Early spring in the capital carries the chill of a lingering winter, but the magnolia buds in the prime minister's back garden are already clinging to the branches, like white jade lanterns about to bloom. Su Jinli leans against the beauty's chair in the winding corridor, her faded lake-blue brocade cape draped across the brick floor. Her fingertips unconsciously stroke the yellowed manuscript of her storybookâthe first work she's written since her rebirth, its edges still stained by tea from her previous argument with the bookseller.
"Grandma, what happened next?" Jiang Xiaocai knelt on the cushions, eyes wide open, the abacus beads in his arms swaying gently with his movements. The twelve-year-old had inherited his mother's business talent and always loved to carry his abacus with him, but now he was completely captivated by the story.
Su Jinli was about to speak when she heard the hurried footsteps of a maid in the front yard. The sound of embroidered wooden shoes tapping against bluestone slabs came closer. "Oh no! Cousin!" The little maid ran, her face flushed and breathless. The silk flower on her temple had fallen behind her ear, and a few magnolia petals were stained on the heaving heaving of her clothes. "News from the Baotianxia Baozi Shop! Young Master Mo Chen's mother has fainted in front of the shop!"
A flurry of exclamations erupted from the corridor. Su Qingyao, who was drying her rouge, cried out, nearly dropping the white porcelain tray in her hands, sending several meticulously crafted rouge brushes tumbling to the ground with a clang. Jiang Xiaocai's abacus clattered to a dusty mess, its round sandalwood beads tumbling away along the curves of the winding corridor. Most heartbreaking of all was Jiang Xiaohuang's sudden pallor. Her skirt, embroidered with twin lotus flowers in gold thread, swept across the bluestone slabs. The girl, clutching the hem of her skirt, dashed toward the front yard, the pearl hairpins in her hair swaying violently with each movement, creating a tinny, chaotic sound.
"Xiao Huang, slow down!" Nian Li chased out of the flower hall, her brocade embroidered shoes crushing the remaining shadows of magnolias on the ground, the pearls in her hair jingling. But her daughter had long since disappeared, leaving only the scattered footprints and a few petals blown by the wind, silently telling of her master's anxiety.
By the time everyone arrived at the bun shop, the small kitchen was thick with the aroma of medicinal herbs. The old doctor at the clinic was twirling his snow-white beard and shaking his head. A dark brown medicine box sat casually beside the stove, its bells gently jiggling with his movements. Mo Chen knelt before the makeshift bamboo couch, his knuckles white from gripping the corners of the quilt so tightly that their joints jutted out like jagged rocks. His voice trembled noticeably. "Doctor, is my mother...still alive?"
The old doctor sighed, his cloudy eyes sweeping over the frail woman on the couch. "Years of toil have led to illness, and excessive worry..." He suddenly glanced at Jiang Xiaohuang, who was pale but still tightly clutching the medicine bowl. A rare hint of relief crossed his aged face. "If this girl hadn't brought the ginseng soup in time, I'm afraid..."
Nian Li gazed at the woman on the couch, her memory suddenly drawn back to the day she first met Mo Chen. Back then, the boy was only fifteen or sixteen, his eyes gleaming with a wary edge, like a wounded beast with its spines raised. But now, those eyes, always as calm as ink, were filled with tears as he carefully wiped the sweat from his mother's forehead with a handkerchief, his movements so gentle, as if he were handling a rare treasure.
"Take him to the Prime Minister's Medical Clinic," Nian Li said softly, her brocade sleeves carelessly brushing against the medicine bowl, which still held traces of the ginseng soup Jiang Xiaohuang had hastily spilled. "The mansion has all the herbs, and there are dedicated staff to take care of it." She turned and instructed the housekeeper, her tone unconsciously taking on a touch of authority: "Clean up the east wing, choose the one facing the sun, and remember to place some calming incense by the bed."
The news spread like willow catkins in spring, swiftly spreading through the streets and alleys of the capital. The next morning, Su Jinli was enjoying breakfast in the flower hall when the announcement arrived from the prime minister's doorman. The white fungus soup in her celadon bowl was still steaming. She paused, her hand holding the teacup shimmering as the tea rippled across the white porcelain bowl. "Invite them to the flower hall."
The moment the carved wooden door swung open, a gust of wind, carrying the scent of dust, blew in. The elder in the lead wore a washed-out, coarse gown, his hair tangled with silver strands, and the straw belt tied around his waist was frayed. Seeing the woman on the bed, the old man burst into tears. His calloused hands trembled as he grasped her withered fingers. "You've suffered so much! If it weren't for saving Chen'er back then... oh well!"
Amidst the cries, the forgotten past gradually surfaced. It turned out that Mo Chen's biological mother was originally a daughter of a branch of the Wang family. Because her young son was seriously ill and had no money to treat him, she was forced to join the demonic cult in exchange for life-saving medicine. For years, she had lived in hiding, working as a helper in a bun shop, kneading dough and steaming buns before dawn every day, just to keep her son safe.
Su Jinli watched the two families embrace each other and cry bitterly, her eyes slightly moist. She turned to look at Jiang Yan, who was still sulking beside her, and a sly smile curled up at the corner of her mouth: "Old man, does your book "The Number One Scholar's Guide to Household Management" mention treating your in-laws well?"
Jiang Yan snorted, his white beard sticking up in anger. "When did I ever say..." He didn't finish his words, but quietly instructed the housekeeper, "Go get the old mountain ginseng from the third drawer of my study. Remember to have the kitchen simmer it into a ginseng soup and add some red dates and wolfberries."
While the atmosphere here gradually calmed, the rouge shop elsewhere erupted in chaos. Su Qingyao paced the room, her hands covered in colored powder, the hem of her moon-white skirt sweeping across the messy floor. A dozen shattered porcelain vases lay on the table, splattered with malachite green, cinnabar red, and rose pink, and the air was filled with a strange, mixed aroma.
"It's clearly based on the recipe in ancient books!" she muttered, her hair still stained with malachite green, making her look like a peacock with its feathers blown off. "Three grams of cinnabar, ten rose petals, and malachite powder... How could this be?"
"Cousin! Help!" Jiang Xiaocai rushed in, covering his red face. His entire face was as red as a boiled shrimp, and the area around his eyes was abnormally red and swollen. "This rouge feels like it's on fire when it's applied to my face!"
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