The Tang Manor had fallen into a rare silence. My father, the prime minister, had been dispatched to the northern province by imperial decree to supervise a massive irrigation project so I haven't met him personally. With him away, the household felt hushed aside from bickering and throwing insults by my cousins here and there. My days settled into a repetitive rhythm. The chilly morning walk to Grandmother's hall for formal greetings, followed by a breakfast with mother. The food remained a bland, watery misery, but I didn't mind the boredom. The quiet gave me exactly what I needed. Time.
I had turned a corner of my courtyard into a makeshift laboratory. To anyone else, it looked like a mess of roots and jars but I'm making something this era has never seen yet.
"Miss, the kitchen stewards have begun," Shu-er reported, her voice steady and reliable.
"They are grinding the toasted sesame seeds in the stone mill now. The sugarcane has been moved to the wooden press as you ordered. Qin-er is personally supervising the roasting cauldrons to ensure nothing burns."
I nodded, satisfied. I was currently tackling the most basic of human cravings: sweetness. In this era of the Great Yan, people relied on honey or sticky maltose. The concept of granulated sugar was still unknown for them.
The process was grueling. I had instructed the servants to peel and cube the sugarcane, explaining the principle of surface area to maximize juice extraction. Once pressed and strained, the raw juice will be boiled in massive vats, then simmered slowly into a thick, dark syrup. As it cooled and hardened, we would grind the slabs into fine, golden-brown crystals.
Give it one more week, I thought, looking at the cooling vats. I will finally taste a meal that doesn't remind me of cardboard.
But food was only half the battle. I turned my attention to the array of jars on my vanity. My "skincare revolution".
Using the treasures from the market, I had created a series of creams. Since neem wasn't available in this region yet, I substituted it with wild mugwort, a plant my school books noted for its healing properties. I blended it with the turmeric from the Sindhu merchant and raw honey to create an anti-inflammatory mask for my acne.
The crown jewel, however, was the Aloe Vera. The merchant had practically given it to me for free, laughing because he thought he was selling me useless, slimy weeds without knowing that he is actually holding the secret to cell regeneration.
I had developed three distinct formulas: one for a radiant glow, one for brightening and a concentrated cream for acne on my cheeks. I was my own test subject, carefully documenting the results each morning.
I looked at my reflection in the bronze mirror, dabbing the cooling green gel onto my skin. In this dynasty, beauty wasn't just vanity, it was armor. These noble girls were obsessed with the "porcelain look," yet they used lead-based powders that poisoned their skin over time.
If my formulas worked, I wouldn't just be curing my face. I would be creating a business opportunity.