Nutritionist—a new official lighting three fires upon taking office.
That was what I muttered to myself. In reality, this "official position" was known only to Zhao Xu in the entire world.
Yuanfeng 8th year, fifth month. The weather was beginning to grow hot, the kind of heat that made people feel restless inside.
The striking of the bronze vessel in the Funing Hall continued as usual, one dull thud after another, like a hammer pounding into cotton. The steam in the Imperial Kitchen was thicker than last month; once the stove fire was lit, it felt as if the whole person had been stuffed into a steamer. I stood in front of the stove, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, forehead covered in sweat, but my hands dared not tremble—the congee was simmering, and even the slightest mistake in the heat would ruin it.
Another tally mark had been added to the wall. Fifty-nine. Every time before entering the Imperial Kitchen, I would glance at it, as if confirming that I was still here and that the days were still moving forward.
The rules of the palace had not changed, but Zhao Xu's schedule had. The grand tutors believed the new emperor's foundation was now stable and decided to add more lessons. His routine shifted from "rising before dawn" to "rising before dawn and going to bed even later." The reports I heard from the young eunuch every day grew longer and longer. When the eunuch spoke, his voice carried a hint of panting, as if he were exhausted on behalf of His Majesty:
"His Majesty attended three classes today, memorized two essays, was praised once by the grand tutor, and scolded once by the Empress Dowager."
"His Majesty met with six ministers today. Each said something different. When he returned, he sat in the hall for a long time without speaking."
"His Majesty finished writing an entire policy essay today. The grand tutor said it showed improvement compared to last month, but it was still far from enough."
The last one made me a little angry. The cleaver in my hand came down on the cutting board with a loud thunk. What could a nine-year-old possibly write in a policy essay? Still far from enough? What were you doing when you were nine?
But I didn't say anything. I simply added half a spoonful of sugar to the congee in silence. When sugar melts on the tip of the tongue, bitter days become a little easier to bear. That was what Grandma used to say.
In the third week of the fifth month, the young eunuch brought a different piece of news.
He ran in faster than usual and nearly tripped over the threshold. I steadied him. "Slow down."
"His Majesty asked a question today," he panted, eyes bright.
"What question?"
"His Majesty asked the grand tutor—'Who is in charge of the things We eat every day?' The grand tutor said, 'The Imperial Kitchen.' His Majesty said, 'No, it's Shen Heng.' The grand tutor asked, 'Who is Shen Heng?' His Majesty said—"
The young eunuch paused, took a breath, then recited word by word:
"His Majesty said, 'We's imperial nutritionist.'"
The knife I was using to cut vegetables stopped mid-air.
"…What?"
"Imperial nutritionist. That's exactly what His Majesty said." The young eunuch straightened his back, lifted his chin slightly, and imitated Zhao Xu's tone quite convincingly. "The grand tutor asked what a nutritionist was. His Majesty said, 'The person in charge of We's meals, ensuring We receive balanced nutrition and grow up healthy.' The grand tutor said, 'Your Majesty, the court has no such position.' His Majesty replied—"
He paused again and took a deep breath:
"'Then create one.'"
I put down the knife, leaned against the stove, and laughed for a long time.
This title was the exclusive medal he had given me. It was also the sharpest talisman I possessed in the palace.
While chopping vegetables, the corners of my mouth stayed lifted. The knife fell on the board twice as fast as usual.
The next day, when the young eunuch came to collect the meal, he brought an extra food box.
The box was vermilion, carved with cloud patterns, its lacquer surface so glossy it could reflect a person's image. He raised it high above his head and handed it over with great respect, as if carrying a sacred object.
"His Majesty said that from today onward, use this to hold the food. Earthenware jars are too conspicuous; it's not good if someone sees them."
I opened the food box and looked inside—double-layered, each layer lined with fine cotton cloth, the edges sewn neatly. On the inside of the lid was a note, still in his crooked handwriting:
"For the nutritionist's exclusive use. Do not lose."
I peeled off the note and slipped it into my sleeve. The fourth one. Each was folded neatly and kept together with Grandpa's note.
"Tell him the food box has been received. But next time, don't stick notes on imperial items. It's even worse if someone sees them."
The young eunuch shrank his neck. "I wouldn't dare say that."
"Just say I said it."
"Sister, every time you make me say 'you said it.' What if one day the Empress Dowager asks…"
"Then say I said it. I didn't poison anything—what is there to fear?"
He hugged the food box and ran off. At the doorway he turned back, clenched his fist as if gathering courage, and said, "Sister, next time I'll dare to say it!"
I smiled and shook my head.
At the end of the fifth month, something big happened.
One of the nannies from the Empress Dowager's side came to the Imperial Kitchen to inspect things. She wasn't inspecting me—she was checking the accounts. Every ingredient entering and leaving the Imperial Kitchen was recorded: how much rice, meat, and vegetables were used each day, all written down in the ledger. The nanny sat at the doorway, turning page after page, very slowly. The sound of the paper was especially jarring in the quiet kitchen.
Eunuch Li had given me a heads-up the day before. He pulled me behind the stove and whispered, eyes fixed on the doorway: "These next few days, don't make anything too fancy. Don't let anyone notice anything unusual. Hide those dried scallops and ham of yours first."
That day I made a bowl of plain congee. Nothing added. Not even osmanthus. When it was ready, I poured the white, porridge-like mush into the food box.
Zhao Xu finished the congee but sent back a message: "Today's congee didn't taste good. Can you make something else tomorrow?"
I put the note away, feeling a little unsettled. Not because he said it didn't taste good, but because I couldn't make anything good for him. I was afraid of implicating Eunuch Li, afraid of implicating the young eunuch, afraid of implicating him. He was the emperor, but he was only nine years old. He couldn't stop the people around the Empress Dowager.
The next day, the nanny came again. This time she wasn't checking accounts—she stood at the doorway of the Imperial Kitchen, watching each of us work one by one. Her gaze swept over everyone, as if searching for something. When it landed on me, it paused.
I kept my head down and continued chopping vegetables. The cleaver fell steadily on the board, slice after slice, uniform in thickness. But my back was soaked with sweat; the inner layer of my clothes stuck to my skin, feeling clammy.
"Which palace are you from?"
"Replying to Nanny, I am a sweeping palace maid."
"What is a sweeping palace maid doing in the Imperial Kitchen?"
"Eunuch Li asked me to help. He said I'm quick with my hands and feet."
The nanny said nothing. She gave me another look. That glance felt like a knife scraping across my face.
She turned and left. Her shoes clicked against the stone slabs—tap, tap, tap—each step landing on my heart.
After she left, Eunuch Li walked over and took the cleaver from my hand. His movements were gentle, but the blade still rang sharply when it touched the board.
"Don't come these next few days."
"But His Majesty's meals…"
"I'll find a way."
I stood at the doorway of the Imperial Kitchen, not knowing where to go. The corridor was empty. Wind blew in from the palace path. It was already the end of the fifth month, yet the wind was still chilly.
That night, Zhao Xu's meal was delivered by Eunuch Li. I didn't know what he sent, only that the young eunuch didn't come, the food box didn't come, and there was no note.
I lay on my pallet, staring at the beams, unable to sleep. Fifty-nine tally marks on the wall, one after another, as if counting the days. If I could no longer cook for him in the future, would he still eat properly? Would he grow thin again? Would he once more squat alone in the corner, rubbing his stomach and watching ants?
Early the next morning, the young eunuch came. Not to collect food, but to deliver a note.
He ran so fast that his shoes slipped on the stone path and he nearly fell. He shoved the note into my hand, panting: "His Majesty said it must be handed to Sister personally."
The note was larger than before, folded twice, the edges a little wrinkled, as if it had been clutched for a long time.
I opened it.
"Aheng, today's congee didn't taste good. What about tomorrow? The day after? The day after that? — Zhao Xu."
He had written his name. Not "We," but "Zhao Xu."
I clutched the note, standing in the corridor, and tears fell.
Then I did something incredibly bold.
I walked into the Imperial Kitchen, pushed open the unlocked door. The door creaked open, and everyone inside looked up at me. I ignored them, walked straight to the stove, took a piece of pork belly, a handful of flour, and the last packet of dried osmanthus—saved from last autumn, only a little remained.
I lit the fire. Flames leaped up, licking the bottom of the pot. I boiled water. The water bubbled noisily. I kneaded the dough. The dough was pressed and folded repeatedly on the board until the base of my palms turned red.
Eunuch Li stood at the doorway, watching me without a word. The young eunuch beside him turned pale with fright and ran over to tug my sleeve: "Sister, the nanny will come! She's coming to inspect again today!"
I ignored him. I dropped the noodles into the pot, braised the meat, and sprinkled the osmanthus into the congee. When the aroma wafted out, the entire Imperial Kitchen fell silent. Everyone's eyes were on me, as if looking at someone who was about to die.
When the nanny arrived, I was pouring the broth.
She stood at the doorway, backlit, her expression unclear. Firelight illuminated half her face, casting sharp contrasts of light and shadow. She looked at me for a long, long time.
I placed the noodles into the food box, closed the lid, and turned to face her. My fingers gripped the edge of the box so tightly that my nails turned white.
"This is for His Majesty," I said. My voice was steadier than I expected.
She said nothing.
"His Majesty is nine years old. His father is dead. His grandmother controls him. He has to rise before dawn every day to study until dark. He is so thin that his ribs show one by one. He has no appetite. He cannot sleep well. He isn't even allowed to cry."
My hand was trembling. The copper clasp on the food box lid jingled. But my voice did not.
"He only wants to eat a bowl of noodles. A bowl of egg fried rice. A bowl of osmanthus sugar congee. I will not poison him. I will not harm him. I just want him to eat his fill."
The nanny looked at me. For a very, very long time.
Then she stepped aside, clearing the path at the doorway.
"Go," she said, her voice neither loud nor soft, as if speaking to everyone. "The noodles will not taste good once they get cold."
I hugged the food box and walked past her. Through the corridor, along the palace path, past the eunuchs and palace maids who kept their heads lowered and dared not look at me. Wind whistled past my ears, chilly, yet I was covered in sweat.
When I reached the entrance of the Funing Hall, the guards stopped me.
"Who goes there?"
"Delivering a meal."
"His Majesty does not dine here."
"Then where is he?"
The guard did not answer. I walked around him and continued inside. He shouted behind me, but I did not turn back.
Zhao Xu was in the side hall.
Alone. Sitting at the desk with a book spread open in front of him, only a few pages turned. His shoulders were hunched; he looked like a small curled-up animal. Hearing footsteps, he raised his head. When he saw me, he froze.
"Aheng? How did you…"
"I brought you noodles." I placed the food box on the desk and opened the lid. "Fengzhen braised pork noodles. Eat while it's hot."
He looked at the noodles, then at me. His eyes turned red.
"How did you get in?"
"I walked in."
"No one stopped you?"
"They tried. They didn't succeed."
He lowered his head, picked up the chopsticks, took one bite, then another. Then he began eating in big mouthfuls, just like the first time he ate egg fried rice.
"Eat slowly. No one is going to snatch it from you."
He ignored me and kept eating. He finished the last strand of noodle and drank all the broth. The bowl was scraped clean, as if it had been washed.
"Does it taste good?"
He nodded.
"Then I'll make it for you tomorrow."
He put down the chopsticks and looked at me. His eyes were red, but he didn't cry.
"Aheng."
"Hm."
"Don't do this again in the future. What if you get punished?"
I smiled. "Then don't let them punish me."
"How can I stop them?"
"Eat properly. Live well. When you grow up and become a powerful emperor, who would dare punish me then?"
He looked at me. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. It was small, but very earnest.
"Alright. I promise you."
He extended his hand, pinky raised.
I stared. A pinky swear? A nine-year-old emperor, in a side hall of the Song palace, making a pinky promise with me?
Within the high walls of the palace, this single pinky promise was stronger than any oath sworn by thousands of troops.
I laughed out loud and reached out, hooking my pinky with his.
"Pinky swear, hang it high; a hundred years, never change."
He didn't understand the words, but he repeated after me: "A hundred years, never change. How many years is a hundred years?"
"It means a lifetime."
"Then how many years is a lifetime?"
"…First finish memorizing today's book, and then I'll tell you."
He frowned but didn't argue. When he let go, his pinky gave one last little tug in my palm, as if reluctant to release.
I put away the food box and walked to the doorway. I turned back for one last look—he had already returned to his desk and opened the book, but the corners of his mouth were still slightly lifted. The curve was exactly the same as the first time he ate egg fried rice.
I carried the food box through the corridor and along the palace path. When I reached the doorway of the Imperial Kitchen, the nanny was still there. She glanced at me but said nothing. I walked past her with the box. Only when I had gone far did I hear her footsteps—tap, tap, tap—heading in the opposite direction.
Eunuch Li poked his head out from behind the door. His face showed no expression, but I saw his eyes narrow slightly.
"Young lady, you really have too much courage."
"I know."
"Don't do this again next time."
"Alright."
"What are you making tomorrow?"
I thought for a moment. "Three-shrimp noodles. Grandma's recipe. I promised His Majesty last time."
He shook his head and closed the door. In the instant the door shut, I heard him chuckle softly. It was quiet, but genuine.
That night, I slipped the fifth note under my pillow. It was written by Zhao Xu, still somewhat crooked, but much steadier than the first one:
"A hundred years, never change."
I placed the note together with the previous four and stared at them for a long time. Beside them was Grandpa's note, its edges frayed, but the characters still clear: Yuanfeng 8th year, third month. Emperor Shenzong passed away. Ascension. Age: nine.
Fifty-nine tally marks now. The days continued. The congee continued to simmer. The noodles continued to be made.
He was still alive. Still growing. Still eating properly.
That was enough.
I touched the pocket at my collar. Inside were five folded notes, each larger and steadier than the last. The oldest one had already begun to yellow, but every character remained.
I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I would make three-shrimp noodles. Grandma's recipe. The taste of Suzhou.
I wanted him to know that this "nutritionist" was not just empty words.
[End of Chapter 5]