The first signs of change appeared in places few had expected.
Consort De's palace returned noticeably fewer dishes. In the past, a single extra drop of oil could provoke a long lecture; now, unless a dish was truly unsuitable, it passed without incident.
Over at Consort Xian's residence, requests for "health-preserving medicinal meals" continued to arrive in abundance—but the tone had shifted. Where once the orders were vague, probing, and laced with fault-finding, they now came with clearer specifications: "Old duck, no less than three years," "Lanzhou bitter lily bulbs only." Still demanding, still exacting—but at least the standards were explicit. The Imperial Kitchen finally had something solid to work with.
These changes were subtle. On the surface, they could be dismissed as fleeting moods of two favored consorts. Yet for those trapped at the heart of the storm, the difference was unmistakable.
During his rounds, Chief Steward Li's tightly drawn mouth seemed—just barely—to loosen.
The moment Qing Tian realized she might have pried open an entirely new path came a few days later.
A low-ranking Yang Noble Lady—someone so inconspicuous she was rarely mentioned—had caught a spring chill. Her appetite vanished. As protocol demanded, the Imperial Kitchen sent plain porridge and light side dishes. All of it was returned untouched.
The maid sent to relay the message did not scold or accuse. Instead, she pulled a familiar kitchen eunuch aside, lowered her voice, and spoke hesitantly:
"Our lady… she truly doesn't mean to cause trouble. There's simply no taste in her mouth—she can't swallow anything. She… she mentioned quietly that the day in the Imperial Garden… the girl who made the Noodles of Truth—Qing Tian—has a clever hand. She wondered if… if she might trouble herself to make something—anything—to whet the appetite. No matter what. Our lady would be deeply grateful."
It was not an order.
It was a plea.
And through the eunuch, those words reached Qing Tian, who was washing dishes at the time.
She dried her hands slowly, her heart tightening.
This was not palace protocol—it was trust. Yang Noble Lady must have witnessed or heard of the Imperial Garden affair and, with no other options left, extended this tentative olive branch.
It was an opportunity.
A rare one—bypassing official channels, relying solely on personal skill, and possibly earning recognition from within the inner court itself.
But the risk was immense.
Food entered the body. If anything went wrong—even if the Noble Lady's illness worsened naturally—the blame could easily become "deliberate harm." And with Consort Liu watching like a hawk, one misstep would be fatal.
Qing Tian sought out Chief Steward Li and explained everything—her concerns included.
He listened in silence for a long time, thin fingers tapping unconsciously against the table.
"This is a dangerous move," he said at last. "If you succeed, some may see you differently. Perhaps even His Majesty will realize you are not merely a girl who made one bowl of noodles. But if anything goes wrong—if someone interferes along the way…" His gaze sharpened. "That would be utter ruin. No one could save you."
"I understand," Qing Tian replied softly. "But the Noble Lady is ill. All she asks for is something she can eat. I will be careful."
Chief Steward Li sighed. "If you insist, remember this well: every ingredient must be selected and inspected by you personally. No one else. Preparation must take place somewhere fully under your control—preferably with witnesses. And once it's done, have it delivered by someone trustworthy. Make it clear this is merely something you practiced—not fit to be called an official dish."
It was permission—granted with every possible precaution.
Qing Tian followed his instructions to the letter.
She did not touch the Imperial Kitchen's stores. Using her own meager allowance, she asked Granny Chen to help her purchase the freshest hawthorn and a small piece of aged dried tangerine peel from a familiar apothecary's apprentice.
With a bit of fine flour she had saved herself, and under the watchful eyes of Zhao Sanniang and Fugui, she prepared everything over a small charcoal stove.
She pitted the hawthorn, simmered it gently with the tangerine peel, strained away the pulp, and reduced the liquid into a thick, glossy paste, sweetened with just a trace of precious honey. Alongside it, she steamed Chinese yam, mashed it smooth, mixed it with finely milled rice flour, and shaped soft, delicate yam cakes—light, gentle, easy on a weakened stomach.
When it was done, she wrapped the food carefully in clean lotus leaves and entrusted it to the eunuch, repeating her words with care:
"Please tell the Noble Lady this is only something I made for practice. It's crude and unworthy of being called a dish. If she finds it acceptable, she may have some. If not, she must not force herself."
The next afternoon, word returned.
The eunuch approached with agrin he could barely suppress. "Miss Qing," he whispered, "the Noble Lady had some hawthorn paste with her porridge and half a yam cake. She said there was finally a bit of taste, and her spirits lifted. She was very pleased—she even rewarded me with a handful of copper coins!"
He patted his sleeve, lowering his voice further. "She also asked me to pass on a message: 'She was thoughtful.'"
A handful of copper coins. A simple phrase.
The reward was modest. The words were plain. But their meaning was profound.
This was not merely approval of her cooking—it was a private response that crossed rigid hierarchies, carrying goodwill. In her own quiet way, Yang Noble Lady had expressed gratitude… and hinted at her stance.
At the very least, she was not aligned with Consort Liu.
The incident was like a small stone tossed into a seemingly calm lake.
The ripples it caused were faint—but unmistakably real.