Three days later, when Lin Sui’an was sitting in a teahouse in the Eastern Market, Mu Zhong had already made considerable headway.

“The Luo clan members are no fools — they absolutely refused to let go of Luo Shichuan’s profitable shops and convoys. It took me quite a lot of effort to get them to compromise.” Sir Mu said with a satisfied look. “The Luo young lady is also willing to split the household, but Sir Meng Man disagrees. He insists that the property deeds and the convoys’ trade permits have gone missing. The way I see it, he’s the one who arranged that — ahem, Lin Niangzi, are you even listening?”

“Sir Mu has worked hard. Sir Mu is a man of great principle.” Lin Sui’an murmured absently, her gaze fixed on the young tea server’s hands at the adjacent table.

This teahouse was the busiest in Nanpu County, packed without a single empty seat. The tea server was a boy of thirteen — neatly dressed, with soft, clean fingers and trimmed nails. Young as he was, his skill in brewing tea was first-rate. To reserve this particular tea server, Lin Sui’an had queued for two full days.

The young tea server tidied the tea implements in an orderly fashion, then used long wooden tongs to carefully roast the tea cake over a small flame, turning it from time to time. When a faint curl of steam rose from the cake, he slipped it into a paper sleeve, folded the end, and set it to one side. “Please wait a moment, sir and miss, while the tea cools and the fragrance opens.”

Lin Sui’an studied the arrangement of the implements on the table for a while, then drew out from her lapel the diagram of the crime scene, comparing each item one by one. Mu Zhong said quietly, “You haven’t been carrying that diagram on you this whole time, have you?”

Lin Sui’an: “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not — not at all.” Mu Zhong gave a dry laugh and shifted slightly further away from Lin Sui’an.

Lin Sui’an finished her comparison. She found that aside from the placement of the wind-furnace, which was roughly the same, the positions of the tea cake, the tea sifter, the tea grinder, the small kettle for boiling, the water container, the ladle, the tea bowls, and all the other implements were different from where Luo Shichuan had placed them.

“Young sir, does the placement of the tea implements follow any particular custom?” Lin Sui’an asked.

The tea server replied, “In our teahouse, every implement has a prescribed position and may not be moved at will.”

“And if one were brewing tea at home for oneself?”

“Then naturally according to personal preference.”

“Is each person’s preferred arrangement always the same?”

The tea server glanced at Lin Sui’an, seemingly puzzled by the question. “Brewing tea is a refined art. One settles on the most comfortable and convenient arrangement only through much practice and adjustment, and does not alter it lightly.”

In other words, once a habit had formed, the arrangement of the tea implements was essentially fixed. Lin Sui’an understood.

The tea having rested long enough, the young server broke the cake and put the pieces into the grinder, grinding them fine. The tea dust was poured into the sifter to produce the tea powder, which he then set aside. He lit the wind-furnace, filled the kettle with water, and waited for the second boil before scattering the tea powder in.

Lin Sui’an noticed that before the furnace was lit, a layer of ash and charcoal residue was already sitting inside, and the boy stirred it deliberately several times before lighting the fire.

“It seems Lin Niangzi has an interest in the tea arts,” Sir Mu leaned over. “The tea culture in Yangdu is unrivaled — the teahouses in Chunzhi Ward are the finest of all, a hundred times better than this place. One day I’ll take you there for a proper tasting.”

Before Lin Sui’an could respond, the young tea server was thoroughly offended. He pursed his lips and muttered under his breath, “Our establishment may not rival Yangdu, but we are the most famous teahouse in Nanpu — every scholar who passes through on his way to the imperial examinations praises us without exception, and many have even left poems on our wall.”

Mu Zhong looked a little embarrassed and rubbed his nose.

When the water reached the third boil, the tea was ready. Two bowls were poured and set before Lin Sui’an and Mu Zhong. “Please enjoy your tea, sir and miss.”

The surface of the tea was veiled with a thin, even froth. It did look somewhat better than the tea at the Luo household. Lin Sui’an raised the bowl with great anticipation and took a sip — then almost rolled her eyes at the bitterness. She stole a glance at Mu Zhong: he too was wincing.

The young tea server’s large eyes bored into both of them, his entire face declaring: “I will not rest until this tea is drunk dry.”

“Ahem,” Lin Sui’an set her bowl down without expression. “Where might the poem wall be? The two of us would very much like to admire it.”

*

“I have to say, the young tea server wasn’t bluffing.” Mu Zhong said, arms folded.

“Truly awe-inspiring.” Lin Sui’an agreed.

The south wall of the teahouse had been plastered smooth and covered from end to end with poetry — a dense thicket of verse. Regular script, running script, and cursive script wound and danced together; five-character lines and seven-character regulated verse shone side by side, enough to give any sensible person palpitations. The crowd around it was three layers deep, people sipping their tea, tilting their heads, intoning lines, and generally enjoying themselves tremendously.

A writing table stood beside the wall, already stocked with the four scholar’s implements — brush moistened, ink ground — poised for the next aspiring poet to add their mark.

Lin Sui’an and Mu Zhong exchanged a glance. They both turned to find the young tea server still seated in his spot, staring fixedly at them both, with the clear intention of following them to the ends of the earth if they did not return and finish their tea.

Mu Zhong stroked his mountain-peak beard and set to composing on the spot, with great theatrical solemnity: “This tea is as bitter as ox bile — oh dearest mother, it’s going to be the death of me…”

Lin Sui’an pressed her hand to her forehead. “Can we just go?”

Mu Zhong: “The back entrance of the teahouse has far too many people. You go for the tea and I’ll slip out first.”

“…”

This old fellow was really warming to this game.

Lin Sui’an couldn’t be bothered with him and turned to leave — and happened to brush past a young scholar. The scholar’s voice, half sobbing, half laughing, threaded its way into her ear like a strand of spider silk.

That voice!

Lin Sui’an spun around. The scholar was stumbling toward the poem wall, grabbing a brush, and writing furiously. The onlookers were immediately riveted, reading each character aloud as his brush strokes formed them:

“By the spring stream — at the misty islet — I first saw you,”

“The cool moon like an eyebrow — longing draws near.”

“Red flowers have seasons — feeling has none,”

“Water flows without end — like a lover’s heart.”

“My goodness — this young man has written his love poem right here on the wall!”

“Could the young lady he’s smitten with be here as well?”

The scholar staggered through the last stroke, flung down the brush, slid to the floor in a heap with his back against the wall, and buried his face in his hands. “Lian Jun… Lian Jun… how could you be so heartless… wah, wah, wah…”

Lin Sui’an stared, dumbstruck. She recognized that voice — it was the voice of the person in Su Chengxian’s memory, the man who had been entwined with Su Chengxian. And this poem — it was, yet again, Su Chengxian’s love poem.

*

“Who are you people? Do you really know Lian Jun?” The scholar asked.

The scholar’s name was Wei Li. He was dressed all in white, handsome-featured, and now that Lin Sui’an had abruptly invited him for tea, his tear-streaked face was full of wariness.

The “Lian Jun” he spoke of was Su Chengxian’s courtesy name.

Mu Zhong looked at Lin Sui’an with a head full of question marks. He could not fathom how she had simply reached out and grabbed a random scholar who turned out to be connected to Su Chengxian. Did she possess the gift of prophecy?

The shock Lin Sui’an had received was far greater than Mu Zhong’s. The scholar’s appearance was yet more proof that her golden ability was real — not a hallucination or a delusion. She could not bring herself to look the scholar in the face and instead bent her head over her tea bowl in a show of deep contemplation, which by chance earned her an approving glance from the young tea server.

“Ahem — we do know Master Su.” Mu Zhong said.

Wei Li: “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Mu Zhong scratched his head. “Well…”

How indeed? Take him to see Su Chengxian’s corpse?

“Ten thousand li of red dust stretching far away, yet no one fails to speak of tender feeling’s name.” Lin Sui’an said. “Those are the last two lines of the poem.”

Wei Li: “How — how do you know that?! Su Lang told me expressly that this poem was — was—”

“His love poem sent to you alone.” Lin Sui’an looked at Wei Li’s face, which had gone a sudden ghastly white, and felt a pang of pity. “I will not deceive you — counting yourself, Su Chengxian has now presented that love poem to three different people.”

Wei Li reeled violently, as if something had just become horribly clear. Tears slid from his eyes, and he let out a low, broken laugh. “So that’s how it is… so that’s how it is… he went back after all… I truly am a fool. I thought he was sincere toward me, and I even held onto his pack of belongings like an idiot, imagining we might travel to the Eastern Capital together for the examinations. To think that pack was nothing more than a ruse to keep me trusting him…”

Mu Zhong had by now pieced together the nature of their relationship, and his jaw nearly hit the floor. He lowered his voice. “I’ve heard that among the great noble families there are sometimes those with such inclinations — I never expected to actually witness it today. Lin Niangzi, how did you know?”

Ha. She had seen it with her own eyes, and had nearly been left with more than she bargained for.

“Su Chengxian sent me the same love poem.” Lin Sui’an said, utterly expressionless.

Wei Li snapped his head toward Lin Sui’an. Mu Zhong choked, his eyes bulging so round they nearly fell out. After a long moment he spat out one word: “Contemptible!”

Lin Sui’an: “Sir Wei Li — where is that pack of belongings you just mentioned?”

*

Wei Li lodged in Qiandu Ward. From the Eastern Market, one walked south along Chunman Road to its end, then east along West Road Street for a quarter-hour, into a district of closely packed houses — all Nanpu County locals. Lin Sui’an made a rough estimate: roughly fifty or more households, which for Nanpu County was quite a high density.

Wei Li rented a small courtyard in the southwest corner of Qiandu Ward — a main room, an inner chamber, bamboo growing outside the window, potted flowers in the yard, quite refined — the main room was filled with shelved scrolls and books.

Wei Li had lost control of himself earlier and had not asked too many questions, but now that he had collected himself, he clutched Su Chengxian’s pack of belongings and refused to let go, eyeing Lin Sui’an with a look that burned like open flame.

Lin Sui’an scratched her temple, feeling a little helpless.

It seemed Wei Li had taken her for a rival in love.

“Are you surnamed Luo?” Wei Li asked.

Lin Sui’an: “I am surnamed Lin.”

“Lin? Why Lin?” Wei Li stepped back two paces. “No — who exactly are you people?!”

Mu Zhong had reached his limit and went straight for the most decisive move: “Su Chengxian’s body is in the county office. I’ll take you there shortly.”

Wei Li gasped, then dropped to the floor, and in the next instant, lunged forward and seized Mu Zhong’s lapels, bellowing, “Lian Jun is dead?! How did he die?! Why is he dead?! You’re lying!”

Mu Zhong leaned back as far as he could, desperately trying to keep his distance. “Speak calmly, please — no grabbing—”

Wei Li’s hold on the pack slackened, and it rolled onto the floor. Lin Sui’an seized it immediately and began rummaging through it. The contents were simple: a purse containing two strings of coins, three changes of clothing, a pair of cloth boots, Su Chengxian’s travel permit, a fire-starter, and four scroll-books — all the poetry and literary anthologies a scholar typically read. Nothing out of the ordinary. Growing anxious, Lin Sui’an shook out all the clothing — and then a small, plump cloth pouch tumbled out, roughly four inches long. Its pattern and shape were identical to the pouch that had held the original owner’s diary — a scroll-wrap called a “zhi.”

Lin Sui’an’s heart hammered. She drew out the scroll-book. On the cover were written three characters: “Ten Purity Collection.”

Oh!

She had sought it a thousand times, and here it was, falling right into her hands without effort.

“Lin Niangzi!” Mu Zhong suddenly shouted. Lin Sui’an’s hand moved in a flash, stuffing the Ten Purity Collection up her sleeve. She turned to find Mu Zhong holding Wei Li by both arms, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets. “He just said Su Chengxian was with him all night on the fifteenth of the eighth month!”

“What?!” Lin Sui’an grabbed Wei Li by the elbow. Wei Li cried out, nearly crumpling; Lin Sui’an quickly loosened her grip. “You’re certain it was the night of the fifteenth?”

Wei Li’s eyes were red. “Of course I’m certain! The night of the full moon is the night Lian Jun and I pledged our love — how could I mistake the date?!”

Lin Sui’an: “You were together the entire night?!”

Mu Zhong: “Ahem — ahem!”

Wei Li: “The entire night, together!”

Lin Sui’an: “Not a moment apart?!”

Mu Zhong: “Ahem — ahem — ahem — ahem!”

Wei Li: “Inseparable, not apart for a single instant!”

“Oh ancestors above!” Mu Zhong clapped his hands over his face with a wail.

Su Chengxian had an alibi?!

He was not the killer?!

Lin Sui’an released Wei Li and paced back and forth across the room. The fragments of images and sounds swirling in her mind felt like they’d been caught in a storm — and then, all at once, a single bright thread appeared and strung them all together:

The osmanthus tree in full bloom… Luo Shichuan seated in a pool of blood… the broken door bolt… the vicious words of the Luo clan… Mu Zhong’s words spoken over tea… the map of the crime scene… Su Chengxian with only half a face left… the young tea server’s method of brewing… Luo Kou throwing herself onto Luo Shichuan’s body in a fit of weeping…

“When did Su Chengxian leave?!” Lin Sui’an demanded.

Wei Li: “At — at daybreak, just as the ward gate opened…”

Lin Sui’an snapped her eyes shut, turned, and walked out.

“Lin Niangzi — where are you going?!” Mu Zhong came running after her.

Lin Sui’an tightened her grip on Qian Jing’s hilt. Her gaze cut sharp and cold in the direction of Yanren Ward. “To catch the real killer.”