Jiang Nong had guessed that Yu Lingxin’s place wouldn’t have much to offer, so before leaving, she left a note for Rong Mian, instructing her to get some ingredients from the Imperial Kitchen.
Rong Mian returned with some meat and pastry dough.
“The Imperial Kitchen said they specially set aside the finest piece of lamb for us—perfect for dumplings or grilling.”
Xunliang examined it and said: “Indeed, it’s excellent. Usually, what the Imperial Kitchen gives us is never this good. We have the Ninth Princess to thank for this.”
Xi’s winters were damp and cold, and there was a tradition of eating lamb in winter to ward off the chill. Since the tenth month this year, seven out of every ten meals sent by the Imperial Kitchen contained lamb.
The realm had only been at peace for forty years. In the earlier days of war and displacement, even the inner court had to tighten its belt. The late king would often reflect on the people’s suffering whenever he ate meat. It was only in recent years that livestock farming had flourished, and no noble complained of being tired of it.
Yu Lingxin was kneading dough. Jiang Nong poured water into the flour, asking if it was enough.
He glanced up and instructed Xunliang: “Don’t bring the lamb inside. Find a shady spot outside to store it for now.”
Xunliang was puzzled—even he thought this wasn’t right. Being so frugal at a time like this seemed a bit petty, especially since the ingredients had been obtained through the Ninth Princess’s connections.
Rong Mian’s face fell immediately. She glanced at Jiang Nong’s indifferent expression and held her tongue, but it didn’t stop her from resenting Yu Lingxin. She banged about as she worked—it was just lamb, nothing so precious that it had to be saved for later. It wasn’t that they coveted the food; they just disapproved of Yu Lingxin’s miserly ways.
Jiang Nong nudged him with her elbow: “Don’t you like it? It won’t be fresh if you keep it too long. Don’t be so frugal—I’ll have more sent to you tomorrow. Your wound hasn’t fully healed—you should eat more nourishing food.”
The Court of the Imperial Treasury had always treated him poorly, shortchanging even his rightful rations. Last time she came to boil medicine here, the stove had only vegetables and pickled greens. Meat was probably a rare treat—no wonder he treasured it and couldn’t bear to use it.
Jiang Nong couldn’t help sneaking glances at his height. It was remarkable that he’d grown so tall on so little food—all the nutrition must have gone straight to his bones. If only she could borrow a few inches of his height; she’d feel safe wherever she went.
“Lamb has a strong smell—you probably don’t like it.”
Rong Mian was about to scold him for talking nonsense—she’d never heard her mistress say she disliked lamb—but Jiang Nong suddenly clapped her hands in delight, cutting off whatever Rong Mian was about to say.
“How did you know? I’ve never told anyone!” Jiang Nong looked at him in surprise. “But it’s alright, I can tolerate it. I can eat almost anything. Or you all can have it—it’s New Year’s. Don’t make everyone accommodate me.”
She felt a little flutter of joy—the happiness of having a small habit she’d never mentioned being noticed and remembered.
Still, she couldn’t figure out how Yu Lingxin knew. Even Chao Ning and her mother didn’t know.
Had she revealed it somehow during lunch at the academy? Yu Lingxin’s eyesight was poor, but his observation was remarkably keen.
Jiang Nong, in matters of food, clothing, and daily life, rarely voiced her dislikes—especially when it came to palace-issued rations. She made do with whatever she got. Partly because she hadn’t had much say before, partly because she didn’t want to trouble others for her sake, and partly because the inner court valued simplicity. Even the Empress didn’t complain about lamb’s gaminess—if she did, she’d risk gossip.
Rong Mian’s expression shifted from shock to silent understanding.
It was true—the princess never said what she disliked. She made do with everything.
Something in Rong Mian’s heart felt sour, like a squeezed lemon—jealousy prickled. She’d grown up with the princess and had never noticed this, yet Yu Lingxin had.
“Then you can pretend I don’t like it either,” Yu Lingxin said, his eyes crinkling into a smile. “Whatever you don’t like, I won’t like either. This is our first New Year together—I want you to be happy. Things you don’t like are best kept away.”
His armband had come loose. Jiang Nong averted her eyes and helped him retie it, letting out a small cough: “Thank you.” Then she turned to look at the ingredients.
“If we’re not making lamb dumplings, what else can we use?” She reached out and poked through the pile of ingredients Rong Mian had brought. “What’s this meat?”
She leaned in with her hands behind her back and sniffed—some had a strong gamey smell, others less so. The odor made her wrinkle her nose. In any case, she had never set foot in a kitchen and couldn’t tell them apart.
Yu Lingxin watched her expression from a distance, smiled to himself, and said: “From left to right—venison, beef, and pork.”
Jiang Nong found it amazing. Her eyes widened—he could tell from that far away?
Yu Lingxin was actually someone who could shine in the front hall and hold his own in the kitchen. Who would have thought that the future bloodthirsty tyrant, at just over ten years old, could rattle off ingredients like a seasoned chef and cook with such skill?
If only he could stay like this.
She even felt a little reassured—she had a vague sense that people who were good at cooking were kind at heart. After all, someone who spent their days thinking about food and wanting to eat well couldn’t have much evil in them.
“We can make fish dumplings,” Yu Lingxin said, scanning the ingredients, and asked if she wanted to try.
Jiang Nong’s eyes lit up. She nodded eagerly: “Yes, yes! I love fish the most. Is that a specialty of your Tan?” In her past life, she had held a grudge against Yu Lingxin, but she’d always enjoyed the food at Tan’s royal palace—the fish dumplings were especially delicious.
“You could call it a specialty,” Yu Lingxin replied, lowering his head as he kneaded the dough into a smooth, elastic ball, divided it, and rolled it into strips.
Rong Mian scratched her head, feeling like the two were speaking in riddles. When had the Imperial Kitchen ever made fish dumplings? They were mostly lamb.
Xunliang, tending the fire, glanced at Yu Lingxin briefly, then turned back to stare into the stove.
Yu Lingxin had been taking care of himself since childhood, so he was adept at chopping, washing, and prepping—more skilled than one would expect of a prince. Even his dumplings were more delicate than the Imperial Kitchen’s. Jiang Nong began to think Jiang Yuan’s description of him as “virtuous and gentle” was remarkably accurate.
She also felt much more confident about Yu Lingxin’s future development.
Across two lifetimes, Jiang Nong had never cooked a single meal. Her dumplings turned out a complete mess. The salvageable ones, Yu Lingxin reshaped for her; the unsalvageable…
Well, those just couldn’t be saved.
Xunliang closed his eyes, then forced them open again—unable to believe they’d be eating such ugly things on New Year’s.
Yu Lingxin, as if blind, kept praising her: “Wonderful—you can already make them on your first try. I wasn’t nearly as clever as Sister when I started.” His praise sent Jiang Nong floating on cloud nine, and she enthusiastically made several more ugly dumplings.
Half of Jiang Nong’s confidence came from Yu Lingxin’s flattery; the other half from Rong Mian’s incompetence in comparison. Rong Mian’s dumplings were even worse than hers—after a few attempts, flustered and embarrassed, she retreated to tend the fire.
The Court of the Imperial Treasury had renovated the house—fixed what needed fixing, added what needed adding. Outside, the north wind howled, rattling the window paper. Fireworks and firecrackers went off one after another, casting red light across the window panes. Inside, steam rose, filling the room with warmth.
Yu Lingxin placed the intact dumplings into Jiang Nong’s bowl, keeping the broken ones for himself. As he set the bowls on the table, steam blurred his face, making him look even gentler and more serene.
Xunliang saw his master’s bowl full of broken dumplings and felt a pang of sorrow. He tried to swap his own bowl with Yu Lingxin’s, but Yu Lingxin quietly slapped his hand away.
Jiang Nong raised her cup to them in a toast, hoping the new year would be a good one, and that everything would go as she wished.
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