"What are we going to do? That's thirty taels gone on the tea gathering, and even if we pick a maid to spend the night, it'll still cost us several taels each!" Second Uncle's face was tight with anxiety, looking like a man who'd been transported back to rock bottom overnight. He turned to his son, eyes pleading. "Cijiu, think of something."
Was this really about the money? The real problem was that they'd learned absolutely nothing. Both brothers screamed internally.
Xu Xinnian looked at his father. "What can I do? It was always a long shot. Big Brother and I came along for the ride—didn't you have any self-awareness, Father?"
His tone was sharper than usual, which meant he was anxious too.
This was a total blood loss. The silver was secondary—the real wound was walking away empty-handed. Xu Qian glanced at the Zhao scholar being led away by a maid, and a thought struck him: Lady Fuxiang's title was "Supreme in both Music and Poetry."
He immediately asked a serving maid for brush, ink, and rice paper.
Clearing a space on the table, he grabbed Xu Xinnian by the sleeve. "Cijiu, write for me."
Xu Xinnian didn't hesitate. With the instinctive coordination of a brother who'd been dragged into his schemes before, he sat up straight and gripped the brush.
Xu Qian rattled off the lines at breakneck speed: "All blossoms fade and fall; alone she thrives in bloom, / Claiming every charm the little garden knows."
Xu Xinnian's brush danced across the paper in sharp, angular cursive.
Xu Qian continued: "Sparse shadows stretch across waters clear and bright, / Hidden fragrance drifts through dusk's golden light."
Xu Xinnian's brush stopped. He froze, mouth moving soundlessly, repeating the last two lines like a man who'd just heard thunder in a clear sky.
"Write!" Xu Qian shoved him.
Xu Xinnian snapped out of it, expression taut, and scribbled the rest.
Xu Qian snatched the paper, called a maid over, and pressed a handful of loose silver fragments into her palm. "Give this poem to Lady Fuxiang. Tell her Master Yang awaits her reply."
The maid looked reluctant, but the silver changed her mind instantly. She scurried off.
...
In the main bedchamber, a four-panel screen shielded the bath from view. Wisps of steam curled toward the ceiling beams.
Lady Fuxiang lounged in hot water strewn with rose petals, her dark hair pinned high, her long white neck and shoulders gleaming with droplets that caught the candlelight like liquid jewels. Her skin, smooth as fine jade, made her look like a living sculpture.
A personal maid fussed at the tub's edge, complimenting her mistress's complexion while chatting. "The Zhao scholar is waiting in the tea room next door. The guests outside say he's a student of the Imperial Academy."
"What's so special about a student?" Lady Fuxiang smiled, idly swirling the water. "Though with Young Master Zhao's talent, passing the provincial exam should be no trouble."
The maid giggled. "I knew you preferred the scholarly type, my lady. That annoying Zhou Li only gets by on his father's rank. Young Master Zhao is genuinely brilliant—I hope you'll treat him well. Perhaps something beautiful will come of it, and a woman's name will echo through history."
"You're teasing me too..." Lady Fuxiang poked the maid's forehead and sighed. "For a woman to leave her mark on history—how impossibly difficult. It's something scholars dream of but can never reach."
The bedchamber door opened. A junior maid stepped in and announced from the parlor, "My lady, the guest surnamed Yang asked me to deliver a poem."
Lady Fuxiang's brow creased. The head maid scolded, "What kind of behavior is this? My lady has already chosen Young Master Zhao. How dare someone try to change her mind. Did he briate you?"
The junior maid bowed her head, too timid to argue.
Lady Fuxiang said flatly, "Leave it on the table. Go tell the guest I appreciate the gesture."
The junior maid exhaled in relief, set the paper down, and left.
After her bath, Lady Fuxiang draped herself in a gossamer silk robe that left her curves tantalizingly visible. Barefoot, she glided to the table and sat down.
"Go invite Young Master Zhao in," she said, her eyes falling on the rice paper. She picked it up idly.
Then her gaze locked. She stared at the paper as though the world had stopped.
*A Gift for Lady Fuxiang, at the Plum Shadow Pavilion*
All blossoms fade and fall; alone she thrives in bloom, Claiming every charm the little garden knows. Sparse shadows stretch across waters clear and bright, Hidden fragrance drifts through dusk's golden light.
The head maid reached the door, hand on the latch, ready to summon the Zhao scholar—when she heard her mistress's voice behind her, sharp and desperate: "Stop!"
She turned. Lady Fuxiang clutched the paper in both hands, trembling, her expression something the maid had never seen before. Not anger, not joy, not sorrow—something raw and unnamed.
The courtesan queen's voice cut through the air: "Who— who sent this poem? Which gentleman? Tell me now!"
The maid stammered, "I think his surname was Yang..."
Lady Fuxiang bolted for the door, barely pausing to gather her robe.
"My lady, my lady—you can't go out like this, please—" The maid threw her arms around her.
"Let go of me! Let go!" Lady Fuxiang's face was flushed crimson. "Don't let that gentleman leave! Go after him, quickly!"
The maid couldn't understand. It was just a poem. Yet it had shattered her mistress's composure completely—the elegance, the poise, the cultivated grace, all abandoned in an instant.
"My lady, please calm yourself. I'll go... I'll go find the gentleman who wrote it."
After the maid left, the courtesan queen sat disheveled at the table, staring blankly at the paper in her hands.
"Sparse shadows stretch across waters clear and bright... Hidden fragrance drifts through dusk's golden light... A gift for Fuxiang, a gift for Fuxiang..."
Tears rolled down her porcelain cheeks, and she collapsed against the table, sobbing.
...
In the front hall, some guests had departed. Others lingered.
After a tea gathering ended, the unsuccessful callers had two choices: move on to another pleasure house for another round, or— if they'd had enough to drink and felt weary—select one of the maids to spend the night.
"Your poem doesn't seem to have moved Lady Fuxiang." Xu Pingzhi looked at his nephew with visible worry.
The poem had been delivered. But the reply was a dismissive throwaway line.
Clearly, Xu Qian's poem hadn't moved the courtesan queen.
Xu Xinnian scoffed. "How could some woman understand the essence of poetry?"
Xu Pingzhi stared at his son. "Was Ningyan's poem truly that good?"
The proud Xu Xinnian—on the subject of poetry, at least—had long since surrendered to his elder brother's superiority. He sighed. "Extremely good. Beyond good."
Xu Qian was equally baffled. He had absolute confidence in this poem. This seven-character regulated verse was one of the most famous in all of Chinese literary history. The final two lines were universally regarded as the pinnacle of plum blossom poetry.
*"Under the cold frost of solitude, two lines achieved eternal fame"*—that was precisely what they said about these verses. Two lines, eternal fame. What a staggering honor.
The poems *Dark Fragrance* and *Sparse Shadows* had even become cipai names—their status among ancient literati was beyond question. Ouyang Xiu, Sima Guang, and other luminaries had given these lines the highest possible praise.
And the poet who wrote them had achieved literary immortality through this very work. Though—umm—who that poet actually was, Xu Qian had forgotten.
*This makes no sense. She has no reason to refuse me. If I'd given this poem to the two Grand Confucian Masters at White Deer Academy, they'd have adopted me as their own son.* Then a possibility struck him: perhaps the courtesan queen who claimed to be Supreme in Music and Poetry was actually all style and no substance.
A manufactured reputation. A cultivated persona. Fundamentally, someone with no real education.
But there was a paradox in that theory. If Lady Fuxiang were just a decorative vase with a fake reputation, the literati would never have acknowledged her in the first place.
In his previous life, entertainers built personas through hype and marketing. Courtesans in this era did something similar—but the latter actually had real skills.
The reason was simple: ancient scholars weren't easy marks the way modern youngsters could be fooled.
While he was frowning in consternation, the head maid who served Lady Fuxiang came clicking across the floor in quick, measured steps. Her anxious gaze swept the crowd, and when it found Xu Qian, her expression softened. She approached with elegant poise, dipped in a curtsy, and said in a honeyed voice:
"Master Yang—was it you who wrote the poem?"
The three Xu men exchanged glances. Relief washed over them like a wave.
"That was me." Xu Qian nodded.
The maid's face lit up. Her demeanor grew even more deferential, head bowed, voice soft as silk. "My lady requests your company."
Xu Qian kept his composure and nodded, following the maid toward the private chambers on the far side of the pavilion.
The scene drew stares from the guests who'd planned to stay the night at Plum Shadow Pavilion. They whispered among themselves.
"Huh? Why is he going in too?"
"That's... that's against the rules, isn't it? Two men going in?"
"Something about a poem, I think. I saw him and that handsome young fellow writing something earlier."
A middle-aged man dressed as a wealthy householder approached Xu Xinnian and Xu Pingzhi and cupped his hands. "Gentlemen, I wonder—what does Lady Fuxiang mean by this? Why did that fellow just go in? What poem did you write?"