Chapter 9: Climbing the Ranks for Better Food

Shen Zhiyi stood by the west wing’s window, her expression outwardly calm. The dangerous gifts frightened her, but fear would do her no good. Neither would confronting anyone now.

She had no evidence. Even if she threw the items down in front of their senders, they would simply produce a few scapegoats. She wouldn’t harm them in the least; she would only alert them to her suspicions.

Better to wait. Wait for the right moment, until she had enough leverage, until she was no longer a little First Attendant whom anyone could trample. When that time came, she would pay them back for every single gift.

Outside, the sun was sinking westward, casting a long shadow across Changchun Palace’s courtyard. A few sparrows landed in the osmanthus tree, chirped, and flew off in a flutter of wings.

Zhiyi gently, slowly laid a hand over her lower abdomen. It was still flat; she could feel nothing there. But she knew something had already taken root: her child, and her future support in the harem.

She turned toward the inner room. “Bitao, serve dinner. I’m hungry.”

Then she added, “Tomorrow morning, send the two bolts Honored Consort Rou gave me to the sewing room. Ask them to make me two outfits as quickly as they can.”

“Yes, my lady.”

When dinner arrived, Zhiyi was genuinely surprised. There were four dishes, a soup, and two pastries: steamed sea bass, braised pork knuckle, Wensi tofu, and stir-fried seasonal greens, accompanied by black chicken soup with goji berries, osmanthus cakes, and date-paste pastries.

The food came in porcelain decorated with gold and winding lotus vines. Set steaming on the table, it was a feast for the eyes and nose as well as the mouth. Zhiyi remembered that a First Attendant’s allowance was two dishes and a soup; this clearly exceeded it. Most likely the imperial kitchen was doing her a favor because of her promotion, a way of pleasing someone the emperor had recently noticed.

As Bitao laid out the meal, she kept looking toward the door, stretching her neck like a goose waiting to be fed.

Zhiyi picked up her chopsticks and took a piece of steamed bass. It was so tender it melted in her mouth. After a couple of bites, she looked up. “Bitao, what are you looking at?”

Bitao leaned close, eyes sparkling, and lowered her voice. “My lady, I wonder if His Majesty will summon you again tonight.”

Zhiyi nearly choked on her fish. She put down her chopsticks and couldn’t help laughing at Bitao’s round, expectant face. The girl was simplehearted: since the emperor had taken notice of her mistress, she thought Zhiyi should press her advantage and win his exclusive favor every night.

Zhiyi shook her head. “He won’t.”

Bitao’s smile froze halfway. “Why not? You were promoted to First Attendant today. His Majesty must care about you!”

“Bitao, remember this: the emperor is an emperor first.”

Bitao blinked, not quite understanding.

“Why was this selection held?” Zhiyi asked.

Bitao thought for a moment. “To continue the imperial line.”

“Exactly. It was held to produce heirs, not so he could favor one person alone. If he spends all his attention on one woman, what was the point of the selection? If he leaves all the newcomers waiting, how can he answer to the Empress Dowager and the ministers?”

Bitao opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Zhiyi picked up her chopsticks and ate a little of the greens. “Even if he’s somewhat interested in me, it will have to wait until all the newcomers have attended him. He isn’t the sort of man to be led around by a passing fancy.”

She remembered Li Xuandu the night before. Even in their most intimate moments, he had never lost control. His restraint and reason seemed ingrained, like instincts trained into him since childhood. A man like that would not break the rules for a little First Attendant.

Bitao nodded thoughtfully. The eager light in her eyes faded, replaced by a pensive expression that suggested she only half understood. Qingluo, who had been silent, frowned at her in warning: don’t say any more. Bitao caught the signal, obediently closed her mouth, and stepped aside.

Qingluo moved a dish in front of Zhiyi. “My lady, try the Wensi tofu. It’s one of the imperial kitchen’s specialties, not something one gets to taste often.”

Zhiyi looked down. The tofu had been cut into distinct strands as fine as hair, spreading in the clear broth like a translucent chrysanthemum. She took a spoonful. The silky threads slipped across her tongue and seemed to melt without chewing; the savory broth and delicate tofu mingled so beautifully that the flavor made her tongue tingle.

Her eyes lit up. It was delicious. In all her twenty-six years in the modern world, every Michelin-starred restaurant she had visited put together hadn’t astonished her as much as this one mouthful. The imperial kitchen deserved its reputation. In the modern world, a dish like this would require a reservation at least three months in advance!

She took another spoonful, savoring it more carefully: the fine, tender tofu, the rich broth, the salty fragrance of minced ham, each layer distinct yet perfectly blended. Her lips curved. For this dish alone, perhaps transmigrating wasn’t such a bad bargain.

No, one dish wasn’t enough. She looked down at her flat belly and did a quick calculation. A First Attendant received two dishes and a soup; a Noble Lady, four dishes and a soup; a Concubine, six dishes and a soup; a Consort or higher, eight dishes and a soup. The empress received twelve dishes.

If she wanted better food, she would have to rise in rank. There it was: another reason to work hard at having children and climbing the ladder, all so she could keep eating delicious things.

She lifted the black chicken and goji soup and took a sip. It was rich and delicious, warmth traveling from her throat to her stomach. She narrowed her eyes in pleasure. How lovely.

Once full, Zhiyi leaned back in her chair and slowly drank a cup of tea to aid digestion, going over the day’s events. Since leaving Kunning Palace, she had been dealing with one situation after another. Now that it was quiet, the day’s impressions began to settle in her mind.

Attendant Liu had singled her out at Kunning Palace. Zhiyi remembered her expression clearly, but what drew her attention most were the woman’s hands.

On the day of the selection, someone had pushed her into the lotus pond in the Imperial Garden. The memories from before she woke were blurred: only the hem of a pale yellow skirt and a pair of beautiful hands, ten slender fingers with pale pink polish.

Liu had worn pale yellow today, and her nails were painted pink. Zhiyi’s gaze sharpened. Liu’s hostility had been so strong that she hadn’t even bothered to conceal it before the empress and the whole hall. It seemed plausible that she might also have pushed someone into the water.

In the harem, hating someone enough to want her dead was hardly unusual. But could it really be that simple?