Volume Three: The Storm at Xuanwu Gate Chapter Seventy-Six: The Secret Weapon for Winning a Young Girl's Heart

The voice was extremely familiar, coming from just beyond the wall of his own courtyard. The more he listened, the more it sounded like Li Lizhi, the youngest daughter of the eldest grandson, weeping so sorrowfully she could barely speak, while two unfamiliar women tried in vain to console her.

Mingyu found it strange—this precious pearl of Li Shimin’s household was doted on by both her father and her mother. Who would have the audacity to upset her?

He rose and stepped out of the courtyard. Sure enough, it was Li Lizhi, her face awash with tears, sobbing uncontrollably. Her delicate little face, as tender as a petal, was streaked with tear marks on both sides. The young girl’s grief was visible in the tremble of her shoulders, and she clutched something in her palm. The two maids by her side tried every means to comfort her, but it was to no avail.

Mingyu strode over and asked, “Little Lizhi, what’s happened? Why are you crying so sadly? Come, let your big brother have a look. Oh dear, your little face is a mess, just like a kitten who’s been crying.”

Lizhi lifted her small hands before Mingyu’s eyes and wailed, “My sparrow… My sparrow is dead… Wuwuwu…”

He looked down and saw a fledgling swallow cupped in her hands. It must have succumbed to the harsh winter cold of Chang’an, for it showed no sign of life. Mingyu said, “If it’s dead, then it’s dead. Later, your big brother will get you another one.”

But as soon as he spoke, Lizhi’s wailing only grew louder, her grief deepening. Mingyu panicked—he dreaded the eldest grandson hearing this and mistakenly believing he’d made their darling so distraught. That would be a disaster. He hurried to comfort her.

The two maids bowed to Mingyu and explained, “Young master, you may not know, but this fledgling was the young princess’s playmate. It had a weak constitution from birth and broke its wing, falling into the courtyard where the young princess found it. With her kind heart, she cared for it for months until the injury healed, but the wing remained damaged and it could not fly. When winter came, it couldn’t migrate south and could only stay in the princess’s chamber to keep her company. But the bitter cold of late has been too much for it, and it finally passed away. The young princess cannot bear this loss, so she is so heartbroken.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is,” Mingyu realized. Little girls were naturally overflowing with kindness, fond of cats, dogs, and small animals. It was no wonder she was so upset.

After crying for some time, Lizhi finally quieted, her teary eyes gazing up at Mingyu as she asked, “Big brother, mother says you know the Immortal Sun, whose medical skill is legendary—he can revive the dead and heal the flesh and bones. Could you ask the Immortal Sun to save my sparrow?”

Mingyu’s head ached. This swallow was already stiff with death—no doctor, not even Hua Tuo or Shennong resurrected, could help. And though Sun Simiao was famed for his miraculous skills, such tales were but exaggerations. The old Daoist was rarely seen, wandering the mountains in search of herbs—how could he be found in the vast Zhongnan Mountains anyway? Mingyu could only gently explain, “Ah… Lizhi, though the Immortal Sun’s medical skills are extraordinary, human power has its limits. Matters of life and death are beyond even his reach.”

Hearing this, disappointment overflowed in Lizhi’s large eyes. She bowed her head, her lips quivering, tears pooling again.

Mingyu sighed inwardly—this little one really was a bundle of tears. The more he tried to console her, the more she wept. He crouched down and spoke softly, “Lizhi, since your sparrow has died, why don’t we bury it together? Grieving won’t bring it back. Let’s lay it to rest, so it may enter the cycle of rebirth and have a better life next time.”

Lizhi asked, “Is there really such a thing as reincarnation?”

With a reassuring tone, Mingyu comforted her, “Truly there is. Death is but another form of new life—the end of one journey and the beginning of another. So don’t be sad. Come, let’s find a nice spot and give it a proper burial.”

He took Lizhi to a flowerbed, dug a small shallow pit, and together they buried the fledgling. Lizhi pressed her hands together, murmuring words of prayer.

Even after the little bird was laid to rest, Lizhi’s spirits remained low, her brows furrowed in gloom. Mingyu racked his brains for ways to cheer her up—children’s moods darkened and brightened quickly. “How about this? Come on, big brother will take you to eat something delicious.”

With that, he took Lizhi’s small hand, gathered the two maids, asked where the kitchen was, and set off.

Arriving at the kitchen, the head steward rushed to greet them, but Mingyu waved him away impatiently. He called over the plump cookmaid who was responsible for Lizhi’s meals to assist him. Mingyu wandered around the kitchen, hands behind his back, surveying the ingredients and pondering what to make—something simple, not too complicated, and appealing to a child’s taste.

Milk? That would do—good for children. Mingyu pointed it out, and the cookmaid quickly fetched it. Icing sugar? Useful—children love sweets. Good, take that too. Eggs as well. Suddenly, Mingyu remembered a dessert—simple to make, delicious, beloved by both adults and children. Surely it would bring a smile to Lizhi’s face.

Once he’d gathered the ingredients, Mingyu set to work. There was no wok, so he used a clay pot, pouring in the milk to bring it to a boil while instructing the cookmaid to mind the heat—keep it gentle, never fierce.

Soon, the milk began to bubble. Mingyu poured it into a large bowl to cool.

He separated the egg whites from the yolks, whisking the whites until smooth. As he worked, he instructed the cookmaid, “Remember, the egg whites must be thoroughly mixed. If not, when combined with the milk, they’ll form lumps and the texture won’t be smooth.”

The cookmaid nodded eagerly, paying close attention.

It was winter, and the boiled milk cooled quickly, forming a thick skin on top. Mingyu instructed the cookmaid to fetch a pair of bamboo chopsticks. “Be careful not to break this milk skin—it must remain intact.” With that, he gently lifted a corner of the skin with the chopsticks, creating a small gap, and poured the milk beneath back into the pot, leaving only the skin in the bowl.

Next, he took the icing sugar—though in Tang times, its extraction was primitive, resulting in a yellowish, sticky texture. He tasted it with his tongue—sweet enough. He added spoonful after spoonful, four or five in all. Then he slowly poured the whisked egg whites into the milk and instructed the cookmaid to stir until the sugar dissolved and no bubbles remained.

He filtered out any bubbles. “This is the most crucial step—watch carefully. The milk skin must not be broken, or all the effort is wasted.” He poured the sweetened milk and egg mixture back into the bowl along the gap beneath the milk skin.

The milk flowed in, and the skin gently floated back to the surface.

“Phew!” Mingyu let out a long breath—at last, the milk skin remained intact.

All that remained was to cover the bowl, steam it for a quarter hour, and wait. Mingyu stepped out, wiping sweat from his brow despite the modest effort—he hadn’t cooked in years, and his skills were a bit rusty. As he worked, memories of past recipes drifted through his mind.

Before long, the dessert was ready—a bowl of smooth, sweet, and tender double-skin milk, fresh from the steamer.

This sweet treat, known as double-skin milk, actually originated in Shunde, Guangdong during the Qing dynasty, becoming one of the signature Cantonese desserts. In his previous life, Mingyu had learned to make many such simple, delicious sweets in pursuit of a girl with a sweet tooth—though in the end, all he earned was a “good person” card and not even a chance to hold her hand.

Once it had cooled a little, Mingyu cheerfully brought the bowl to Lizhi. “Try this—big brother made it especially for you.”

Lizhi took a spoonful, and the rich fragrance of milk, the delicate sweetness of the sugar, and the smoothness of the egg all mingled together—she’d never tasted anything so delicious in her life. As a child, her sadness melted away as quickly as it had come. Her eyes curved like crescent moons as she exclaimed joyfully, “It’s delicious! So delicious! I want more!”

Mingyu laughed heartily. “Of course! Big brother will make as much as you want!”

He made two more bowls himself, and Lizhi ate until her little belly was round. Even then, she still wanted more, but couldn’t fit another bite.

Seeing how much this dessert from the future was loved, Mingyu felt a quiet happiness. He pondered whether, in this Tang dynasty a thousand years in the past, he might open a dessert shop. But no—that would be too unambitious. Other time travelers dealt in banks or real estate; what profit was there in just a bowl of double-skin milk? At best, it could be a signature dessert for a restaurant in the future.

Mingyu asked the cookmaid, “Did you remember every step?”

The cookmaid nodded with a broad smile. “Young master, you’re truly remarkable! This double-skin milk is so simple and tasty—I’ve got every step memorized, no mistakes. The little princess loves it so much, I’ll make it for her every day from now on.”

“Good. Make a few more portions and let the young lords try it. Remember, don’t use too much sugar—children are teething, and too many sweets aren’t good.” Having given his instructions, Mingyu lifted the last bowl of double-skin milk, turned to Lizhi, and said, “Come on, let’s take this to your mother and let her taste it too!”