Soon enough, Qin Shi's table finished their meal. Quick-witted maids promptly brought copper basins for handwashing, cleared away the remnants, and laid out delicate tea and pastries. The noblewomen continued chatting and laughing merrily, while the young ladies admired flowers, fed the fish, or gathered in small groups chirping away.
Xianglan had Wu Mama arrange for two matrons to set up a large huanghuali wood table in the courtyard, complete with writing brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones. The poetry topics were brought over, and everyone crowded around to look. They were all conventional themes celebrating blossoms and willows, full of romantic imagery—perfectly suited to the sensibilities of young maidens confined to inner chambers. Each girl rubbed her hands in eager anticipation, itching to try her hand.
Lin Dongxiu was close with two daughters of concubines from Minister Liu's and Squire Wen's households. Worried that delaying their choice would leave them with only difficult topics and risk embarrassment from poor compositions, the three huddled together whispering, hastily selected their themes, and immediately spread out their papers to ponder.
Lin Dongling had never been fond of studying and particularly detested composing poetry. She initially felt impatient about this activity. But a quick glance around showed all the young ladies holding brushes and contemplating their topics. The few who weren't writing poems but chatting or doing needlework instead were either concubine-born daughters or legitimate daughters she looked down upon. Proud and arrogant by nature, Lin Dongling naturally disdained being grouped with them. She reasoned that failing to produce a poem now would truly diminish her status, so she randomly checked off one topic.
She wrote the chosen theme on paper, beckoned her personal maid Yingluo, stuffed the paper into her hand, and whispered, "Go, take this to my third brother. Have him compose it quickly and bring it back to me." Understanding the implication, Yingluo promptly withdrew.
Meanwhile, Lin Dongqi affectionately linked arms with Zheng Jingxian, pointing at one topic and murmuring, "This 'Late Spring' is easy—simple and straightforward. There are so many spring motifs to choose from. Just emphasize the 'late' aspect, and you can write about anything. The challenge is avoiding clichés." She pointed at another, "This 'Night Rain' is more restrictive, but if you capture the mood precisely, it might actually be easier to craft something clever."
Zheng Jingxian maintained a reserved demeanor with a somewhat aloof air. After scanning the topics from top to bottom, she scoffed and said to Lin Dongqi, "These themes are all vulgar. It takes real skill to make something trite feel fresh and original." She actually checked off that "Late Spring" topic.
Lin Dongqi's brow furrowed slightly. Though displeased, she showed no outward sign, simply checking "Night Rain" for herself and spreading her paper to begin writing.
Seeing Lin Dongqi rebuffed, Lin Dongxiu couldn't help smirking behind her hand. She shifted closer to Zheng Jingxian and said, "Sister Xian is so talented. Even with a common theme, you're sure to create something novel."
Zheng Jingxian glanced at Lin Dongxiu but didn't utter a word.
Lin Dongxiu flushed crimson with embarrassment. Fortunately, Song Tanzhai came to her rescue, saying, "Sister Xiu, you already have a couple lines so quickly? I haven't even thought of one yet." Ever since Qin Shi dashed Lin Dongqi's hopes regarding Song Ke, Lin Dongqi had cooled considerably toward Song Tanzhai. Conversely, Lin Dongxiu had grown increasingly warm toward her, and through their interactions, the two had developed some camaraderie.
This diversion shifted the conversation elsewhere. The young ladies buried themselves in composing poetry, leaving only Lin Dongling at leisure—now watching her mother Wang Shi feed the fish, now snatching a pastry from the table, now demanding a cup of warmed fruit wine.Now, as for Qinglan's side, Huamei was urging her in every possible way to compose a poem. Naturally, Qinglan was unwilling. Catching sight of Zhao Yuechan standing gracefully under the corridor, Huamei leaned close to Qinglan's ear and whispered, "Sister, what are you afraid of? Even if it turns out poorly, could it possibly be worse than that ogress? She barely knows a few big characters—what use is all her cunning? Sister, you've already gained such great face earlier. If you compose a good poem now, you'll immediately outshine that woman. Once word spreads, not only will Madam think highly of you, but you'll also carry more dignity when moving among noble households in the future."
These words struck a chord with Qinglan. Indeed, no matter how unskilled she was, she had studied for a few days and was certainly better than Zhao Yuechan, who could barely recognize a few characters. If she composed one, even if it wasn't exceptional, it would still earn her plenty of face.
Seeing Qinglan's expression shift dramatically, Huamei immediately sighed and said softly, "Sister, you are a fortunate one, different from the likes of us in the end. I'm thinking of you in everything now, though I do have some selfish motives. I could tell at once that you are kind and generous. I only ask that when you rise to prominence and honor in the future, you won't forget to look after me a little. I don't ask for much—just a room to live in here at the Hall of Knowing Spring, and I'll be content..." As she spoke, tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, and she quickly lowered her head to wipe them away with a handkerchief.
Qinglan felt even more convinced that Huamei was sincere and hastily grasped her hands, saying, "What are you saying, sister? You're the senior here. I've just arrived—it's you who should guide me. We both serve the Eldest Master together, eating and sleeping in the same place, no different from real sisters. To speak of anything else would be treating me as a stranger."
Huamei nodded repeatedly and spoke gently yet persuasively, using all her eloquence to encourage her. Qinglan, thoroughly swayed, felt increasingly compelled to show off and went up to compose a poem.
When Zhao Yuechan saw Qinglan also stepping forward to select a topic and write, she sneered coldly, feeling a pang of bitterness in her heart. Then she overheard Huamei speaking loudly to Yingge not far away: "...Concubine Lan comes from a scholarly family—how could she be like us? If I had any learning in me, perhaps I'd also pick a topic and write a poem to show off and enjoy the glory."
Yingge retorted scornfully, "Indeed, she's different. The biggest difference is her womb—a hundred times more precious than ours."
Their back-and-forth grated on Zhao Yuechan's nerves, and she pointed at them, scolding, "What are you two chirping and chattering about? Stop wagging your tongues."
The two immediately fell silent.
Zhao Yuechan turned her head and, looking at Qinglan's triumphant face, gritted her teeth and murmured, "You wretched slut, go ahead and compose. Once you've had your fill, I'll deal with you."
Huamei, having stirred up trouble on both sides, saw Zhao Yuechan's anger and her cold stare fixed on Qinglan, secretly pleased with the outcome.
Yingge also sensed something amiss and thought to herself, "That ogress is one who devours people without spitting out the bones, and Huamei is no easy lamp to light either. I'd better not get caught between them and be used as their pawn. It's best not to linger in a place of trouble." She then rubbed her temples and said, "Ah, my head is aching again. Perhaps I drank two cups too many earlier and caught a chill. My heart is pounding now—I must go back and lie down."
Zhao Yuechan waved her hand dismissively, and Yingge, leaning weakly on Dingxiang, walked away feebly.Qinglan had chosen a topic and spread out her paper to begin writing. However, her thoughts felt sluggish, and having neglected reading and writing for so long, her mind was a complete blank. As she watched the incense stick on the desk nearly burn out, she still had no coherent draft. Seeing that everyone else had finished, she grew anxious and quietly went to find Wu Mama.
Wu Mama, after a long day of busy work, had finally found a moment of leisure. She had set up a separate table under the corridor with a few prominent matrons, selected some fine dishes, and warmed wine. They were in the midst of enjoying their meal and drinks when Qinglan approached. Wu Mama quickly stood up and scolded, "Concubine, why have you come alone without anyone supporting you? Where are Yindie and Xiao Juan? Just wait until I give those two little minxes a good thrashing!"
Qinglan lowered her voice and said, "Mama, never mind that now. Please help me quickly—ask if anyone can compose a poem."
Wu Mama was displeased that Qinglan had disturbed her meal for such a matter. She thought to herself, "After a whole day of hard work, not a word of thanks, and now she interrupts my hot meal for this trivial matter of writing a poem." Her expression darkened as she said, "Didn’t you say earlier, Concubine, that there would be no poetry today?"
Qinglan urged her anxiously, "I’ve changed my mind now. Mama, please help me think of something!"
Despite her inner complaints, Wu Mama couldn’t bear to see Qinglan lose face. Reluctantly, she said, "I’ll try to find someone who can write for you." After some thought, she vaguely remembered that Xianglan was literate and might be able to compose poetry. With a resigned expression, she went to the tea room to find Xianglan and said, "The Concubine has taken on a task again—she needs a poem. Take a look." She handed the paper over.
Xianglan unfolded it and saw two words written on it: "Fading Fragrance."
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