The ripples caused by Director Qing's new regulations had yet to settle within the Imperial Kitchen, when undercurrents from the inner palace quietly arrived at her door.
The first to come was a senior maid from Consort Liu's residence.
Her posture was stiff with pride as she handed over a slip of paper, her tone carefully restrained.
"Her Ladyship has been feeling unsettled of late. The imperial physicians prescribed a calming decoction," she said. "The Consort believes that since Director Qing is skilled in dietary therapy, perhaps this medicine could be… transformed into something more palatable. Drinking bitter brews daily only worsens her mood."
Qing Tian accepted the prescription.
At a glance, it was a standard calming formula. Nothing unusual.
She understood immediately—this was no request for help. It was a test. A deliberate provocation. Turning medicinal broth into elegant cuisine that suited a notoriously picky Consort's taste was bordering on impossible.
But as she focused on the composition, listening to the character of the herbs, something clicked.
The formula itself was mild. Safe. Yet the Consort's agitation likely stemmed less from insomnia than from pent-up inner fire—frustration, resentment, pride wounded but unexpressed.
She did not refuse.
"Her Ladyship's health is of utmost importance," Qing Tian said thoughtfully. "However, medicine taken long-term may burden the spleen and stomach. I suggest using food as the foundation, with gentle medicinal guidance. A rotation of calming dishes may ease the condition more gradually—and more safely."
The maid left, uncertain but unable to object.
Back in the small kitchen of Tingyu Pavilion, Qing Tian thought long and carefully.
Consort Liu was proud, volatile, and impatient. Ordinary calming foods would not suffice.
She recalled techniques from her previous life—using aroma and texture to soothe emotions rather than suppress them.
She selected rose petals to ease constrained qi, paired them with calming lily bulbs and lotus seeds. A touch of honey and glutinous rice flour bound them into delicate Rose & Lily Cakes—soft pink, lightly fragrant, subtly sweet.
She also prepared a second dish: Calming Date Paste, made from sour jujube seed, wheat, licorice, red dates, and rock sugar, cooked slowly into a thick concentrate, then cut into neat portions.
They looked like refined desserts.
They were, in truth, carefully balanced remedies.
When she sent them to Changchun Palace, she instructed:
"These are food, not medicine. If Her Ladyship feels restless, she may take a piece or two. The physician's prescriptions should still be followed."
At first, Consort Liu scoffed.
But after several sleepless nights, she reluctantly tried a Rose & Lily Cake.
The floral sweetness melted on her tongue. The sharp edge of her irritation dulled—just a little.
She tried the calming paste next. Tart, then gently sweet. Surprisingly tolerable.
Over the following days, Qing Tian sent a rotation of calming treats: jasmine milk jelly, lightly brewed lotus-heart tea (carefully dosed), millet porridge with longan.
Nothing extravagant. Nothing ostentatious.
Gradually, Changchun Palace grew quieter.
The sound of porcelain shattering became rare. According to whispered reports, Consort Liu slept one to two hours longer each night and erupted into far fewer rages.
She never offered thanks.
But she stopped making trouble over food.
That alone was victory.
If Consort Liu was a battle of pride, Consort De was a matter of memory.
Her palace frequently returned dishes labeled "too rich" or "too heavy."
Yet Qing Tian noticed a pattern—the rejected dishes were not oily, but abundant. Full-bodied. Lavish.
She learned quietly that Consort De had been born into poverty and survived famine as a child.
One day, another elaborate duck dish was returned.
Instead of adjusting flavors, Qing Tian prepared something entirely different.
She cooked a simple Red Bean Millet Porridge—yellow millet, red beans, a few dates—simmered slowly until thick and fragrant. She finished it with a pinch of toasted soybean powder.
Plain. Rough. Almost rustic.
She sent it with a single message: "Director Qing recommends this for nourishing the stomach."
When Consort De saw the bowl, she froze.
It looked too much like the thin, life-saving porridge her mother once scraped together during desperate years.
She tasted a spoonful.
The millet's warmth. The beans' grainy sweetness. The faint, smoky aroma of roasted soy.
It was not exquisite.
But it unlocked something buried deep.
She finished the entire bowl in silence.
Then she sent back a small box of homemade sesame candy—worth little—and a note with only two words:
Thank you.
After that, dish returns from her palace nearly disappeared.
More quietly still, Consort De began to change. She shared her rations with junior maids. Noticed thin clothing. Ordered old cotton jackets redistributed.
Small gestures.
But to those at the bottom, they meant everything.
The greatest test came from Lady Li—a low-ranked consort newly confirmed pregnant.
Pregnancy in the inner palace was both blessing and danger.
Terrified, Lady Li tested every dish with silver needles, yet still ate in fear.
Through intermediaries, she approached Qing Tian discreetly.
"I have little appetite," she said softly. "Grease makes me ill. I fear harming the child… Might Director Qing offer guidance?"
Qing Tian understood.
This was not merely dietary adjustment—it was survival.
She designed several rotating meal plans tailored to each pregnancy stage.
The principles were absolute:
Common, traceable ingredients
Simple methods—steaming, boiling, stewing
Whole foods difficult to tamper with: intact eggs, whole fish fillets, root vegetables
She even taught the maids how to judge freshness and inspect utensils.
Most importantly, she advised that trusted attendants personally retrieve ingredients and observe preparation when possible. Copies of the meal plans were filed with the Imperial Kitchen as special dietary orders, shielding all involved.
It was cumbersome.
But it worked.
Lady Li's symptoms eased. Her complexion improved. And no opening was left for sabotage.
She later gave birth safely to a prince.
The matter was never publicized—but those who watched closely understood.
Director Qing was no longer merely skilled.
She was reliable.
A quiet reputation formed:
If you were vulnerable… she could keep you alive.
Even the Emperor heard whispers.
One night, after finishing the late snack she'd prepared, he remarked casually,"She's truly living up to that title. Managing the big picture—and the smallest details."
Gao Dequan smiled. "Director Qing uses food to settle hearts as well as stomachs. Many hidden troubles have been eased."
The Emperor hummed softly, gaze resting on the empty bowl.
Thoughtful. Unreadable.
And somewhere in the palace, everyone understood one thing clearly:
Qing Tian's influence was no longer confined to the kitchen.
It had reached the very heart of the inner court.