"They're not really angry at the food."
During their short break, Qing Tian, Xiaoman, and Fugui hid behind the firewood shed, splitting half of a cold, rock-hard bun. Qing Tian spoke quietly, her eyes thoughtful.
Xiaoman chewed, her cheeks puffed out.
"Then what are they mad about? We didn't offend any of the consorts."
Fugui lowered his voice even further.
"We didn't… but someone did. I heard that Noble Consort Liu's brother tried to recruit Chef Zhang as a private chef. Chef Zhang refused him flat out. And right after that… all this started."
Xiaoman's eyes widened.
"Then why are Consort De and Consort Xian also targeting us?"
Qing Tian answered calmly,
"Maybe they've joined forces. Or maybe someone is using this chance to remind the whole Imperial Kitchen who really holds power."
She thought of Chef Zhang's heavy warnings. Of Wang Youcai's sneaky movements. Of Nanny Liu's sharpening eyes. It all felt like threads of the same invisible web, tightening.
"They're venting," Qing Tian said softly.
"Sometimes at Chef Zhang. Sometimes at us. Sometimes just because they're angry… and food is the easiest excuse."
Xiaoman slumped.
"So what do we do? We can't exactly go calm the consorts down, can we?"
She meant it jokingly.
Qing Tian did not laugh.
Calm them down…?
What if food didn't just absorb emotions—but could also guide them?
Like controlling a flood: blocking it only makes it worse. But if you give it channels, it flows gently.
She remembered the calming pastries she had once made. Poria's steadiness. Lily bulb's clarity. Jujube's warmth. When balanced correctly, they really did soothe the mind.
If they could calm insomnia… could they soften anger too?
A spark flared in her thoughts.
She would never dare use this on the consorts' meals. That would be suicide. But what about the people here? The cooks, the helpers, the servants—everyone crushed by the pressure and nowhere to release it?
Food didn't have to be just sustenance.
It could be emotional medicine.
That night, she began to experiment.
White radish—cool and clean.
Taro—soft and comforting.
Perilla leaves—sharp and clarifying.
Red dates—warm.
Lotus seeds—cooling.
Lily bulbs—soothing.
Aged tangerine peel—bitter turned gentle.
She used scraps no one wanted. Crooked radish ends. Small taro. Torn herbs. Broken lily bulbs. A tiny charcoal stove. A battered pan.
Thin slices of radish and taro, slowly roasted until crisp. A touch of salt. A dusting of calming perilla powder.
Red dates, lotus seeds, lily, and aged peel, gently simmered into a golden, fragrant soup.
Xiaoman peeked in. Fugui quietly brought more charcoal.
When it was done, Qing Tian handed them each a small bowl and a handful of crispy chips.
"Try."
Crunch.
Xiaoman froze. Then crunched again.
Something about the crisp sound and clean flavor felt… strangely relieving.
Fugui drank the soup slowly. Warmth spread through his chest. His brow, tight for days, loosened.
"…Weird," Xiaoman muttered.
"I don't feel so angry anymore."
Qing Tian tasted it too.
It worked.
Not magic.
But something very real had begun.