The twenty-second year of the Yongle era, ninth month, Beijing.
I made a difficult decision: make dessert, then bring it before the Emperor and Empress. It wasn't that I wanted to court death. It was that things had developed to this point, and I had no way back.
The egg tarts were steamed, six of them, tender yellow, topped with a small dab of osmanthus jam, arranged on a white porcelain plate, looking so good they didn't seem like something I made. Ruo Lan took one look, then another, confirming three times whether this was really her mistress's handiwork. Then she asked a very practical question: "Miss, how do you plan to deliver it?"
I said: "Carry it over."
Ruo Lan was silent for a long time. "Should we announce it first?"
"If we announce it, will they let me deliver it?"
Ruo Lan was silent again. We reached a consensus: no. So I wouldn't announce it. Go straight in. Carry the plate, walk in, set it down, say "Please enjoy," then retreat. Simple.
I changed into clean clothes, washed my hands, wiped my face, checked in the bronze mirror to make sure there was no flour on my face. Then I picked up the plate and walked out. Ruo Lan called from behind, "Miss, wait," but I didn't wait. If I waited any longer, I wouldn't dare go.
The Kunning Palace was quieter than I expected. Several palace maids stood under the corridor; seeing me, they paused for a moment. One took half a step forward, then retreated. They were probably thinking: Who is this person? What is she carrying? Can we stop her? In the end, no one stopped me. Probably because I walked with too much justification, as if I was supposed to walk this path. My heart pounded like a drum as I carried the plate through the corridor. My hands didn't tremble—not because I wasn't nervous, but because I was afraid the plate would fall if I shook. If the plate fell, I was done for. I reached the hall entrance, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
The hall was very quiet. Zhu Gaochi sat at the head, holding a bowl of tea, not drinking. The Empress sat beside him, holding a scroll of book, not reading. Zhu Zhanji sat at the lower seat, a bowl of tea before him, also not drinking. Three people, three bowls of tea, no one speaking, like a painting. I stood at the entrance holding the plate, suddenly feeling like a food delivery person. The kind who—delivering for the first time, doesn't know which floor the customer lives on, stood downstairs for a long time before gathering the courage to come up.
I lowered my head and bowed. Before I could speak, Zhu Gaochi spoke first. "What did you bring?"
I was stunned. The procedure was wrong. According to the rules, I should first say "This servant pays respects to His Majesty and the Empress," then he would say "Rise," then I would introduce it. He directly asked "What did you bring," like asking a neighbor's child what they were holding. I looked up, looked at the plate in my hand, then at him, and answered honestly: "Dessert."
The hall fell silent for a moment. I could hear myself swallow. I quickly added: "It's not very formal, but—" I wanted to say "It's delicious," but the words caught in my throat, feeling inappropriate. Praising my own cooking sounded like boasting. I was stuck there, holding the plate,进退 two difficulties.
Someone lightly coughed from the side. It was Zhu Zhanji. He didn't look at me, his hand holding the tea bowl paused, then set it down. That "hmm" carried a hint of breathiness, as if choked by something. The Empress glanced at him, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. I thought to myself: Did I say something wrong again? But the plate was already brought, couldn't take it back. I stood there, holding the plate, waiting. The silence in the hall felt like a quilt, wrapping me from head to toe.
The Empress spoke. "Then this palace will taste a bite."
When these words landed, I almost knelt right there. Not the ceremonial kind, but the real—grateful and indebted kind. I immediately walked over, placed the plate before her, my movements quick as if afraid she'd change her mind. She looked down at the six egg tarts, tender yellow, topped with osmanthus jam, arranged neatly. Her gaze lingered on the plate for a moment, then she looked at me. "What is this?"
"Egg tart," I said. After a moment, I added: "Made with milk and eggs. The crust is pastry, inside is custard, steamed."
She picked one up, took a bite. A very small bite, as if afraid of biting into something. Chewed twice, stopped. My heart leaped to my throat. Oh no. Not delicious? Too sweet? Shouldn't have added osmanthus jam? She finished chewing that bite, didn't put it down, took another bite. This one was bigger than the last. After chewing, she put the rest in her mouth, finished it. Then picked up the second one.
"This flavor... is quite uncommon," she said. Her tone was very even, not exaggerated, but that kind of—first time tasting something, finding it novel but not wanting to appear too surprised, calm. But she picked up the second one. That was enough. If it wasn't good, she wouldn't take the second one.
I said softly: "It might be a bit sweet." After a pause, I added: "Next time I can use less."
The hall fell silent for a moment. Only after speaking did I realize: Why did I assume there would be a next time? I looked down at my shoe tips, pretending those words hadn't come from my mouth. The Empress glanced at me, the corner of her mouth twitched—not a smile, but that kind of twitch when something amuses you but you hold it back. She took a bite of the second egg tart, chewed slowly, didn't speak.
Zhu Gaochi watched for a while. "Let me taste too." The Empress pushed the plate toward him. He picked one up, took a bite. Chewed twice. His expression was even flatter than the Empress's, no information could be read from it. Delicious? Not delicious? Too sweet? Not sweet enough? He finished one, put it down, picked up his tea bowl and drank. Then picked up the second one.
I breathed a sigh of relief. This sigh was obvious enough that the Empress glanced at me again. I quickly composed my expression, pretending I hadn't done anything.
"Which country's method?" Zhu Gaochi asked. He finished the second egg tart while asking.
"My hometown's."
"Wuxi?"
I was stunned. Right, Wuxi. My identity in the Ming Dynasty was from Wuxi. "Yes, Wuxi," I said. After a moment, I added: "Wuxi countryside." He nodded, glanced at the plate—six egg tarts, the Empress ate two, he ate two, two remained. He looked at Zhu Zhanji. "Aren't you going to taste?"
Zhu Zhanji sat at the lower seat, the tea before him had gone cold. He looked at me, then at the two egg tarts on the plate. "Grandson does not—"
"He will eat," I blurted out.
The hall fell silent again. Quieter than the previous times. I could hear my own heartbeat. I realized, wishing I could bite my own tongue off. Who are you? You tell the Crown Prince to eat, and he eats? The Empress held her tea bowl mid-air, looking at me. Zhu Gaochi also looked at me, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly. That twitch reminded me of Zhu Di—he used to look at me with that same expression.
Zhu Zhanji looked at me. His gaze was very light, but I could see—he was holding back. As if holding back laughter. He picked up an egg tart, took a bite. Chewed twice, finished it. Then picked up that bowl of cold tea and drank.
"How is it?" Zhu Gaochi asked.
"Alright," he said. His tone was very light, same as saying "The weather is nice today." But I noticed, after he finished, his fingers paused at the edge of the saucer, as if wanting to take another, but he didn't. I pushed the plate toward him. "There's one more," I said.
He looked at me. That look held a hint of surprise, and also something—I couldn't tell. He picked it up, ate it.
Zhu Gaochi chuckled lightly. "Quite thoughtful."
Thoughtful. He said "thoughtful." Not "delicious," not "not bad," but "thoughtful." These two words carried more weight than anything. It was saying: We know you didn't make this casually, we know you put thought into it, we know you weren't being perfunctory. I lowered my head, tucked my hands back into my sleeves. My fingers were warm. That invisible quilt in the hall seemed to have a corner lifted.
"Next time you make it, bring it directly," Zhu Gaochi said.
"Okay."
I turned to leave. The Empress called me from behind. "Miss Song."
"Yes?"
"Next time, use more sugar."
I was stunned. "Okay." After a moment, I asked: "How much more is 'more'?"
The hall fell silent again. Zhu Gaochi glanced at me, picked up his tea bowl, didn't drink. The Empress looked at me, that twitch at the corner of her mouth finally became a slight smile. Very shallow, but I saw it. "More is just more," she said.
I nodded. "Understood." Actually didn't understand. But couldn't ask again. Asking again would really make me "this person who even needs to ask how much sugar to add."
Walking out of Kunning Palace, sunlight warmed my face. My hands were empty, the plate left in Kunning Palace. I looked down at my sleeves—there was flour, milk stains, and a small patch of osmanthus jam. I wiped it, couldn't wipe it off. Forget it.
Back in the side room, Ruo Lan was waiting at the door. Seeing me, she breathed a sigh of relief. "Miss, are you alright?"
"I'm fine. The Empress said to use more sugar next time."
"...That's all she said?"
"The Emperor also ate."
"What did the Emperor say?"
"He said to bring it directly next time I make it."
Ruo Lan's expression was indescribable. She was probably thinking: You, a veterinarian, how did you start making desserts for the Emperor and Empress? But she didn't say it. Just followed me into the side room, watching me wash my hands, change clothes, put away the remaining flour.
"Miss, can you make anything else?"
"Yes," I thought. "Double-skin milk. Ginger milk curd. Mango pomelo sago."
"What are those?"
"Desserts."
Ruo Lan was silent for a while. "Miss, are you... homesick?"
My hand paused. Homesick? Which home? Wuxi's? Sydney's? Or—I looked down at the bag of flour in my hand, the mouth tied tightly, the knot I tied myself. Not tied by Ruo Lan, not tied by Eunuch Li, I tied it. I put it in the cabinet.
"No," I said. "Just craving sweets."
Ruo Lan didn't ask again. She walked out, gently closed the door. I sat on the bed, Huang Tuan pounced over, licking my hand. I petted its head, placed it on my lap. On the windowsill, the kumquat pot sat quietly. The soil surface was a tiny bit higher. This time I saw clearly—a small patch of green, pushing up from the soil, thin, tender, not yet unfolded. A sprout.
I stared at that patch of green for a while, then stood up, walked to the window, reached out and touched that leaf. Soft, cool, alive. I suddenly remembered—just now in Kunning Palace, when Zhu Zhanji finished the second egg tart, his fingers paused at the edge of the saucer. That movement was quick, so quick that the people beside him probably didn't notice. But I noticed. As if wanting to take another, but too embarrassed. I smiled.
Next time, make two more.
(End of Chapter 25)