Qu Shuangshuang continued reading—one poem after another. When she had nearly finished the stack, Lin Fangqi finally leaned toward Lin Fangxu and whispered, unable to hold back:
“I thought Ming-ge’s Beauty Emerging from the Bath and Xizi with a Hand on Her Heart were already clichés, but the others aren’t much better.”
Lin Fangxu glanced at him. “Does your assessment of ‘not much better’ include that snow poem you submitted?”
Lin Fangqi coughed awkwardly. “Well… mine only suited the season. I wrote it during New Year three years ago. My literary talent is limited—shameful, shameful—ha…”
“Seasonal, yes,” Lin Fangxu replied mildly. “But has Wuyi County even seen snow in the past decade?”
“It has!” Lin Fangqi protested eagerly. “Three years ago it snowed—at night. It froze me awake.
Snow blew through the window. By morning it had melted. I almost thought I’d dreamed it.”
Lin Fangxu took the handkerchief Mu-mu offered and wiped Sanmu’s mouth before continuing, “If it all melted, where did the snow-covered mountains in your poem come from? Would that
not count as cliché?”
Lin Fangqi opened his mouth, then shut it again. Speechless.
For the hundredth time, he wondered why, among all his peers, he insisted on befriending this one.
By now Qu Shuangshuang had reached the final poem. She held the manuscript for a long moment, studying it as if savoring each word. The crowd grew impatient; a few scholars began to call out.
She came back to herself and apologized gracefully. “Forgive me. I lost myself for a moment. This poem is truly exceptional. If I declare it today’s first prize, I doubt anyone would object.”
A young gentleman upstairs flicked open his fan. “If Miss Qu deems it first, let us hear it. Only then can we be convinced.”
Ai Xiaoya’s heart skipped. It can’t be mine, can it? I only came to observe—I never meant to win.
Qu Shuangshuang began to recite:
“If life were but as when we first met,
Why should the autumn wind sadden the painted fan? So easily the hearts of old companions change—
Yet we say it is the human heart that is fickle.
Words once spoken at Lishan beneath the midnight sky, Tears fell like rain, yet no resentment remained.
How could the faithless brocade-clad youth compare
To vows of paired wings and entwined branches once sworn?”
When she finished, Lin Fangming was first to applaud. “A fine poem—remarkable! May we know its author? Such talent deserves acquaintance.”
Lin Fangxu and Lin Fangqi both knew whose it was. Fangxu was no less astonished than Fangqi.
In his previous life, before Simu reached three months, Ai Xiaoya had been confined to the household caring for the child. When the boy died, she seized upon the tragedy to demand a division of the family.
After the household separated and parental oversight lessened, his second brother indulged himself, and she began frequent trips to the county town. Within two months she had sold half the fertile land she received and opened a hotpot restaurant.
Later she helped Liu Mingzhu scheme his marriage, hoping to leverage the Liu family’s wealth for a clothing business.
Unfortunately for her, the Liu family’s enterprises lay in the hands of Liu Mingzhu’s legitimate mother; even Liu’s father held little sway—much less Liu Mingzhu.
When her antics escalated, and Fangxu had already passed as a juren, clan elders intervened with a warning. Elder Brother quietly suppressed further excess. She then focused solely on her hotpot business, eventually expanding to Jinhua Prefecture.
Only after Second Brother passed the xiucai examination and found employment did she leave Wuyi County. Whether she ever returned alive remained uncertain.
Call it confidence or arrogance—Lin Fangxu had never truly regarded Ai Xiaoya as formidable, in either lifetime.
If she had once manipulated his marriage, it was merely because she plotted while he did not. As for the maritime smuggling scandal, that had been a contest between factions at court. If anything, he had implicated her and Second Brother.
Had she not just lost her son, Elder Brother would never have agreed to divide the family in the previous life.
And had Simu not been kept from her care this time, Fangxu doubted he would ever have witnessed her composing poetry.
Even so, he suspected this poem was not her own. Her usual speech and manner did not suggest the breadth of experience or cultivated depth such lines required.
Qu Shuangshuang, aware of the author through her maid Qing’er, noted the absence of a signature. Since the writer chose anonymity, she would not betray it.
“There is no name attached,” she said lightly. “Perhaps the talented author prefers obscurity. Lin-gongzi may be disappointed. As for myself, from the first to the fifteenth I shall prepare tea and pastries and await honored guests.”
Ai Xiaoya exhaled in relief. She had no desire for fame. Copying a poem once might pass unnoticed; twice perhaps; thrice would invite exposure.
She once read a transmigration novel where the heroine dazzled a banquet with a martial poem.
Ai Xiaoya could never understand such authors. How could a sheltered maiden plausibly
compose lines like “By lamplight I polish my sword; in dreams I return to camps where horns resound”?
In truth, she admired Qu Shuangshuang. A master of presentation and promotion. While she herself could not assume the mantle of a gifted poetess, befriending this capable teahouse proprietress might prove advantageous.
Had Lin Fangxu known her thoughts, he might have reflected that even the smallest deviation could send fate down a different path.
What might Ai Xiaoya attempt this time, with Qu Shuangshuang in her circle? In skill and insight, the latter far surpassed her.
923925192603
Onstage, Qu Shuangshuang began reviewing the fifteen calligraphic works. Below, Sanmu had finished his pastries and fidgeted restlessly. Ermu, having drunk too much tea, clamored for the privy. Only little shuang’er Mu-mu remained composed.
Seeing no sign that Second Brother or his wife noticed them, Fangxu and Fangqi quietly shepherded the children out.
Fangxu purchased ink, brushes, and paper before returning to the county residence to await Elder Brother.
After they departed, a bold cursive rendering of the six characters “At birth, man’s nature is
good” drew loud acclaim in Honghu Tower. The sheet was passed from hand to hand—yet it, too, bore no signature.
923925195046
On the way back, Fangxu warned Fangqi, “Do not mention Second Sister-in-law’s poem. Pretend ignorance.”
Fangqi stared. “Am I that loose-tongued? She herself said nothing. Of course I won’t. Still… I never guessed she was hiding such talent.”
Fangxu arched a brow. There is much you fail to see, he thought, but said nothing more.
Elder Brother and Zhao Shiyue returned well before Ai Xiaoya, who came back alone. As for Second Brother—he had wandered off somewhere, and no one troubled themselves about it.
They dined at an inn, waited for merchants to deliver their purchases, then rode back together to Lin Family Village.
Fangxu had assumed the children knew nothing. He forgot that daughters and shuang’er of the Lin family could attend lessons with Great-Uncle if they wished.
Mu-mu had studied for two years and already finished memorizing the Thousand Character Classic. Of course he recognized the poem as his second aunt’s.
In his memory, Second Aunt spoke loudly, loved needlework, and often quarreled with Second Uncle. Yet today she had composed a poem that all praised.
How strange.
Poor Mu-mu wrestled with the thought all the way home.
That night, after Zhao Shiyue soothed his younger brother to sleep, Mu-mu whispered, “Mu-father, did you know Second Aunt can write poetry?”
Zhao Shiyue was startled. “Why ask that? Her father revered Cheng-Zhu orthodoxy and believed that virtue lies in women’s lack of talent. She learned only basic characters. She should not write poetry.”
Mu-mu frowned. “But today at the teahouse, she wrote a poem. Everyone said it was good. I remember the first lines: ‘If life were but as when we first met…’”
Zhao Shiyue’s heart jolted, though his face remained calm. “Perhaps she read it somewhere. Did anyone else know?”
“Little Uncle and Second Cousin. We went together.”
Zhao Shiyue gently instructed, “If your Little Uncle did not speak of it, then perhaps it was indeed copied from a book. Do not mention it again. Now sleep.”
He kissed his son’s cheek. Mu-mu blushed and burrowed under the quilt as his mu-father patted him to sleep.
923925196376
Zhao Shiyue returned to his chamber troubled. Since childbirth, his sister-in-law’s strangeness had unsettled him deeply.
When Lin Fangqin entered, he found his husband sitting on the bed, brow furrowed. He lifted his face and feigned irritation.
“What is it? Has Ermu been naughty again? I’ll discipline him. That boy won’t turn the heavens upside down under my roof.”
Zhao Shiyue brushed his hand away. “It’s not Ermu. It’s your younger brother’s wife…” He hesitated, uneasy about speaking ill behind someone’s back, yet felt it necessary.
“Since Simu’s birth she seems like a different person. Changes in appetite are understandable, but her mannerisms too… and sometimes she uses strange words. Mu-mu just told me—”
Lin Fangqin had sensed something amiss himself, though he attributed it to the ordeal of childbirth. He trusted his husband’s judgment.
“She is somewhat odd,” he admitted. “Do not worry overly. Tomorrow I’ll ask Third Brother about what happened at the teahouse, then we shall decide. Hmph. I, Lin Fangqin, fear neither spirits nor demons.”
Perhaps because he had confided in his husband and found reassurance, Zhao Shiyue soon fell asleep.
