As the twelfth lunar month drew near, a bitter cold settled over the Forbidden City.
Dead grass clinging to the palace walls was glazed with white frost, and even the eunuchs who swept the courtyards at dawn exhaled clouds of breath that seemed to freeze before they could drift away. The entire palace felt sealed beneath a layer of silent, merciless winter.
Yet the Imperial Kitchen was busier than ever.
Year-end sacrifices. Rewards distributed to the various palaces. Preparations for the New Year's Eve banquet. Every matter, large or small, depended on food. Qing Tian was reassigned to help prepare ritual pastries—spending her days knee-deep in glutinous rice, red dates, and sweet bean paste, her hands permanently coated with a sweetness that no amount of washing could fully remove.
That afternoon, she was unmolding freshly steamed rice cakes while they were still hot when a thin figure hesitated at the doorway, peeking in and then pulling back, clearly uncertain.
It was Shunzi—the young eunuch responsible for washing steam baskets. Only fourteen, he had entered the palace less than two years ago. He came from the southern river towns, his speech soft and lilting. Usually quiet to the point of invisibility, he often stared toward the southern sky as if something there were calling him.
"Shunzi?" Qing Tian wiped her hands and smiled gently. "Do you need something?"
Startled like a skittish deer, he flinched before shuffling inside. His head was lowered, fingers twisting the edge of his already threadbare clothes. His voice was barely audible.
"Sister… Sister Qing Tian… I… I heard that…"
He stammered for a long while, his face turning red, unable to finish the sentence. But Qing Tian already understood. She had seen that look many times before—on the faces of countless low-ranking servants.
Longing.
Not for wealth. Not for freedom.But for a taste. A memory.
"Take your time," she said softly, guiding him to the corner and offering a small piece of rice cake that was still warm.
He didn't take it.
Instead, as if summoning all his courage, he suddenly looked up. His eyes were already red.
"Sister Qing Tian… I want to ask you for a favor…" His voice trembled. "I know it's against the rules, but I—I really…" He sniffed hard, holding back tears. "Last night I dreamed of my mother. I dreamed she made rice cakes for me. When I woke up, my pillow was soaked…"
His words tumbled over each other.
"I—I just want to taste it. Just one bite. Like the rice cakes back home."
Homesickness—already sharp—cut deeper as the New Year approached, when families reunited and warmth was everywhere except inside palace walls.
Qing Tian crouched to his level. "What kind of rice cakes did your mother make?"
Shunzi's eyes lit up.
"They were white. Soft. When hot, they stuck a little to your teeth. You could smell the rice…" His voice grew brighter with memory. "She'd add just a bit of sugar—not much, just a hint of sweetness. And she'd use the end of a chopstick to dot a little red rice paste on top, like a tiny flower…"
His tone softened, then fell again.
"The palace rice cakes are good," he whispered. "But… they don't taste the same. They don't taste like my mother's."
Qing Tian understood.
This wasn't about skill. Or ingredients.It was about home.
"I can try," she said after a moment. "I can't promise it'll be exactly the same. We don't have much to work with."
Shunzi's eyes widened in disbelief. He bowed again and again. "Thank you, Sister Qing Tian! Thank you! I don't need much—just a little is enough!"
She thought it through.
The Imperial Kitchen's rice and sugar were strictly accounted for—no private use allowed. But in the storeroom's corner lay half a sack of old glutinous rice, damped and clumped together, labeled second-grade—meant for laundry starch or animal feed. There were also misshapen sugar scraps left over from candy-making.
They skirted the edge of what counted as waste.
Carefully, she told Zhao Sanniang her plan. Zhao Sanniang glanced at Shunzi—standing far away, eyes full of hope—then at Qing Tian.
She sighed. "Poor child. Use it carefully. Clean hands. No mistakes."
That was permission enough.
Qing Tian sifted the rice, selecting only grains that were clumped but not spoiled. She ground them gently in a small stone mortar and sieved out fine flour. The sugar scraps were dissolved in warm water, impurities strained away.
There was no red rice paste.
After a moment's thought, she retrieved a jar of pickled cherries and dipped out a trace of red juice—just enough for decoration.
She steamed the batter using the small charcoal stove in her room and a palm-sized clay bowl. The heat was difficult to control. Qing Tian focused entirely on the sound of the steam, the feel of the batter thickening.
When a simple, pure rice fragrance rose—mixed with the faintest sweetness—she knew it was ready.
The finished rice cake was turned out onto a clean leaf: soft, plump, white as snow.
Using a sharpened bamboo skewer, she dipped it into the cherry juice and placed a tiny red dot in the center.
Not quite a flower.
More like a cinnabar mark.
She wrapped the still-warm rice cake in leaves and slipped it to Shunzi when no one was watching.