Xu Xinnian said nothing. Xu Pingzhi studied the middle-aged man for a moment, then shook his head. "Just a random doggerel, nothing more. I heard that gentleman say his calligraphy was rusty and he couldn't produce decent characters, so he asked this young fellow to write it out for him."
Second Uncle was an old hand at this. He adopted the posture of a bystander, cleanly severing any visible connection to his nephew and son.
The crowd immediately turned to Xu Xinnian. The young scholar let out a cold "Hmph," radiating that particular brand of aloof disdain that said *don't even speak to me*, and deigned not to answer.
His attitude bristled the middle-aged man, who flushed with irritation and embarrassment, then swept back to his seat with a flick of his sleeve.
Xu Pingzhi, who'd originally planned to stay the night, shot his son a meaningful look. Father and son slipped out of Plum Shadow Pavilion one after the other.
"Can't stay much longer. If someone figures out the three of us are related, it's trouble." Xu Pingzhi was coaching as they walked.
"I know." Xu Xinnian nodded, then shivered violently as the biting night wind hit him.
Inside, the charcoal brazier had kept the room warm. Stepping out into the cold was like walking into a wall of ice, and his body couldn't help but tremble.
Xu Pingzhi glanced at his son. "If we'd stayed at Plum Shadow Pavilion, the maids would have cost only a tael each. But now we'll have to go to another courtyard and find someone who isn't a maid... and for those, the minimum is five taels. That includes the tea gathering fee."
He paused, waiting for the usual barbed retort—*why do you know the prices so well, Father?*—but it didn't come.
Xu Pingzhi felt both surprised and quietly relieved.
Second Uncle fished a stamped ingot of official silver from his robe. Standard issue, five taels.
"Er Lang, take the silver."
The Xu family had gone bankrupt over the tax silver case. Even after a month of Xu Pingzhi pulling strings through gray channels to scrape together funds, they were still stretched thin. He didn't think his son could produce five taels on his own.
Xu Xinnian's expression shifted. He said quietly, "Father, what about you?"
Second Uncle waved it off with a smile. "I've been at the Essence Refining stage long enough that cold and heat don't bother me. I could sleep on the roadside and be fine. But your body can't handle a night in this wind."
Xu Xinnian stood with his hands tucked into his sleeves, back slightly curved against the cutting wind, staring at the five-tael ingot. After a long silence, his voice came out rough and hoarse:
"I don't want it."
Second Uncle insisted.
In the back-and-forth, something slipped from Xu Xinnian's robe and hit the ground with a soft clink. Another stamped ingot of official silver. Exactly five taels.
...
Father and son stared at the silver on the ground. Neither spoke.
...
On the other side of the pavilion, the maid slid open the bedchamber door and gestured for Xu Qian to enter. She did not follow.
"Please go in, Master Yang!"
The moment the screen door opened, a wave of warm, fragrant air washed over him. The floor was covered in an expensive silk carpet—the kind that cost a fortune and devoured even more labor. Embroidered across it were pale blue lotuses and clusters of auspicious clouds.
When a woman walked across it, every step bloomed like a lotus. When a powerful man strode across it, his career would rise like clouds.
Clever. Very clever.
A three-panel screen painted with a reproduction of the famous *Rain on Banana Leaves* divided the sleeping quarters from the receiving area. Before it, a stunning young woman knelt on a small couch shaped like a hu-shaped doorway, a phoenix-tail zither resting on the low table before her.
She wore a gossamer silk robe that left her jade-smooth skin visible in tantalizing glimpses. Her smile was warm and inviting as she looked toward the doorway.
Their eyes met. She dipped her head slightly, a shy smile playing at the corners of her lips.
*That lowered gaze—so tender it makes a lotus flower seem clumsy in the wind.* The line surfaced unbidden in Xu Qian's mind.
At the drinking games, she was poised as a noble lady. Here, on the couch, she was alluring in a way that hinted without telling.
Only women trained by the Bureau of Music could cultivate this kind of enchantment.
Xu Qian's two heads were having a disagreement. One was saying *abort*, the other was saying *proceed*.
"Master?" The courtesan queen laughed softly, a sound like silk being torn. "Why do you stare at me so, my lord?"
*Because your beauty is a national security threat.* Xu Qian sighed. "I'd long heard that Lady Fuxiang was a peerless beauty—a woman the world seldom sees. I never believed it until now. If someone told me she was the most beautiful woman under heaven, I wouldn't argue."
"Master Yang, you're teasing me again." Lady Fuxiang pressed her lips together, lowering her head with feigned coquettishness, eyes sparkling with undisguised pleasure.
...
In the adjacent tea room, the Zhao scholar had consumed an entire pot of tea. His bladder had staged two protests. By the third, he could hold on no longer.
Had he come here to drink tea?
Grumbling inwardly, the Zhao scholar left the tea room and headed for the bedchamber—only to be stopped at the door by a maid.
"I've been waiting in that tea room for ages. Why hasn't Lady Fuxiang received me yet?" he demanded.
"Don't be upset, Young Master Zhao. My lady has chosen another guest," the maid replied.
A bolt of lightning struck the Zhao scholar's forehead. Then another. Then a third. Fury followed close behind.
"Lady Fuxiang clearly chose *me*! Why the sudden change of mind? Are you toying with me? If you don't give me an explanation, don't blame me for making a scene."
His savage tone and ugly words frightened the maid. She instinctively reached for the guards stationed outside.
"Pinger, since Young Master Zhao refuses to accept it, bring the poem out and let him see for himself."
The courtesan queen's voice drifted from inside the chamber, rich with feminine authority.
The maid eyed the Zhao scholar cautiously, cracked the screen door just enough for one person to slip through, and darted inside.
Seconds later she reappeared, holding out the rice paper.
The Zhao scholar snatched it, glanced at it—and the rage on his face froze solid. Then it melted away, replaced by shock. Then disbelief. Then something that might have been awe.
He stood rooted to the spot for a long time. His fingers went slack, and the rice paper drifted to the floor.
...
The guests outside were stunned to see the Zhao scholar emerge.
Was it over already?
His expression told them otherwise. This was a man who'd been ejected.
"Brother Zhao, what happened?" A young man of similar age, dressed in scholar's robes, stepped forward with an air of concern that was mostly curiosity.
Earlier, the maid had called away the Yang fellow. Shortly after, Zhao had stumbled out looking like a ghost. Clearly, someone had cut in and snatched the prize right from under his nose.
The Zhao scholar, in his blue-green robe, slowly swept his gaze across the assembled guests and murmured, "I lost. Lost completely and utterly."
"Lost? What do you mean? What happened?"
"Brother Zhao—this other fellow wrote a poem, right? What poem could possibly make Lady Fuxiang break the rules?"
"Come on, tell us! You're killing us here!"
The guests clustered around him.
The Zhao scholar ignored them all. He walked toward the courtyard gate, murmuring as he went: "All blossoms fade and fall; alone she thrives in bloom..."
The crowd's hearts jolted. They knew he was reciting the poem.
"...Claiming every charm the little garden knows."
By now the Zhao scholar had reached the courtyard. The guests followed involuntarily, listening.
"Sparse shadows stretch across waters clear and bright, / Hidden fragrance drifts through dusk's golden light..."
The guests stopped. They stood rooted where they were. The air fell silent.
No one spoke for a long time.
Then a young scholar, eyes brimming with tears and lips trembling, said: "With this poem, every plum blossom poet in history is put to shame. Friends—I must take my leave. I'm going to another courtyard's tea gathering, and I'm taking this poem with me."
"I'll be going as well. For the glory of Great Feng's poetic tradition—how could I possibly miss this?"
The crowd scattered in a rush, each man racing toward a different courtyard, each one burning to be the first to recite those lines and bring down the house.