I give the small boy’s hand a squeeze. “Show me where I can help.”
Qing’er leads me to one of the large tables, and the bakery staff welcomes me with a chorus of greetings. Standing shoulder to shoulder with them, I assist with assembling large platters meant for the banquet. I find it easier to pretend that the food is meant for some faceless court official, and I’m just another servant performing my usual duties.
I help with extracting small crabs from molds, the shapes previously formed last night out of crabmeat and roe mixed with rice. After they are fried golden, we scatter them across a nest of crispy noodles, sprinkled with sesame. At the next station, one of the chefs uses chopsticks to carefully place delicate dumplings shaped into fish among the crabs, to give the appearance of darting in and out among them.
The next course is another platter I would call a display of art rather than a plate of food meant to be devoured. Bamboo lids are lifted to reveal steamed pink gao shaped like flowers, their petals dotted with red beans to indicate the flavor of the filling within. The gao are configured into blooming bouquets around a phoenix sculpture carved out of a daikon, with carrot slivers for decoration.
There is no time to think, no time to fret or worry about my eventual fate. My hands are busy with placing each portion just so, artfully arranging the creations so as not to destroy someone else’s hard work. I take in the frantic energy of the space, inhale the sweet aromas that surround us like a cloud, settling into our hands and onto our skin.
Until finally, our tasks are done. The last platter is sent out and the kitchen fires are banked. We pull up benches and push the tables together, many of us sighing when we sit and rest our aching legs. Bowls are passed around, piled high with fluffy rice. Before us there are remnants of the evening’s banquet that did not pass Small Wu’s inspection: collapsed dumplings and misshapen pastries. The staff from the Meat Department join us, bringing their own stools and contributions to the dinner. They add slices of plump red and dried black sausage, glistening slabs of roasted pork, and pieces of crispy-skinned chicken.
As I’m surrounded by laughter and conversation, this kitchen feels like a home. Like another type of family.
I am only a few bites into my bowl when we hear the pattering of feet running down the stone path outside the kitchens. A young man appears first, dressed in a similar uniform to the kitchen staff. He leans over, panting, out of breath. Chair legs scrape against the floor as Small Wu and others stand up from their seats, the conversation coming to a swift stop.
The young man gulps in a breath and then shouts, “Something … Something’s happened! At the banquet … Something’s wrong with the food!”
At first, the words run in an incomprehensible jumble, then the implication of what he has uttered strikes us all at once.
Steward Yang appears at the entrance, strands of hair loose from her usually tight bun, collar askew from her run, and her mouth pinched. Her eyes settle on me before she closes the distance between us in an instant.
“What are you still doing here?” she says to me sharply.
I look back at her, not understanding. “You told me to come. You sent Mingwen.”
Steward Yang’s expression twists, shifting from uncertainty to fury. She looks over my shoulder. I follow her gaze to Mingwen, who is trembling.
“I told her to get you out,” Steward Yang says, voice low. “I told her you should get as far away from the palace as possible.”
Pieces begin to fall together, aligning on the game board. Someone wanted me in the kitchens during the banquet.
The older woman shakes her head. “I should have suspected when she so eagerly volunteered.”
“Please, you have to understand!” Mingwen clutches at the servant next to her, but they all give her a wide berth, leaving her standing alone. She pleads, with her hands extended in front of her, “They threatened my family! They said we would all be executed for theft, because of her!” Her voice rises, hysterical, gesturing in my direction. “She gave me the hairpin! It was hers!”
“Steward Yang,” I whisper. “What’s happened at the banquet?”
She doesn’t respond for a moment, biting her lip. I can almost hear the abacus in her head again, calculating possibilities and numbers, trying to figure out a solution.
“Listen very carefully. We may only have a few minutes to save our hides,” she calls out to everyone in the room. “None of you will admit to seeing Ning here, do you hear me?”
Heads nod as Steward Yang sends out orders rapidly, sending staff scattering in different directions. She pulls me through another set of moon doors, deeper into the kitchens. We hurry past shelves stacked high with ingredients, pots and pans ready for tomorrow morning. Past darkened ovens with smoldering embers within their openings.