There is no such thing as a secret that truly stays buried—
especially not within the palace, where glances, whispers, and silences weave an invisible web of information.
A softness that sometimes crossed Shunzi's face when he drifted into thought.
The way Eunuch Xiang Fu's coughing had grown less violent, less desperate.
That faint, unmistakable sweetness drifting from the back gate of the Imperial Kitchen late at night.
Small things.
Almost unnoticeable.
And yet—noticed all the same.
"Have you heard? That kitchen girl from the Imperial Kitchen—Bing Seventeen. She's... different."
"Of course I have. That little eunuch who washes the steamers—Shunzi—ate something she made and cried like his heart broke. After that, though? The boy looked alive again."
"Eunuch Xiang Fu's been coughing for years. Lately it's eased. They say she gave him a recipe."
"She's genuinely kind. Uses the most ordinary scraps. Never asks for anything back."
"And her hands—whatever she touches, it's not the same anymore."
The words spread like melting snowwater at the edge of winter—
seeping quietly into idle conversations, into stolen moments of rest, into the brief pauses between labor.
Nothing was written down.
No record kept.
Yet the message traveled.
The small kitchen girl called Bing Seventeen—kind-hearted, skillful hands.
It became an unspoken phrase. A shared understanding.
It promised no protection. No power.
Only a possibility.
That when homesickness gnawed at your bones,
when illness hollowed you out,
you might dare—just barely—to ask.
And so, the encounters began.
Sometimes, as Qing Tian walked her routes, a stranger—a matron she'd never met—would "accidentally" drop an old handkerchief embroidered with patterns from home. When Qing Tian picked it up and returned it, the woman would murmur quickly:
"You're from the Imperial Kitchen, aren't you? I'm from Shu. Been gone so long my mouth's forgotten flavor... Is there—perhaps—a way?"
Then she would hurry off, as if nothing had happened.
Other times, a familiar low-ranking maid would flush crimson and press a tiny pouch of toasted sesame seeds into Qing Tian's hand.
"I heard... you can make sweets," she'd whisper.
"Could these become sesame candy? Like my mother used to make? Just a small piece. I miss her."
Once—only once—a note arrived through several layers of intermediaries. The handwriting was neat, restrained, yet heavy with desperation.
"I hear the young lady is compassionate. I have suffered severe monthly pain for years. Physicians are costly and hard to reach. Is there relief to be found in ordinary food? I would be endlessly grateful."
Each request came hesitantly—
like hands stretching toward a fire in the dead of winter, afraid of being burned, yet colder without the warmth.
Qing Tian treated every one with care.
Drawing from The Miscellany of Ingredients, from Granny Chen's teachings, and from her own quiet sensitivity to the nature of food, she offered what help she could.
To the matron from Shu, she gave a small jar of pickled vegetable cores—made from discarded scraps, flavored with a pinch of chili berry and crushed peppercorns. Not authentic, not refined, but sharp and sour enough to ease the ache of memory.
To the homesick maid, she turned sesame seeds and a little syrup into neat squares of brittle—fragrant, sweet, crisp.
To the laundress, she offered a simple remedy: brown sugar, old ginger, and red dates simmered into a warming drink—along with a few careful notes about keeping warm.
She never advertised herself.
Never accepted more than gratitude.
She helped simply because she could—and because it felt right.
Remembering Chef Zhang's warnings, Qing Tian grew ever more cautious. All exchanges passed through trusted intermediaries—Xiao Man, Fu Gui, Granny Chen. No traces left. No excess contact. Always stopping short.
And yet—kindness is like a ripple.
Once it spreads, it does not easily fade.
Qing Tian's reputation among the lower palace servants grew subtle, complicated. It brought her no promotion, no tangible reward. Instead, some supervisors began to watch her with quiet suspicion.
Matron Liu's gaze, in particular, lingered longer than before—cool, measuring.
But more often, what Qing Tian felt was something else.
When she queued to collect supplies, someone would wordlessly let her step ahead.
When she needed an extra pair of hands, help appeared without a word.
Once, after she accidentally scalded her fingers, she woke the next morning to find a small jar of cooling badger balm left on her windowsill—no name attached.
She understood.
What she did would never change the cold nature of the palace.
But in the long, bitter years spent behind its walls, it had cast a small—yet undeniably real—patch of warmth.
A warmth like embers buried in a winter brazier.
Unshowy. Quiet. Persistent.
What Qing Tian did not know was this—
That this humble glow, rising from the corner of the Imperial Kitchen and passing silently among the lowest ranks,
had already drawn the attention of the palace's highest—and loneliest—observer.