Bao Zhu continued to unfold the pages, and a hemp-yellow piece of paper fluttered out from inside the sutra. She quickly picked it up to examine it closely, seeing eight characters written clearly: “Heaven knows, Earth knows, you know, I know.”
Bao Zhu thought to herself: So the sutra was just meant to conceal this note, serving as a container like that lacquer box. The note was only three fingers wide and thin as a sheet. Hidden in such a vast hostel, it was fortunate that Wei Xun could think of the idea of setting a fire to search for the note—otherwise who could have found it?
Yang Xingjian said urgently: “That’s it! Wu Zhiyuan said when the snake pearl was stolen, this note was placed in the empty lacquer box, pressed under the soft cushion. ‘Heaven knows, Earth knows, you know, I know’—this uses the allusion of the Eastern Han famous minister Yang Zhen refusing bribes. If this is the note the thief left behind, then it becomes quite interesting—not only did they steal the treasure, but there’s also a vague threatening implication.”
Wei Xun said: “When this note was discovered, there were three people present: Bao Lang, Wu Zhiyuan, and Monk Liaoru from Lotus Temple. One of them must know some inside information to correspond with the phrase ‘you know, I know.’ Bao Lang hid this note himself—either he’s treating it as a key clue to solving the case, or he has a guilty conscience.”
Yang Xingjian, seeing his apt analysis, thought that this person wasn’t simply a martial artist who disturbed the peace, but actually had some brains.
Bao Zhu held the note in her hands, turning it over repeatedly, examining the structure and stroke style of the characters clearly. The more she looked, the more puzzled she became.
She said: “This is Zhang Xu’s regular script.”
Yang Xingjian was startled: “Who?”
“Zhang Xu, the ‘Mad Zhang and Drunken Su’—that Zhang the Mad, some people also call him the Sage of Cursive Script.”
Yang Xingjian said: “Oh, oh, one of the Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup. But wasn’t he skilled in cursive script?”
Bao Zhu said: “Though Zhang the Mad is famous for cursive script, his regular script is also excellent. Everyone who seeks his calligraphy asks for what he’s good at, so not much regular script has been passed down, but there are a few pieces in the palace, which I’ve copied and practiced.”
From Emperor Taizong onward, every generation of Tang rulers had been fanatically fond of calligraphy, collecting many precious calligraphy works through the generations. The imperial princes and grandsons also practiced hard from childhood—if not everyone could become an expert, at least they were well-informed with extremely high standards.
Princess Wangshou had studied under the great calligrapher Liu Gongquan from childhood. Yang Xingjian trusted her judgment greatly but raised his own doubts: “Director Zhang is over seventy and has been retired for many years. I heard he’s been living in seclusion in Luoyang all along—surely he couldn’t be involved in this kind of theft case?”
Bao Zhu said: “I only said this is Zhang Xu’s calligraphy—I didn’t say it was definitely written by him personally. Perhaps it’s a copy. But people who could obtain his original regular script works are probably very few.”
Wei Xun listened from the side. Though he could read the content on the note, he couldn’t discern more information. Seeing Bao Zhu determine the origin of the handwriting in just a few words, he found it both interesting and admirable.
Bao Zhu shook the paper and said: “Strange, this paper is so rough—there are even uncrushed grass fibers in it. No matter what calligraphy one is requesting, given the Sage of Cursive Script’s literary status, one would certainly use high-quality paper. Could it be specially customized paper like Xue Tao paper, seeking rustic charm?”
Wei Xun almost laughed, saying: “This is just the most ordinary hemp paper used by common people. Food shops and small stores use it for bookkeeping, children use it when first learning to write, women use it for embroidery patterns. Fine white Xuan paper costs three coins per sheet—very few people can afford it.”
Bao Zhu and Yang Xingjian looked at each other, both feeling something was amiss. Rare regular script by the Sage of Cursive Script, yet written on the most ordinary hemp paper used by commoners, with content full of implications—increasingly mysterious.
Yang Xingjian said: “When Bao Lang discovers the evidence has been stolen, there’ll be even bigger trouble.”
Wei Xun said: “So you two look carefully. Once you’ve seen clearly and memorized it, I’ll return it to him.” His tone was so relaxed, as if he were just borrowing needle and thread from a neighbor.
Yang Xingjian struggled to maintain his smile, restraining himself from commenting.
The note had only eight characters—reading it forward or backward, continuing to ponder it yielded nothing new. Yang Xingjian went out to find servants in the inner quarters, saying Yang Fangxie was vomiting during his illness and needed absorbent materials to remove the odor. He requested lime, hemp paper and other items, bringing them back to the room to examine. Indeed, the color and texture were very similar to that note. Only when placed together for comparison could one see the differences in the paper’s shade and texture.
Bao Zhu had a flash of inspiration and told Wei Xun to cut the hemp paper to match the note’s size. After mixing the ink evenly, she began copying the handwriting herself.
Wei Xun knew she wanted to switch the real with the fake. Standing beside her to watch, he saw that today she still kept her sleeves rolled down to cover her hands, only exposing fingertips white as scallions to hold the brush. Finally unable to restrain himself, he asked: “Don’t you roll up your sleeves when writing? Be careful not to stain your clothes with ink.”
Bao Zhu looked up and glared at him: “Mind your own business! I’ll write however I want to write.”
Having been snapped at for no reason, Wei Xun was baffled, wondering strangely why her hands had suddenly become something that couldn’t see light these past few days.
Yang Xingjian saw Wei Xun standing so close to the princess and his coughing fit returned. After coughing several times which Wei Xun ignored, he had no choice but to speak up as a reminder: “The Princess’s calligraphy is exquisite. Even if you’re admiring it, you should wait until she’s finished writing to look. And you should perform the crossed-hands bow—you can’t just stand there.” He demonstrated the standard gesture for the ritual.
This crossed-hands bow was a common etiquette for lower-ranking nobles toward higher-ranking elders. When answering questions or awaiting instructions, one’s static standing posture should maintain crossed hands at the chest to show respect and humility. However, the lower levels of the martial world had no such elaborate ceremonies. Wei Xun was particularly unconventional and rebellious by nature—he wouldn’t even listen to his own master, so how could he heed this pedant’s lecturing? Annoyed by his chattering interference, he glared at Yang Xingjian and continued treating his words as wind in his ears.
Bao Zhu didn’t mind either, saying: “I promised to teach him writing, so he needs to see clearly how I use the brush with its rises and falls. Let him stand here and watch.”
With the most noble person in the room giving instructions, Wei Xun’s lips curved up in a pleased expression, while Yang Xingjian could only swallow his anger and comply.
Bao Zhu concentrated intensely on copying over ten sheets, selecting the most similar one from among them. Comparing it in sunlight, even Yang Xingjian couldn’t tell the difference in handwriting, repeatedly praising the Princess’s calligraphy as supremely exquisite.
Wei Xun liked the characters she had written and wanted to secretly keep one sheet, but Yang Xingjian brought over a brazier and meticulously burned all the extra notes that weren’t selected, even carefully grinding the paper ash to powder, leaving no traces. He knew that these noble families from the court often decided life and death for entire clans over just a few characters, so he was especially cautious when disposing of written materials. Only then did he reluctantly give up.
Bao Zhu let the copied note dry and inserted it into the pages of the “Avatamsaka Sutra,” having Wei Xun return it exactly as before. Yang Xingjian couldn’t help but worry: “Bao Lang is very shrewd—what if he discovers it?”
Bao Zhu scoffed: “I’ve seen his calling cards—they’re simply unbearable to look at. If he has the ability to tell the difference, I’ll eat my own writing.”
There came knocking sounds outside the Reflection Study. Wu Zhiyuan brought his wife as usual to “check on” Yang Fangxie’s condition. Yang Xingjian went down alone to deal with them. Wei Xun stood at the door listening to the activity for a while, confirming that Bao Lang hadn’t followed along. He tucked the sutra into his coat and said to Bao Zhu: “I’m going to put it back.”
As Wei Xun was about to leave, Bao Zhu saw his left hand was still wrapped in cloth strips. Knowing his burn was serious and he had just recovered from illness yet was running back and forth, climbing through windows and over beams, those cloth strips had become very dirty. Not knowing if he could bear it, she reached to take his hand for a look, wanting him to change the bandages.
Wei Xun was startled, and strangely, a trace of inexplicable fear flashed through his heart. Instinctively, he dodged away.
Bao Zhu’s action was natural and unthinking. When he avoided her, it made her feel extremely awkward. The resistance and rejection in Wei Xun’s eyes were too obvious. With her supremely noble status and pride higher than the heavens, she immediately felt both embarrassed and angry. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became, thinking to herself that she was trapped in prison yet racking her brains daily to help clear his name, and he actually avoided her like a venomous snake—truly asking for humiliation and utterly ridiculous. No wonder when he took her out, he only grabbed her by the belt to carry her, originally because he didn’t want to touch her.
Bao Zhu felt her dignity had been swept away. Tears sparkled in her eyes, her face cold as frost, as she shouted angrily: “Get out! Don’t come back again!”
Wei Xun’s heart shook violently, and he fled through the window like an escape. Bao Zhu slammed the window panels shut and immediately bolted them.
The sound of closing the window was so loud that even those downstairs heard it. Yang Xingjian didn’t know what had happened and was startled, forcing a smile as he said to the Wu couple: “The wind is getting stronger and stronger, rattling the windows. Could it be going to rain?”