Chapter 112
Chapter 112: A Two-Person World in the Kitchen
Back in the manor, Dong Chun hadn’t even reached the small kitchen door when her famous voice barged in ahead of her.
“Xiao Man! My dear Xiao Man! Are you here?”
Before the last word landed, she swept inside like a whirlwind, sniffing the air with exaggerated devotion, eyes shining as if she’d found buried treasure.
“Matron Zhang from the main kitchen is nearly raving! She says you stole all the freshest shepherd’s purse this morning and used it to wrap wontons. The smell drifted all the way to Old Madam’s courtyard! Old Madam caught a whiff and wants a taste too!”
Xiao Man was wiping down the board. She looked up, helpless, and pointed to the raw wontons covered under gauze at the edge.
“Only these vegetarian ones are left—shepherd’s purse and dried tofu. Will that do? They were… meant for Eldest Young Master. But if Old Madam wants them, then Old Madam comes first.”
Dong Chun’s gaze darted around the kitchen like a thief on patrol. Then she leaned close, voice dropping into a conspiratorial hiss.
“Don’t try to fool me. The whole kitchen is talking. You wrapped shrimp-and-meat wontons too, and they were heavenly. Xiao Man, Xiao Man—how could you hide something that good from us?”
Xiao Man laughed and poked Dong Chun’s forehead with a flour-dusted finger.
“Look at you. Old Madam isn’t the one going crazy—your mouth is.”
She didn’t let her off. “We already ate the shrimp-and-meat ones. Who told you not to come early? You missed the hot batch.”
“My heavens!”
Dong Chun clutched her chest like she’d been stabbed, face full of tragedy.
“I missed big shrimp wontons! This is the greatest disaster of my life! My heart has shattered into dumpling filling!”
She stared at Xiao Man with the mournful eyes of a dog denied its bone.
Then, just as quickly, she rallied. Missing one feast only meant plotting the next.
“If I missed wontons, I can’t miss dumplings. Look at this freezing weather—perfect for dumplings. Tomorrow! Just tomorrow! I’ll go to the main kitchen for the best pork belly and flour. I’ll ask Sister Xiu He for leave. You and me—we’ll wrap dumplings and eat. Deal?”
Xiao Man couldn’t help laughing.
“I promised Third Miss and the others I’d make noodle-fish dough-drop soup tomorrow.”
“I can eat that too!”
Dong Chun fired back instantly, words tumbling over each other.
“I love that! It’s settled. I’ll be here on time. Save me a big bowl—no, a whole basin!”
“Fine, fine,” Xiao Man surrendered with a smile. “You maid, is there anything you can’t eat?”
She handed Dong Chun the packed raw wontons.
“Take these to Old Madam. Have Sister Xiu He boil them in the small kitchen. Tell her to add more dried shrimp to the soup for flavor.”
Then she pointed to a smaller portion set aside by the stove.
“But these stay here. I’m saving them for Eldest Young Master. Don’t even think about stealing this bit of fortune.”
Somewhere in her chest, a quiet certainty had taken root: tonight, Lin Qing Xuan might return.
Dong Chun tried to crush the thought with blunt reality.
“Oh, sister, stop dreaming. Eldest Young Master has been at the temple retreating for days. Whether he can come back tonight is still anyone’s guess. Focus on Old Madam first. When he comes back in a few days, wrap him a fresh batch—better than these.”
Her motives weren’t noble; she simply wanted more shepherd’s purse wontons, even if they were vegetarian.
“Xiao Man, put the wontons on. I’m hungry.”
The voice came from behind Dong Chun—cool, familiar, utterly unannounced.
Dong Chun went rigid. A chill ran straight up her spine. Her hands shook, and the tray nearly slipped.
Caught red-handed—talking behind someone’s back, and the person appearing like a ghost.
Dong Chun didn’t dare turn around. Face burning, she grabbed the tray meant for Old Madam and fled without even bowing, head down like a criminal escaping the scene.
Outside, Stone was dozing against the doorframe. Seeing Dong Chun bolt like her shoes were on fire, he couldn’t resist.
“Hey, Sister Dong Chun, did you see a ghost? Since when do you run faster than a rabbit? You saw Eldest Young Master and didn’t even bow.”
“Mind your own business!”
Dong Chun snapped, and vanished around the corner.
Inside, Xiao Man looked at Lin Qing Xuan—back, unexpectedly, exactly as she’d felt he would be—and the corners of her mouth lifted.
There was something satisfied in her smile, as if the world had quietly kept its promise.
Lin Qing Xuan’s gaze followed her as she turned to wash her hands, light-footed. The kitchen’s warmth softened the lingering weight in his eyes.
At the temple, he’d turned his thoughts over and over and found no answer. Yet here, with steam rising and the faint scent of flour in the air, the knot in his chest loosened as if it had never been so tight.
Simply watching her move at the stove brought him an unfamiliar peace.
“Why aren’t you waiting in the tea room?” Xiao Man asked without looking back, sleeves rolled, eyes on the pot as the water began to tremble with heat. “It’s smoky in here.”
Lin Qing Xuan shook his head, gaze refusing to leave her.
“I’m hungry.”
More than that, he wanted to sit here and watch her do ordinary things, as if ordinary things could hold him steady.
She didn’t use the rich bone broth this time. Lin Qing Xuan kept strict rules and avoided scallion, ginger, and garlic; he even ate plain.
So she boiled clear spring water, added a fine pinch of salt, and finished with two drops of sesame oil. A bowl of clean, simple vegetarian wontons, steam curling like silk.
Lin Qing Xuan accepted the warm porcelain bowl. The rising heat blurred the clean lines of his face.
He didn’t lift his spoon at once. He looked up.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not yet,” Xiao Man said, as if it were obvious. “I was waiting for you.”
She poured herself a bowl too.
They didn’t go to the dining hall. In the small kitchen, warm as a pocket of light, they sat facing each other on simple stools and ate their late meal.
“Xiao Man,” Lin Qing Xuan said quietly, stirring the wontons as if the motion might help him shape his thoughts, “I wasn’t angry.”
Xiao Man raised a brow.
“Then what were you doing, running off to a temple?”
“I had things I couldn’t understand,” he admitted. “So I went to ask the Buddha.”
Xiao Man nearly choked on laughter.
“You went to ask a clay statue about you and me? Does the Buddha answer that sort of thing?”
Lin Qing Xuan’s ears warmed, a faint flush creeping up.
“The Buddha… didn’t have time to answer.”
He paused, then met her eyes fully, the seriousness in his gaze steady as stone.
“But Stone said you missed me. So I came back. I thought asking you might be faster than asking the Buddha.”
Xiao Man’s lips curved, amused and oddly touched at once.
“Oh?” She dragged the sound out, teasing. “Eldest Young Master, congratulations. Your brain hasn’t been chanted into mush. You’re not a monk who only knows how to recite—you’re still salvageable.”
Lin Qing Xuan didn’t take offense. If anything, the warmth in his chest deepened.
Xiao Man sipped her broth, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and leaned back slightly.
“Fine. Since you’re being so sincere, ask. This miss will answer.”
Lin Qing Xuan ate a wonton.
Shepherd’s purse—clean and fragrant. Dried tofu—tender chew. The wrapper smooth, the broth light. Simple, and yet it lingered on the tongue.
He set down his spoon.
The question he’d carried for days—heavy enough to drive him to the temple—rose at last, clear and unavoidable.
“Are you really going to leave, Xiao Man?”
Xiao Man’s hand paused.
She didn’t look away. Her eyes were clear, honest.
“Maybe.” A breath. “Probably.”
He watched the light in her gaze without blinking, but the brightness in his own eyes faltered, like a candle trembled by wind.
Xiao Man saw it and softened, voice gentler without losing its firmness.
“But the time hasn’t come, has it? If you start suffering over things that haven’t happened yet, how will you live the days ahead? Why borrow trouble?”
Maybe. Probably.
The time hadn’t come.