced smile, calmly accepting the guests’ admiration, astonishment, and curiosity without saying much. She knew words weren’t necessary here.
These people were merely intrigued because of a delicious meal. To think she had won their favor would be presumptuous.
Lady Feng praised her sincerely before the crowd. "Lady Shen’s culinary skills are truly exceptional. Today’s banquet was elevated by her efforts. Thank you, Lady Shen, for your dedication."
She also gave a nod to the overlooked Chef Fang.
Shen Miao smiled modestly and replied, "You flatter me." Then, with perfect timing, she added, "If Lady Feng ever hosts another banquet, you’re welcome to call on me again."
Lady Feng agreed with a smile.
The other guests took note, their minds already calculating.
Shen Miao’s words were meant for them, and from the glances she caught, she knew her plan was working.
Earlier, while eating in the kitchen with the other staff, she had considered this—catering for banquets could become a steady side venture. Two events a month would suffice; any more, and her noodle shop would suffer. That would defeat the purpose.
Her dream was to open her own grand restaurant. For now, she would nurture her humble noodle shop, expanding step by step—building funds, training a team, and growing her reputation.
Soon after, she and Chef Fang took their leave.
Though the banquet had ended, the guests remained for theater, tea, garden strolls, and socializing.
None of that concerned Shen Miao. She and Chef Fang were free to collect their payment and go.
At the corridor’s end, a maid sent by Lady Feng arrived with their generous reward. The Feng family’s gold ingots, each stamped with their name, weighed two taels apiece—and to Shen Miao’s delight, they had added two extra ingots beyond the agreed amount.
Twelve taels in total!
The Fengs were far wealthier than they appeared!
Shen Miao’s professional smile instantly transformed into genuine joy.
Clutching the lacquered box of gold to her chest, she thought gleefully: Though Song Dynasty gold wasn’t polished, it still shone—heavy in her hands, dazzling to her eyes.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful!
Chef Fang also received twelve taels of gold, which he accepted with a hint of shame. After all, the banquet today had been largely carried by Shen Miao alone—he had only assisted with minor tasks. If not for his position as the Xie family’s chef, the Feng family likely wouldn’t have been so generous. This windfall was all thanks to Shen Miao’s efforts!
Shen Miao, however, harbored no resentment. The invitation had originally been extended to Chef Fang; she had only been brought along at the request of the Xie family’s matriarch to ensure everything went smoothly. In truth, she too owed this stroke of fortune to the Xie family’s influence.
With a cheerful smile, she bid farewell to Chef Fang, and the two went their separate ways. The Xie family’s meticulousness remained unmatched—even as she exited through the Feng family’s side gate, Zhou Da was still waiting for her!
She climbed into Zhou Da’s carriage and rode home in high spirits, thinking to herself that she needed to hide the money immediately. This was a small fortune! Unfortunately, the money vaults in Bianjing were all privately owned, far less reliable than the banks of later times. Her only option was to bury the coins deep in the cellar.
Upon arriving home, she pushed the door open eagerly, only to find the courtyard unusually quiet. A closer look revealed that the children and Aunt Gu had already finished all the household chores.
The water vat was full, and the firewood had been neatly chopped—undoubtedly Ji Brother’s handiwork.
The two potted pines purchased on opening day had been watered and pruned, and even the wildflowers Sister Xiang had picked were now arranged in an earthen jar on the windowsill. This was likely Chen Chuan’s doing—lately, he had taken to quietly lingering near the flowerpots.
Lei Ting and Zhuifeng’s fur still felt slightly damp, clearly having just been scrubbed—most likely Sister Xiang’s work, given that both dogs now sported braids.
The eggs had been collected from the chicken coop, and the droppings had been raked out and transported to the vegetable patch as fertilizer. The leeks Shen Miao had planted had already yielded a harvest, and new shoots were sprouting again. Cucumbers, luffa gourds, eggplants, and beans climbed lushly up the bamboo poles. A few aged, yellowed luffas had been picked, washed clean, and hung out to dry in the sun—such meticulous care could only have come from Aunt Gu.
After stashing the money in the cellar, Shen Miao strolled along the front corridor. Peeking inside, she saw Sister Xiang sprawled out in deep sleep, her little belly covered by a floral quilt. Aunt Gu napped beside her, a palm-leaf fan still clutched in her hand.
Shen Miao tiptoed in, gently took the fan, and draped a quilt over Aunt Gu as well. She then peeked into Ji Brother’s room. Ji Brother and Chen Chuan shared the space, and though the weather was growing hotter, the two insisted on squeezing together on the bed—ever since sharing that meal of salted pork and bamboo shoots, Ji Brother had dragged Chen Chuan to sleep beside him, always letting him take the inner side. They often dozed off forehead to forehead, their brows damp with sweat.
Just as Shen Miao reached the doorway, Chen Chuan’s eyes snapped open.
Instinctively, he shrank inward, his back arching like a startled cat. His gaze darted toward the door, sharp with wariness, until he recognized Shen Miao’s silhouette against the light. Only then did the tension in his body ease.
For some reason, Shen Miao found herself exhaling in relief when she saw him relax.
But then a pang of sorrow struck her—he was around the same age as Sister Xiang, yet so small and frail. What kind of suffering had he endured to become like this?
She motioned for him to come out.
Chen Chuan carefully stepped over the still-sleeping Ji Brother, limping slightly as he slipped on his shoes and approached her without a sound. Her heart ached as she reached for his hand. "Let’s have your leg looked at," she said.
Chen Chuan let her lead him without protest. He was still painfully thin, his cheeks hollow, his body far from replenished. Holding his hand, Shen Miao felt nothing but bones beneath her fingers.
At Chief Physician Zhao’s clinic, the elderly physician specializing in fractures and bone-setting examined him. When he rolled up Chen Chuan’s pant leg and saw the bruised, malnourished limb, his expression darkened, and he shot Shen Miao a sharp glare.
She hurriedly explained the child’s background—otherwise, she feared the old physician might spit at her in disgust and report her to the authorities.
"Aside from starvation, there’s nothing else wrong. He’ll recover with time. As for the leg… it’s treatable. Do you want it treated?" The physician’s tone was calm now, his scrutinizing gaze easing.
Both Shen Miao and Chen Chuan exhaled in unison.
Thank heavens—there was hope!
"Of course we’ll treat it," Shen Miao said firmly. "Right now?"
"Right now is fine." The physician pressed a hand against the misaligned bone, kneading it gently.
Then, abruptly, he pointed toward the door. "Goodness—what’s that?"
Shen Miao and Chen Chuan turned to look. In that split second, the physician wrenched Chen Chuan’s twisted leg against the stool with a sharp crack.
Chen Chuan screamed, his body convulsing in pain as his leg went limp.
Shen Miao’s eyes widened. She pulled the trembling boy into her arms, his face ghostly pale, drenched in sweat.
The physician, unfazed, calmly repositioned the broken bone, eliciting another agonized cry. He then applied herbal paste, called for an assistant to fetch pain-relief pills, and forced them into Chen Chuan’s mouth.
After wrapping the leg in clean cloth and securing it with splints, he instructed, "Better a short, sharp pain than prolonged suffering. If you’d known beforehand, you’d have panicked. This way was quicker. Give him these pills twice daily. I’ll also prescribe a formula to dispel blood stasis and mend bones. Douzi! Fetch two zhu each of frankincense, myrrh, cooked rhubarb, and borax; three zhu of dragon’s blood and wine-steeped angelica; and thirty ground beetles. That’s all—go prepare it."
Turning back to Shen Miao, he added, "Boil three bowls of water down to one, administer it for five days, then reassess. His diet must be light yet nourishing—an egg a day, no spicy or fried foods. The leg will swell; bring him daily so I can monitor the healing. No walking for three months. If all goes well, we’ll remove the splints then."
Chen Chuan still trembled in her arms, teeth clenched but chattering, his breath hitching with residual pain. Shen Miao held him tightly, her own hands shaking slightly as she watched the physician bind the splints in place.
Though she knew the old physician meant well for the child, she was completely unprepared for this. And it was so brutal—couldn’t they at least brew a bowl of anesthetic for him to drink? Fear and heartache tangled in her chest.
It was too cruel. Such a tiny child, his bones broken once, then broken again.
She stood there watching, her mind a whirl of scattered thoughts, until Chen Chuan’s trembling hand—still shaking from the pain—brushed against her cheek. Only then did she realize her own face was streaked with tears.
"Elder Sister, it doesn’t hurt."
His voice was ragged with pain.
"Don’t cry."
Later, as Shen Miao carried Chen Chuan home on her back, she kept asking, "Does it still hurt?"
Though his voice was hoarse, each time he insisted it didn’t.
She carried him effortlessly, murmuring, "If it hurts, you must tell me. I’ll have that old physician prescribe more pain medicine." Then she couldn’t help grumbling, "How could they just snap it back like that? It gave me such a fright!" In later times, wouldn’t they have needed a surgery consent form and full anesthesia?
Medicine in this era was so rough—just using bare hands to set bones!
But the old physician had seemed so confident. Surely there wouldn’t be any problems? He was from Chief Physician Zhao’s household, after all, and at his age, he’d probably reset more broken legs than Shen Miao had eaten meals in her life.
She rambled on, half to reassure herself and half to comfort Chen Chuan.
Chen Chuan stayed silent, but after a while, a slightly prickly head rested lightly against Shen Miao’s neck. He leaned into her shoulder, saying nothing, yet the gesture of trust softened her heart. It also steeled her resolve: Tomorrow, she would find time to consult a lawyer about legally registering Chen Chuan as part of her household. She hoped it would go smoothly.
Hooking the medicine bag with her fingers, she adjusted Chen Chuan’s position on her back and gently bumped her head against his messily cropped hair.
"Come on, Elder Sister will buy some meat and make you egg soup and pork rib congee. We’ll fatten you up so you heal faster!"
Early the next morning, Shen Miao didn’t open her shop. She had planned to take a day off after catering the Feng family’s banquet. First, she needed to settle Chen Chuan’s household registration. Second, she wanted to buy some large fish and stop by Old Man Yang’s place for a wooden wheelchair—she vaguely remembered seeing one there when she’d bought furniture from him before. Third, she needed to visit the pottery kiln to order ceramic stoves and griddles.
That’s right—with the sweltering summer approaching, she planned to introduce a new signature dish at her shop! Today, she’d test the recipe by inviting Aunt Gu’s family over for a meal, a proper thank-you for their help yesterday.
After entrusting Ji Brother with the care of the younger siblings, the dog, and the chickens, Shen Miao changed clothes, slung a bag over her shoulder, and headed out.
She walked all the way to the back gate of Xingguo Temple, where Lawyer Deng lived. His residence in the temple wasn’t due to poverty but because the temple was a hub for loans—he served as a mediator or scribe for contracts, sitting comfortably and earning good money with little effort.
Shen Miao had hired him before when Old Man Yang built her house, drafting the contract. She found him decent enough, so she sought his "legal consultation" again. Some lawyers were unscrupulous, taking advantage of illiterate borrowers by falsifying loan amounts, leading families to ruin under crushing debt.
Lawyer Deng had never stooped to such tricks and had a solid reputation in Bianjing. Many even praised him as fair-minded.
And Lawyer Deng certainly hadn’t expected a client to show up this early, before he’d even finished brushing his teeth.
After hearing Shen Miao out, he burst into laughter. "You and your neighbors are as blind as moles when it comes to the law!"
Then he grew serious. "Do you know the Song Penal Code explicitly states that anyone who dares abduct and sell a child under ten years old shall be hanged? Even those who knowingly buy a trafficked child face exile to labor camps three thousand li away. And any broker who hides a trafficked child will be imprisoned for at least three years. These are grave crimes! Yet you didn’t dare report it to the authorities? You feared the child’s deed might still be in the traffickers’ hands, that he’d be sent back if you reported it? That’s needless worry. Why do you think the child escaped? Because those criminals were too afraid to search openly. Even if you sat a pig in the magistrate’s seat, it wouldn’t dare side with traffickers. You should’ve reported it the very day you found him!"
Shen Miao was stunned. She… she’d truly misjudged ancient law enforcement! She’d assumed a society where buying people was legal would turn a blind eye to trafficking, but it was a capital offense!
Still, commoners feared dealing with officials, and most were illiterate. People minded their own business, so it was no surprise they didn’t know the laws.
"I was wrong," Shen Miao admitted plainly.
"As for adoption, it’s not so simple," Lawyer Deng continued. "First, report it. Once the authorities record the case, they’ll send the child to the Orphanage for temporary care. Then you can petition to register him under your household. The Orphanage is always short on resources—they’ll be glad to have one less mouth to feed. If you slip the clerks a few strings of cash, they might even let you take him home the same day. But remember, if he has living parents, you’ll have to return him if they’re ever found. All your effort raising him would be for nothing."
Shen Miao smiled. "I’d be overjoyed if he could go home one day."
Lawyer Deng flicked open his fan with a smirk. "Easy to say now. Wait until you’ve raised him for years—let’s see if you’re still so willing then."
Having clarified most of the process, Shen Miao confirmed, "So first I report it, then take him to the Orphanage to apply for household registration. Is that correct?"
Suddenly, Lawyer Deng eyed her thoughtfully. "Ah, one more thing. The law sets conditions for adopting children. Men must be over forty. For female-headed households, the woman must own property, have a physical disability, and be childless. You…"
She’d heard of this!
Shen Miao was prepared. She promptly produced her divorce letter, grinning. "I own property—I run a shop! And I have a ‘disability.’ Look, this divorce paper bears the official seal of Jinling’s magistrate. It states clearly in black and white that I was divorced for failing to bear children. See? ‘Disabled and childless’—perfect fit!"
Lawyer Deng: "…"
Why do you sound so proud of that?
