The back kitchen of The Whisper Bowl was hotter than any summer noon.
Steam curled from three great iron pots; oil crackled in a wide pan; the fragrance of bone broth, stir-fried garlic, and roasted chili wrapped around the room like a warm cloak.
Lian An stood at the center of it all, sleeves tied up, hair pinned high, apron neatly fastened. If any court lady saw their Empress now—sweating in front of stoves, ladle in hand—they would probably faint.
She, however, looked perfectly at home.
"Salt," she said.
Wei Jie silently handed over the jar.
She pinched exactly three fingers into the bubbling broth, then stirred.
The main pot held pork bone soup—milky white, boiled for hours the night before using low flame until the marrow had melted into the water. She added ginger slices and crushed white pepper, then tasted it with a small porcelain spoon.
Almost.
She tossed in a handful of chopped scallions, waited three heartbeats, then smiled.
