Chapter 3: Salt and Arsenic from the Same Hand

The sour tang of hawthorn still hung in the kitchen air, mixing with the smoky bite of unburnt wood from the hearth, drifting out in thick waves through the window.

Steward Wang crouched on the threshold, idly working a toothpick through his teeth. The sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention; he looked up, and the toothpick slipped from his lips, clattering onto the stone floor.

“Z-Z-Steward Zhou?”

Steward Zhou ignored him. He stood in the center of the kitchen, taking in every angle. The pots on the stove were still warm, a thin wisp of steam curling from under the lid. On the cutting board sat half a basin of hawthorn—red-skinned, with neat, precise cuts that screamed of patience.

“Who made that Hawthorn Meat just now?”

The kitchen went dead silent. You could hear the oil sizzling in the pot. The undercooks kept their heads down; not one dared to step forward.

Shen Yao stood up first. She wiped her hands on her apron, took a step forward, and curtsied slightly.

“It was me, Steward.”

Steward Wang blinked, then hurried to nod, scrubbing his hands together as he rose. “Yes, yes, it was Cook Shen. She’s only been at the stove for three months, but she’s steady. Everyone in the household praises her.”

Steward Zhou looked at her, his gaze flat and heavy. “You made it?”

“Yes,” Shen Yao’s voice was steady. “A family recipe. My mother had a small food stall in Chengnan. The technique of putting hawthorn into meat—my grandmother’s generation mastered it.”

Steward Zhou hummed, then asked abruptly, “How do you incorporate the hawthorn?”

“Cut into chunks, put it in the pot, braise it with the meat.”

“What about the skin?”

“...Braised it all together. The skin is thin; when it braises, it dissolves.”

“And the pits?”

Shen Yao paused, her fingernails digging a crease into her apron. “The pits were braised too. Everything was in there.”

Steward Zhou said nothing. He turned, his gaze slowly sweeping the kitchen until it landed on the corner of the cutting board.

A man was crouched there, scraping the bottom of a pot. A layer of black crust had formed on the base; he scraped it slowly, stroke by stroke, piling the black residue into a cracked bowl until it formed a small gray mountain.

“You,” Steward Zhou said. “Look up.”

The man raised his face. He was about twenty, with an old scar above his brow ridge, dust smudged on his cheeks, still gripping the metal scraper in his hand.

“Who made this dish?”

No one spoke. The oil in the pot gave another sizzle.

Shen Yao cut in, her voice fraying at the edges: “Steward, he’s my b—”

“I’m asking him.”

Shen Yan set the scraper down and stood up. Two gray smudges marked his knees; he didn’t bother to brush them off.

“I made it.”

Steward Wang’s face turned the color of bruised plums. He rushed to speak: “Steward, he’s just a menial! He washes dishes and scrapes pots. How could he—”

“I asked him,” Steward Zhou cut him off. “Not you.”

Steward Wang swallowed the rest of his sentence and backed away.

Steward Zhou stepped forward, stopping directly in front of Shen Yan. Their shadows merged on the stove counter. “Did you remove the hawthorn skins?”

“Yes. The skins are astringent and taste of dirt. Braised meat turns bitter if you keep them.”

“What about the pits?”

“Removed them. Pit water is acidic—that sharp acidity overpowers the meat.”

“Then where did your sourness come from?”

“Chopped the Hawthorn Meat, stir-fried it with a little oil first. Cooked until the liquid came out, then added honey. You can’t add the honey early; it burns.”

Steward Zhou stared at him for a long moment, then let out a short, sharp laugh.

“Good. Make a plate. She makes a plate.” He pointed at the two pots on the stove. “I’ll be watching.”

Shen Yao’s expression changed. She glanced at the basin. “Steward, there’s only this much hawthorn left.”

“Split it.”

They divided the basin. Shen Yao was fast, scooping up the majority of the hawthorn and clutching it to her chest, holding on tight.

Shen Yan didn’t argue. He gathered the smaller portion. Half of it was just skins, plus a handful of pits.

Steward Wang muttered from the sidelines, “What’s he going to do now...?”

Shen Yan stayed silent. He dumped the pits into a ceramic jar, added water, and set it over a low flame. Then he took the hawthorn skins, scraping them with the back of a knife, stroke by stroke. He wiped the white pith scraped off onto a cloth. His movements weren’t fast, but not a single one was wasted.

On Shen Yao’s side, the pot was already on the fire. Afraid of losing, she cranked up the heat and added the sugar too early. As the pot heated, the sugar melted, stuck to the bottom, and a burnt smell rose up.

She panicked, scraping with a spatula. The burnt smell got worse, so she added another spoonful of honey to mask it. The honey couldn’t hide the scorch; it just made it cloyingly sweet.

Steward Zhou stood between the two pots, saying nothing.

Shen Yan’s side didn’t have a high fire. He dropped the hawthorn skins into the ceramic jar with the pits and let them boil. The broth slowly deepened in color, turning a translucent red like thin amber. He strained the liquid, tossing all the solids away.

Then he sliced the meat. It was the leftover scraps from earlier, not in proper chunks. He sliced them diagonally into thin slabs, arranging them neatly on the cutting board, row by row.

“Why are you slicing it?” Steward Wang couldn’t help but lean in. “You don’t slice braised meat.”

“No time to braise,” Shen Yan said. “Thin slices. One stick of incense time is enough to cook through.”

He slid the meat slices in the pot, then removed them. Leaving a little oil at the bottom, he poured in the strained hawthorn broth and reduced it over low heat. Only halfway through did he add the honey.

The moment the honey hit the pot, that sour aroma bloomed again. Sour first, sweet second, with a hint of hearthfire underneath.

Shen Yao had already finished her side. She plated the meat, piling it up; the color was patchy, dark in some spots, light in others, with a smear of sauce stuck to the bottom of the plate.

Steward Zhou tried hers first.

He took a bite, chewed twice, his brow twitched, and he said nothing, placing the rest back on the plate.

“Try it yourself.”

Shen Yao picked up a piece. The moment it hit her tongue, her face crumpled. The bitterness of burnt sugar mixed with sharp vinegar. The meat was still tough; she couldn’t chew it clean.

“This isn’t...” she opened her mouth, swallowed it back down. “The heat was too high.”

“Heat was too high,” Steward Zhou nodded. “What about the hawthorn?”

“The hawthorn...”

“There’s no hawthorn in your pot,” Steward Zhou said. “You only had sugar and vinegar.”

Shen Yao’s hand shook; the chopsticks fell to the cutting board, tapping once.

Steward Zhou turned and walked over to Shen Yan.

Shen Yan had just finished plating his dish. A tray of thin slices, arranged neatly, the sauce clinging to the meat, bright red and glossy, not running. Beside it sat a small bowl of leftover broth.

Steward Zhou didn’t rush to taste the meat. He looked at the bowl of broth first, picked it up, sniffed it, then took a sip.

After finishing, he just stood there.

Everyone in the kitchen watched him. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to have died down.

After a long while, he set the bowl down, his voice slightly hoarse. “This bowl is more intense than that earlier plate.”

He looked up, glancing at the pile of skins and pits discarded in the corner of the stove.

“Skins and pits are waste to everyone else,” he said. “In his hands, they’re two dishes.”

Steward Wang leaned in, keeping his voice low. “Steward, so this dish...”

“This dish,” Steward Zhou suddenly turned to Shen Yao. “If this plate went into the palace, served on a noble’s table, and you claimed it as your own... when the noble asks for the recipe, what would you say?”

His voice wasn’t loud, but each sentence pressed down harder.

“If you can’t answer, that’s fraud. Palace rules: a cook who lies gets twenty strokes and kicked out for a minor offense. For a major one—” He pointed at that plate of black, burnt meat. “This life goes to pay for that plate.”

Shen Yao’s legs gave out; she dropped to her knees, her apron dragging on the floor. “Steward, I was wrong, I just let the moment get—”

“You weren’t wrong,” Steward Zhou said. “You were greedy. Greed isn’t the problem. Greed that steals another’s skill? That’s not a kitchen issue. That’s a household issue.”

He looked back at Steward Wang. “Keep someone like that in your kitchen?”

Steward Wang looked pale as flour, bowing his hands repeatedly. “I... I was blind. I’ll handle it right away...”

“Take her down. Settle her wages, and see her out the door.” Steward Zhou paused. “Don’t pour out that plate of hers. Make her finish it before she leaves.”

Shen Yao sat on the floor, staring at that plate of meat, unable to speak.

As she was hauled to her feet, she suddenly turned back, eyes red. “Shen Yan, my mother wouldn’t—”

Shen Yan crouched back by the pot bottom, picked up the scraper, and resumed his work.

“There’s ash on the stove,” he said. “Clean it first.”

The hall had new lamps; the light was bright, bleaching the blue brick floor to white.

General Xiao was still seated, as was the young man. Only three pieces of Hawthorn Meat remained on the table.

Steward Zhou entered, cupping his hands. “General, the people are here.”

Shen Yan followed behind him. He had washed his hands and changed into a cleaner short robe, still the menial’s style, but with the cuffs rolled up neatly.

The young man looked up at him and smiled. “So young.”

Shen Yan stood; he didn’t kneel.

The General spoke up. “When you see a noble, you kneel.”

Shen Yan began to bend his knees, but the young man waved a hand. “Stand. I have questions.”

“How long have you been making that dish?”

“Three years.”

“Who did you learn from?”

Shen Yan paused. “My mother.”

“Where is your mother now?”

“Dead. Seven years ago.”

The young man’s wine cup froze in mid-air. The liquid inside sloshed.

The hall went silent for a beat.

Steward Zhou hurried to smooth things over. “Your Highness, this dish—”

“I know,” the young man set down the cup and walked to the table, picking up the plate with the last three pieces.

He took one himself, chewing slowly.

“I’ve tasted this flavor,” he said.

Steward Zhou blinked. “Your Highness is joking. No one in the palace uses this method.”

“Not the palace,” the young man set down his chopsticks, eyes fixed on Shen Yan. “Seven years ago, a small shop in Chengnan. Back then, I wasn’t who I am now.”

He paused.

“I had no silver. I was hungry for two days. A woman gave me a bowl of meat. It tasted exactly like this. Sour first, sweet after.”

Shen Yan’s fingers twitched.

“What was her surname?” the young man asked.

“Shen.”

The young man smiled, very lightly. “That shop closed later.”

“It closed.”

“Why?”

Shen Yan didn’t answer immediately.

The wind off the corridor made the lantern sway; the shadows danced on the blue bricks.

The young man finished the last piece of meat, placed the plate on the table, and spoke in a level voice. “Steward Zhou.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“At tomorrow’s banquet, I want him at the stove.”

Steward Zhou’s expression changed. “Your Highness, that breaks the rules. He has no rank; he isn’t even on the kitchen roster—”

“Then add him to it tonight.” The young man turned to Shen Yan. “I have one question.”

“Your Highness may ask.”

“How did that shop close?”

Shen Yan looked up.

Under the lamplight, the old scar above his brow was clear.

“The day my mother died, the shop closed.”

The young man stared at him for a long time, then said something very quietly.

“That’s not right.”

Steward Zhou stiffened. “Your Highness, what’s not right?”

The young man didn’t answer him. He sat back down, picked up his wine cup, and his voice dropped low.

“The bowl of meat I ate that day... I wasn’t eating it alone.”

“There was someone else. With me.”

“That person is in the palace now.”