As the grand banquet approaches, Yue carefully prepares every dish, guarding her masterpiece from the shadows that stalk her progress. But with Consort Zhang plotting one final move—will all of Yue's efforts be enough to withstand what's coming?
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Every morning now, she began the day with a full inspection of the storerooms. Not out of formality—but necessity.
Too many ingredients had gone missing or turned sour.
Even without proof, she could feel the pressure of a saboteur's hand in the dark.
Despite everything, she said nothing. No complaints to the Empress Dowager. No demands for justice.
Let them think she was unaware. Let them underestimate her.
Yue quickly found ways to adapt.
When the tofu spoiled, she didn't panic. She asked for pressed eggplant from storage.
She sliced it thin and marinated it with sesame oil, soy sauce, and some star anise.
After steaming and adding scallions, it had a rich flavor that amazed the chef.
She didn't raise her voice when the mushrooms came in spoilt and smelly.
She chose cloud-ear fungus from the spices and soaked it in warm rice wine with ginger and crushed peppercorn.
The outcome was better, with a deep, earthy taste.
Every change she made was quiet, like carefully adding a brushstroke to a painting—thoughtful, unseen, but essential.
She never talked about fixing things. She didn't announce problems. But those in the kitchen noticed.
"She's always fixing things," one helper quietly said while folding dumplings.
"It's as if she sees the entire meal before it happens," a steward observed, watching her correct the soup's seasoning just by its smell.
Even the older chefs, who once complained about her, respected her now.
They followed her advice, not because of her title, but because she genuinely earned it.
Her respect came from hard work in a palace filled with chaos.
Still, Yue refrained from feeling proud.
In the palace, respect was delicate, like mist on soup—beautiful but quickly disappearing if the pot got too hot.
Yue moved efficiently through each part of the kitchen, constantly vigilant—discreetly checking labels, sensing temperature changes, and observing unfamiliar faces.
She understood the importance of not getting too comfortable.
Yue knew from a young age that attacks were done quietly in the palace.
Enemies wouldn't confront you directly; they'd watch you fall apart while still showing politeness in public gatherings.
Consort Zhang's words stayed with her: "One bad ingredient can spoil a whole feast."
Zhang wasn't just trying to embarrass Yue; she wanted to ruin Yue's reputation.
Yue knew this wouldn't just affect her. The kitchen staff who stood by her would also face consequences.
They could be reassigned, demoted, or even punished.
"Apprentice Mei," Yue called out gently.
A young girl approached, her sleeves dusted with flour and her eyes showing fatigue.
"Yes, Lady Yue?"
"For the flower-shaped dumplings, use the peach blossom molds today. Skip the lotus ones. The Dowager prefers peach blossoms during early spring."
Mei nodded quickly and rushed away.
Across the kitchen, Chef Lin raised his voice.
"Spice base is ready! Would you like to taste this batch, Lady Yue?"
Yue walked over and accepted the offered spoon. As soon as the chili oil hit her tongue, she frowned slightly.
"It's too strong," she noted softly.
"Add a small amount of cane sugar. Just enough to balance out the heat. It should warm the tongue, not burn it."
Chef Lin nodded in agreement, a change from the first day when he would have argued.
"I'll get to it right away."
A sudden silence enveloped the room as a new presence entered,
Consort Zhang had arrived.
She moved gracefully, wearing a deep red robe with golden lotus designs. Her hairpin glimmered in the morning light.
"I trust the preparations are progressing well," she said sweetly.
"It would be unfortunate if the Dowager's birthday feast were not up to par."
Yue turned and bowed respectfully.
"Everything is on schedule, Lady Zhang."
"How commendable," Zhang responded, surveying the kitchen like a hawk observing its domain.
"Such a big responsibility on such slender shoulders."
She stepped closer to a tray of sugar-dusted pastries and took a piece without asking.
She chewed slowly, then gave a slight nod.
"Sweet," she remarked. "But is it unforgettable?"
Yue bowed once more, keeping her expression neutral.
"The final dishes will be memorable."
"We shall see," Zhang said with a cold smile.
"Continue with your work."
When she left, the tension in the room lifted like steam from a hot pan.
But Yue's heart still felt heavy and cold.
That evening, after the kitchen had quieted down, Yue returned alone.
The fires were low, and only a few embers glowed softly in the stove.
She walked through the storeroom, checking each clay jar and wooden crate with her lantern.
Nothing seemed to be missing.
She paused by the wine shelf, examining the plum wine bottles reserved for the dessert.
Her eyes scanned the seals carefully.
All appeared intact.
She turned to leave but then noticed something odd.
One bottle on the end looked different.
She brought the lantern closer to inspect it.
The wax seal had been tampered with and resealed, but sloppily.
Her fingers wrapped around the bottle's neck. She opened it and brought it to her nose.
A sharp, sour scent hit her nostrils.
Vinegar.
Someone had swapped the wine.
A cold fear seized her.
Not the entire stock—just one bottle. Just enough to ruin a batch of dessert.
She placed the bottle down and exhaled slowly.
"So, that's your new move," she whispered to the empty room.
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The next morning, Yue arrived at the kitchen earlier than usual.
The palace was still and quiet, wrapped in darkness before dawn. Yue did not call for the fire boys or wait for the stewards.
With determination, she tied her apron and set to work alone.
In the silence, she lit the stoves one by one, using pinewood to start the fires.
The crackling flames were the only sound, casting long shadows on the walls.
The smell of burning resin mixed with the sweet aroma of candied orange peel she had prepared the night before.
Yue moved with graceful ease, not like a noble lady or an imperial concubine, but like a girl who had learned from watching her elders boil sugar over coals and sneaked tastes of fruit preserves when the head cook wasn't looking.
She remembered the vision of the girl sharing hawthorn candy with a young boy beneath a blossoming tree.
She still wasn't certain if that vision was real, but handling hawthorn constantly stirred something within her.
Today, she decided to make the dessert herself.
No helpers, no observers, no curious eyes—just her and the hawthorn berries.
She rinsed the berries in cold spring water, feeling the frost on her fingers.
She carefully selected each berry, choosing round, firm, and perfectly tart with a bright red shine.
She brought the plum wine to a slow boil, letting its aroma fill the air. As it bubbled gently, she added the berries, coaxing them into warmth.
Yue stirred with a wooden spoon, ensuring the berries absorbed the rich wine flavor—sweet, sour, and a hint of bitterness.
Once softened, she carefully removed the berries and threaded them onto thin bamboo sticks, three at a time.
She dipped them into golden sugar syrup one by one, watching the glaze settle and harden, surrounding each berry in a glistening coat.
Then, she added the finishing touch. Using a bamboo brush she crafted herself, Yue dusted the cooled candy with sugar petal dust.
She made the dust from hand-pounded petals: white from pear blossoms, pink from early peaches, and a touch of dried rose for color.
Each berry gleamed like a jewel in the lamplight—a soft pink frost on deep red.
She arranged them on a pale blue porcelain tray, placing each with the care of a scholar arranging rare scrolls.
When she finished, she exhaled softly, not from relief but from a deep, hard-earned satisfaction.
She wrapped the tray in silk and placed it in a lacquered chest she had brought from her quarters.
The box was small and discreet, with a simple bronze lock. She clicked it shut and tucked the key into her sash.
Yue carried it herself, past the kitchen storerooms and down a corridor to a forgotten broom closet used for aging preserved vegetables.
She unlocked a narrow, dry, and dusty cabinet inside and hid the chest behind crates of charcoal and firewood.
As she stepped out, the sun was just starting to rise.
By the time the others arrived, the kitchen was already alive with fragrance.
In the main preparation hall, Yue again checked the steaming schedule that morning.
She went through every name and time slot with care. She moved three clay pots from one burner to another to adjust the heat level.
Her actions were precise, yet her mind was busy planning and feeling. The kitchen buzzed with excitement and anticipation.
The grand banquet was happening tomorrow. It was the biggest celebration of the season.
All the dishes were prepared. The wines were chosen to match perfectly with the meals.
Trays of pastries were sorted based on their region, texture, and meaning.
The vegetables were carved skillfully, forming lotus flowers, peonies, and cranes in flight.
Everything had to be flawless.
At the end of the hallway, where the light from the lanterns grew dim, and the noise from the kitchen faded away —
Consort Zhang stood partially hidden behind one of the elegant screens that lined the corridor.
She watched Yue, who handed a note to a steward and then moved gracefully across the hall.
Her hands, out of sight under her embroidered sleeves, were tightly clenched into fists.
Consort Zhang had expected mistakes, delays, and fear.
Instead, Yue confidently walked around the palace as if she belonged there.
Zhang pressed her lips together in frustration.
This was supposed to teach a lesson in obedience. But Yue was thriving instead.
This couldn't go on any longer. She turned and quietly instructed the servant next to her,
"There's one more task I need you to handle."