On the third day after returning from the hot springs, Xi Yu suddenly stopped what he was doing while helping the old cook pickle winter vegetables in the kitchen.
He was just packing the last handful of salted mustard greens into the earthenware jar, his fingers still dusted with salt grains and crushed Sichuan peppercorns.
The old cook stood nearby, waiting to seal the jar, but noticed Xi Yu staring at the bare-branched old poplar tree outside the window, motionless for a long while.
“What’s wrong?” The old cook set down the oil paper for sealing the jar and wiped his hands on his apron.
“What’s today’s date?” Xi Yu asked absently.
“The seventh of the eleventh month. Why?”
Xi Yu didn’t answer right away.
He pressed the mustard greens flat into the bottom of the jar, took the oil paper, and sealed the mouth himself. Then he said:
“The tenth is my birthday—I almost forgot!”
Last year in the cold palace, Old Zhou had said he’d cook him a bowl of long-life noodles for his eighteenth birthday. But Old Zhou never made it—he passed away before then.
Later, on the winter solstice, Xi Yu had burned down the cold palace and left Daliang alone. Along the way, he never once remembered that he even had a birthday.
Just now, when he saw the bare branches of the old poplar outside the window, it suddenly came back to him—Old Zhou had told him last year that he’d make him noodles for his birthday.
Xi Yu moved the sealed earthenware jar to the corner of the wall, stood up, and brushed the salt grains off his hands, silently reciting to himself: Old Zhou, you don’t have to worry anymore.
Old Zhou had been gone for nearly a year. He had new family in the royal court now. This year, someone would celebrate his birthday for him.
The tenth of the eleventh month was his nineteenth birthday. That day, he wanted a bowl of noodles.
Xi Yu eagerly told the old cook.
The old cook set his brush into the oil jar and suggested, “I’ll roll the dough. Then you can have the young master cook it for you himself.”
Xi Yu smiled and nodded, thinking that sounded perfect.
Xi Yu only told Que Zhi about it.
In his mind, a birthday wasn’t something to make a big fuss over—the last birthday Old Zhou had given him was just a bowl of noodles, an egg, and a few words of advice.
He was used to celebrating it that way.
On the evening of the seventh, Xi Yu was lounging on the low couch reading a storybook.
As soon as Que Zhi returned, Xi Yu went up and hugged him: “The tenth is my birthday. I didn’t get to celebrate it last year. This year I want noodles—the old cook will roll the dough, and you cook them for me, okay?”
His tone carried a hint of soft, coaxing sweetness, yet held complete certainty—utterly assured that Que Zhi would never refuse him.
Que Zhi wrapped his long arms around Xi Yu, pulling him entirely into his embrace. With one hand, he steadily supported Xi Yu’s hips and thighs, letting Xi Yu’s legs naturally wrap around his waist, holding him close and secure.
His low voice sounded by Xi Yu’s ear, gentle and indulgent: “Alright, whatever you say. On your birthday, I’ll personally cook you long-life noodles.”
Que Zhi tilted his head up, his nose lightly brushing against Xi Yu’s soft brow, then covered his lips with his own.
The kiss was tender and lingering, filled with a unique indulgence, slowly rubbing and entwining.
Xi Yu looped his arms around Que Zhi’s neck, instinctively tilting his head back to let him kiss him, the crisp scent of Que Zhi lingering at his nose, his whole body going soft in his arms.
On the evening of the ninth, Batu came to the royal city to deliver newly dried wild chrysanthemums.
He tied his sheep to the old poplar tree and walked in to find Xi Yu reading a storybook.
Batu set the dried chrysanthemums on the stone table, then pulled a cloth bundle from his bosom—
It was palm-sized, with crooked stitches—a small felt pouch, stuffed full of dried wild chrysanthemums and a tiny pinch of dried cheese curds.
He said he’d sewn it himself, taught by his mother. He’d worked on it for several nights and finally finished it the day before yesterday.
“I already know about the tenth. We folks in the royal court don’t really celebrate birthdays—we just remember the season we were born in—but he felt he should give you something.”
Batu scratched his head, putting on a proud front: “The stitching isn’t great, but it’s from the heart. You’re not allowed to look down on it!”
“This is the first one. I’ll make you one every year from now on, and they’ll get better and better.”
Xi Yu took the pouch and looked down at it for a long time.
Then he turned it over. On the back was a crookedly stitched pattern—sort of like a sheep, sort of like a horse, hard to tell—
but it had clearly been drawn with care. Xi Yu looked up: “This is Harbala?”
Batu scratched his head again, his ears growing redder. “You recognized it! Next year I’ll sew you one that looks more like it!”
On the day of the tenth, Xi Yu didn’t tell anyone else. He’d only arranged with Que Zhi to meet at the kitchen at noon for the noodles Que Zhi would cook.
But the moment he pushed open the kitchen door, he found four people already inside.
Hulü Tao was sitting by the stove, holding a bowl of butter tea.
Seeing Xi Yu come in, he set the bowl down on the stove, stood up, and planted his hands on his hips:
“Great—on such an important day and you didn’t even call me! If Batu hadn’t let it slip yesterday, I’d still be in the dark.”
“That little black horse that showed up in the stable today—that’s my birthday gift to you. Name’s Little Snowball.”
Batu waved his hands frantically beside him: “It wasn’t me who let it slip—it was Harbala!”
Harbala poked his head in through the kitchen doorway, still chewing half a leaf of greens, looking utterly innocent.
“And besides—why would a little black horse be called Little Snowball?”
Hulü Xiong was sitting at the other end of the stove, peeling garlic,
sleeves rolled up to his elbows, half a bowl of garlic cloves already peeled. He looked up and said: “I only found out this morning myself. That kid Azhi mentioned it last night when he came to the hunting grounds to borrow a bow. I rode over before dawn today.”
He pointed to a jar of mare’s milk wine on the bench beside him. “This is milder than the fruit wine from last time. I specially picked one that’s been sealed for over half a year.”
The old cook stood in front of the stove, his apron dusted with flour, a board of rolled-out noodles laid out before him.
He said the Khan had found out last night too, and this morning had specially set aside half the kitchen stove for him to focus on rolling the noodles.
Hulü Xiong tossed the garlic cloves into a bowl: “According to Central Plains custom, you eat long-life noodles on your birthday. I’ve never celebrated anyone’s birthday in my life. Today, I’ll have a bowl too, thanks to Ayu.”
Then he looked up and asked the old cook if he’d rolled extra.
The old cook pulled out an entire tray of freshly rolled noodles from behind the stove, saying he’d prepared plenty in advance.
Que Zhi cooked the noodles, and it didn’t take long.
The noodles were brought to the table.
Clear broth, hand-pulled noodles, each bowl with a poached egg, and a few slices of braised mutton on the side.
Xi Yu’s bowl had two poached eggs and more braised mutton than the others.
Hulü Xiong took a bite, then another, and looked up to ask Que Zhi what the broth was made from—what ingredients went into the lamb bone stock—so he could make it himself on future hunts.
“Secret family recipe, not for sharing,” Que Zhi said flatly.
Hulü Tao took a sip, his face full of admiration: “So good! I want to be your apprentice!”
Batu raised his hand and said he wanted to apprentice too.
The old cook rapped his rolling pin twice on the cutting board, indicating he also wanted to learn.
Que Zhi eventually smiled and agreed to all of them.
The kitchen wasn’t large—six people sitting around the cutting board eating noodles made it feel a bit cramped.
But no one felt crowded.
Hulü Xiong took up enough space for two people and refused to budge. Batu was squeezed so tight he had to sit sideways. Harbala lay at his feet, chewing his cud, occasionally lifting his head to nuzzle against Batu’s leg, his little bell jingling.
Hulü Tao ate his noodles fast—a few slurps and his bowl was empty, then he looked longingly at the pot to see if any was left.
The old cook ladled him another half-bowl and told him to eat slower—no one was going to fight him for it.
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