Chapter 80

Chapter 80: Plum Qiaoguo and Almond Pudding

The ride back to the manor passed without incident, and Little Man finally breathed again.

The instant the carriage stopped, Tuan Tuan shot out like an arrow, sprang up the wall, and vaulted over with swaggering ease—vanishing inside.

Lin Qing Xuan watched the sleek black shadow and said coldly, “Wicked beast. There’s a gate, yet you insist on hopping walls.”

Little Man bit back a laugh. “It’s a cat. Freedom is its nature.”

The Buddhist Scion glanced at her. “You defend it very naturally.”

Little Man stuck out her tongue, lifted her basket, and hurried toward the small kitchen—afraid that if she lingered, Lin Qing Xuan would start arguing in earnest.

After Chen Shi stacked the supplies neatly, he rushed off to find Granny Chen, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Ma! Let me tell you—today at the market, Eldest Young Master held Miss Little Man’s hand! And she didn’t even dodge!”

Granny Chen cracked sunflower seeds, looking smug, as if she’d been waiting for this report all along.

“Isn’t that normal?”

Old Chen Tou, pipe in hand, narrowed his eyes. “He wore plain clothes today, right?”

Chen Shi nodded so hard his neck nearly snapped. “Plain clothes. Definitely.”

Only then did Old Chen Tou relax. “Good.”

Granny Chen slapped her thigh and burst out laughing. “If he’d worn monk’s robes while holding a little miss’s hand, that would be shameless! The storytellers would dine out on it—’handsome monk runs away with little wife’ and all that.”

Old Chen Tou’s face darkened. “Enough. I’m worried people will talk. You’re the one filling your head with nonsense.”

Granny Chen waved him off and asked, “So why did you go to the market today, anyway?”

Chen Shi scratched his head. “Eldest Young Master said Miss Little Man wanted to make almond pudding. He took her to pick supplies.”

Then he remembered and added quickly, “Oh! He also told you to make a few jars of pickled plums. He said Miss Little Man wants them.”

Granny Chen blinked. “Fresh plums at this season?”

Muttering, she rummaged through a cabinet and pulled out a small clay jar.

“I still have half a jar from last year. The flavor’s deep now. I’ll give it to Miss Little Man first, let her satisfy her craving.”

High on the wall, Tuan Tuan licked its paw with lazy elegance, golden eyes fixed on the kitchen’s busy movements.

Its tail flicked once, and it dropped soundlessly into shadow.

It could feel it. Beneath this brief, sweet calm, something was stirring.

Lin Qing Xuan and Little Man had been followed.

Little Man’s eyes lit up when she saw the jar of pickled plums. She accepted it like treasure.

In her mind, plans stacked neatly: almond pudding first, then plum qiaoguo for everyone to share. They’d bought plenty—she could send some to the three cousin misses, and some to Old Madam for a taste.

She poured sweet almonds into a basin, soaked them carefully, and peeled each one clean.

The almonds came out white and full. She combined them with a little soaked glutinous rice, fed them into the stone mill, and began grinding.

Soon, pale almond milk slid from the grooves in slow, silky ribbons, filling the air with a clean sweetness.

When the grinding was done, she filtered the liquid through fine gauze until it ran smooth, free of grit.

Then came the most important step: boiling.

Almonds carried a faint toxicity. The milk had to be cooked through, the raw harshness driven out.

Little Man stood over the stove, focused, patiently skimming the foam as it rose.

Somewhere along the way, Lin Qing Xuan had changed back into plain clothes. He stood at the kitchen door, quiet as a shadow, watching her with a faint smile he didn’t seem to notice.

This Little Man—intent on food, alive in the heat of it—was nothing like the careful, deliberately humble girl she’d been in front of him before.

She looked like someone warmed through by living.

He stepped in, lifted a hand, and reached as if to wipe the fine sweat at her temple.

“Eldest Young Master, what are you doing?” Little Man jolted and stepped back at once. She hated being interrupted while cooking. “The kitchen’s smoky and greasy. It’s not clean. Go out.”

Lin Qing Xuan’s hand froze midair. He didn’t retreat.

“I can help.”

Little Man didn’t even look convinced. “I don’t believe you.”

His tone sharpened with stubborn pride. “I’m not only good at chanting scriptures. I can do things.”

Little Man went stiff. She turned and glared at him, annoyance flashing hot and bright.

“Eldest Young Master, this thing where you can hear my thoughts—it’s giving me no privacy.”

Why could he hear everything she thought, while she couldn’t hear a single thing from him?

It wasn’t fair.

“I can’t control it,” Lin Qing Xuan said, helpless and sincere. “The words just arrive. As for you not hearing mine… I’ll check the archives. Maybe I can find a way to make it possible.”

Little Man stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Who wants to hear yours!”

Flustered, she turned back to the pot—and her hand slipped.

“Ow!”

A drop of scalding almond milk splashed onto her fingertip.

At the same time, Lin Qing Xuan felt a sharp sting in his own fingers. His expression changed. He didn’t spare himself a thought—he grabbed her hand and plunged it into a basin of cool water.

The chill made her shiver. She glared at him, half furious, half helpless.

“This is all your fault! You distracted me, and I got burned!”

“I’ll get mint salve,” Lin Qing Xuan said at once, already moving.

“No!” Little Man stopped him. “It’s fine. I still have to knead dough for the qiaoguo. If I put mint on my hands, the dough will smell like it.”

“But your hand—” Lin Qing Xuan’s voice tightened. “Are you sure it’s fine?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Now go out. Be good,” she said, coaxing him like one soothed a child.

Lin Qing Xuan looked at her for a long beat, then nodded.

“All right. I’ll be good. If anything happens, call me immediately.”

Little Man nodded quickly, already turning back to her work.

Inside, she was screaming.

Lin Qing Xuan paused at the doorway—then finally left.

With him gone, the fire under the pot seemed to burn brighter. The almond milk boiled up again.

Little Man thickened it with a little glutinous rice slurry, stirring with long chopsticks until it turned smooth and glossy, thickening toward a soft, half-set pudding. Only then did she add generous yellow rock sugar, deepening the sweetness.

At last, the almond pudding was done.

The fragrance poured out of the small kitchen like a living thing—sweet, rich, impossible to ignore.

A voice drifted in from outside, laughing. “Oh my, what is this? It smells so good this old servant can barely walk!”

Granny Chen poked her head in, eyes locked on the milky pot.

“Miss Little Man, this old servant has thick skin—can I beg a bowl?”

“Listen to you.” Little Man laughed and ladled it out bowl by bowl. She filled three celadon bowls for Granny Chen’s family, generous to the brim. “Careful, it’s hot. Let it cool before you eat. If it isn’t sweet enough, add more sugar.”

“It’s sweet enough! I like it sweet!” Granny Chen beamed, taking the tray like it was precious. “Miss Little Man, your skill is incredible. You’re not worse than the dessert master in the main kitchen.”

She started to leave, then turned back. “Can we give a bowl to Granny Wang, the one who sweeps?”

“Of course. I made a big pot. If you finish yours, come get more.” Little Man poured another bowl without hesitation.

Then she added, “Granny Chen, I need a favor. Can you have Stone go to Old Madam’s courtyard and call Dong Chun over? Tell her to come eat almond pudding. I’m going to make qiaoguo next—and when they’re done, you can come take some too.”

The qiaoguo Little Man planned to make were crisp fried pastries—something like cookies in spirit, but more delicate. Half her sweets skill came from her aunt; the other half came from a pastry class she’d paid for herself long ago. Put together, old and new braided into something special.

She climbed onto a small stool and retrieved carved molds from a high cabinet: twin fish, lotus pods, smiling faces.

This Heir Lord’s residence is really nice, she thought, half amazed.

On the board, ingredients waited in orderly piles: flour, sesame oil, honey, fresh huo xiang juice, a jar of pickled plums, and osmanthus and sesame for garnish.

She sifted fine flour into a celadon basin until it piled like a small snowdrift.

Then she heated sesame oil in a clay pot. Tiny bubbles rose; the oil began to murmur and crackle.

She poured the hot oil into the flour in one bold sweep.

Chopsticks spun fast in her hands, flour tumbling with amber beads of oil. Warm fragrance rose like breath against her skin.

When the crumbs cooled to warm softness, she drizzled in osmanthus honey and worked in the clean, sharp huo xiang juice. Under her palms, the dough gathered strength and smoothed into a heavy, glossy ball.

She dusted an elm board, rolled the dough thin with a jujube-wood pin—thin enough that the wood grain showed through.

“Miss Little Man! Did you save almond pudding for me?”

Dong Chun arrived like a gust of wind—voice first, body second.

“Perfect timing,” Little Man said without looking up. “Stop thinking about eating and come help. We’re making qiaoguo.”

She pushed the molds over.

Dong Chun oiled a mold carefully, then chose the twin-fish pattern. She pressed, lifted with a practiced twist—and a glossy flower-shaped piece lay on the board. Lotus pods, smiling faces; soon the board was crowded with pale dough blossoms.

Dong Chun held one up to the light. Sun shone through it, revealing tiny pores like fine gauze.

“Miss Little Man, you rolled these so thin! Once they hit the oil, they’ll shatter crisp.”

Little Man set a wok over the flame and poured in oil.

Dong Chun leaned in at once. “Make sure the oil’s hot enough. Otherwise, it wastes good dough.”

Little Man hummed assent, eyes fixed on the surface.

Bubbles rose.

She slid a piece into the oil.

Sizzle.

Gold raced along the edge like dawn breaking through fog. The qiaoguo puffed and bloomed, honeycomb texture rising, delicate and fierce.

In what felt like thirty heartbeats, golden clouds floated to the surface—and the scent of honey and oil stormed the small kitchen.

It drew everyone in.

Granny Chen’s family arrived, and even Lin Qing Xuan appeared at the doorway, quiet as shadow.

“Granny Chen,” Little Man called, “help bring the bamboo racks. We need to string the qiaoguo up to dry.”

“Coming!” Granny Chen answered, already turning to fetch tools.

Stone clung to the doorframe, swallowing hard. “Ma, give me one. Just one taste—”

Granny Chen shot him a glare, scolding through a laugh. “Greedy monkey! Eldest Young Master hasn’t even eaten yet and you dare plot for yourself?”

Old Chen Tou wandered in with his pipe and tapped it on the doorframe, squinting at the steam. “Good heavens. Smells so good my tobacco’s lost its taste.”

Little Man lifted a netful of golden qiaoguo from the oil and tipped them into the clay bowl Dong Chun held ready. Dong Chun pinched them quickly, shaking off oil with nimble fingers.

Granny Chen threaded colored string through the little holes in each piece—holes Little Man had poked ahead of time with a hairpin, now neat and clear after the fry.

Dong Chun sighed wistfully as she watched the strings grow heavy with golden pastries. “If only we had rose jam. Brush a layer on and it’d be perfect.”

Little Man’s eyes brightened with a sudden idea. “What about the pickled plums you gave me? Put one on each. Sweet and sour—might be a surprise.”

“Pickled plums?” Dong Chun practically sparkled. “You’re brilliant. That sounds incredible!”

Lin Qing Xuan remained at the door, saying nothing.

He simply watched her in the warmth and smoke, watched her direct everyone with quick hands and brighter life—like she could make any place feel lived in, alive, worth staying for.