“I’ll go,” Ma Xiaotong volunteered readily. “I’ll go first.”

Upon hearing this, the others shook their heads with sighs. “Ah, with Miss Ma’s poem set before us, nothing the rest of us have written is worth looking at.”

“Truly — compared to Miss Ma, what I’ve written might as well be a child’s game.”

Basking in the chorus of praise from those around her, Ma Xiaotong lifted a smile of self-assured pride.

*”Beauty is but a fleeting moment—*

*Like your radiant smile one afternoon in the sunlit years past,*

*Like your patient waiting beneath the lamplight in the pouring rain of a distant evening,*

*Like the instant you lifted your veil after the first clear day following a snowfall.*

*Beauty is so utterly without intention,*

*yet it is the kind that lingers unforgettably in the mind.”*

Yan Qing, seeing those around her clapping, joined in the applause as well.

“Miss Ma truly writes beautifully — she is worthy of being called Shun Cheng’s foremost literary talent.”

“Miss Ma’s poetry is on par with the great poet Jiang Zeluo.”

Qiao Yiran leaned over and whispered, “Do you know who Jiang Zeluo is?”

“No.” Yan Qing shook her head. “Is he very well known?”

“The foremost literary talent in Shun Cheng. He’s published multiple volumes of poetry, and nearly every young person owns a copy.”

“That remarkable?” Yan Qing marveled. “He must have made a good deal of money then.”

Qiao Yiran laughed. “A reputation like his is something money can’t buy. And this Jiang Zeluo is also known for his charitable spirit — he has a fine name among the common people. Many young women flock to him in admiration. This Ma Xiaotong is one of them.”

“A literary talent matched with a gifted writer — that does make for a lovely tale.”

Qiao Yiran curled her lip. “I have no fondness for this Ma Xiaotong. She has a modicum of literary skill and uses it to look down on everyone else. She has no real ability worth speaking of.”

Yan Qing smiled but said nothing.

After Ma Xiaotong, a few others recited their poems. Yan Qing couldn’t judge them as good or poor — she simply clapped along with the rest.

“Sixth Miss Yan.” A voice in the crowd suddenly called her name. “We wonder what masterwork the Sixth Miss has composed?”

Yan Qing did not recognize this young miss who had spoken, but seeing how close she sat to Yan Qin, she already had a fairly clear idea of the situation.

“We noticed the Sixth Miss writing away in earnest just a moment ago,” the young miss continued. “Might you share it with us?”

Yan Qing glanced down at the markings she had made on the paper. It was not a poem at all — it was a diagram of the structure of the cranium that she had been sketching.

She quickly pressed her hand over the paper and forced a smile. “I only…”

“There’s no need for false modesty, Sixth Miss,” came the cool, proud voice of Ma Xiaotong. “If you don’t know how to write poetry, what were you doing at a poetry gathering? Surely not just to watch the fun and have a free meal?”

“My Sixth Sister most certainly came to the poetry gathering to present her work,” Yan Qin chimed in from the side. “Sixth Sister, there’s no need to be modest. Whatever you’ve written, do take it out and let everyone have a look. We know you can’t match Miss Ma’s gifts, but surely it can’t be entirely beyond showing?”

Shi Xin caught these words and cast a glance toward the other side of the ornate garden wall, just in time to see her younger brother’s brow crease with displeasure.

Shi Xin herself had no liking for such petty one-upmanship at a poetry gathering. Those who could write should share their work; those who could not should listen and appreciate — the two were not mutually exclusive.

Chun Xiu murmured quietly, “I noticed the Sixth Miss writing something earlier. It seems she really did compose something.”

Her mistress had been paying particular attention to this Sixth Miss, and so Chun Xiu had naturally taken a closer look as well.

Everyone assumed Yan Qing had written a poem. No one knew she had been drawing a diagram of the cranium.

“What’s the matter — too shy to read it aloud?” Yan Qin laughed lightly. “It’s all right. We’re all just doing our best here. There’s nothing to it.”

“Yes, do read it out.”

“What is there to be afraid of? With a talent like Miss Ma here, no one will mock you even if yours isn’t quite as good.”

Hearing voices chime in from all sides, Shi Xin was just about to step in and smooth things over when Yan Qing’s voice rose — clear and unhurried. “I truly have not written anything.”

A wave of contemptuous scoffs rippled through the garden.

Yan Qing continued, “I was only thinking.”

“And have you finished thinking now?” Ma Xiaotong cut in sharply. “If you can’t write, just admit it outright. The worst that can happen is a little embarrassment. Pretending you can when you can’t — now that is truly humiliating.”

“Naturally, I have.” Yan Qing’s beautiful eyes flickered with a faint light. “Please give me just a moment. I’ll write it now.”

On the far side of the carved garden wall, Shi Ting’s brow furrowed. He watched as Yan Qing picked up her pen and began to write in swift, fluid strokes.

All eyes were upon her, including those of the curious Shi Xin.

“Sixth Sister, didn’t you say you don’t know how to write poetry?” Yan Yan whispered. “There are so many people watching. If you can’t write, you can’t write — it’s not a big deal. Just please don’t copy from somewhere.”

“I am copying, actually,” Yan Qing said with a small smile. “But don’t worry.”

Yan Yan was speechless.

She admitted she was copying and still told her not to worry — what kind of logic was that?

“Is whatever you’re copying reliable? I could recite one for you right now — one that very few people have likely heard, not by any famous author.” Yan Yan was both alarmed and nervous. “With a few changes, it could work.”

“No need. I guarantee no one here has heard what I’m copying.” Yan Qing gave her a playful wink.

“Are you done yet?” someone in the crowd called impatiently.

“Is she copying on the spot?” someone else laughed. “Our Miss Ma has read extensively in both Chinese and foreign poetry — even if you copy from a foreign poet, she’ll catch you.”

Yan Qin and Ma Xiaotong exchanged a glance. Yan Qin murmured, “She doesn’t know how to write poetry at all. If what she produces is poor, feel free to mock her openly. If by some chance it turns out well, just say she copied it — no one will disbelieve you.”

Ma Xiaotong offered a cold smile. “I don’t believe she can surpass me.”

“Finished.” Yan Qing set down her pen with quiet satisfaction, blew lightly on the still-wet ink, and said, “This poem is a little long, so I wrote somewhat slowly. My apologies for making everyone wait.”

“Enough talk — just read it,” someone called out with impatience.

Yan Qing lifted the page, cleared her throat, and began to read with full feeling and expression.

*”Gently I leave,*

*just as gently as I came;*

*I wave a soft farewell*

*to the western clouds aflame.*

*……*

*……*

*……*

*Silence is the parting flute and song;*

*even summer insects hold their breath for me,*

*silence is the Cambridge night, hushed and long!*

*Quietly I leave,*

*just as quietly as I came;*

*I shake out my sleeves*

*and take away not a single cloud’s flame.”*

Yan Qing set the page down. “I’ve finished.”

Only then did she notice that the entire garden had gone utterly silent. Every person present wore an expression of stunned disbelief.

“I’ve finished,” she said again. “Nothing more to do here — please carry on.”

She smiled lightly and looked away from the crowd.

After a long moment, Shi Xin remembered to clap — though her applause sounded rather thin, for everyone else in attendance was still too deep in shock to join.

“Sixth Miss Yan, what a poem.” Shi Xin’s gaze shone with genuine admiration. “So the Sixth Miss has been quietly concealing her gifts. Such composure, such brilliance — truly humble and unhurried, neither boastful nor impatient. It is deeply admirable.”

Yan Qing was a little embarrassed. “Liu Madam flatters me.”

Shi Xin was still lost in the poem just heard, and could not help softly reciting aloud: “Quietly I leave, just as quietly as I came — I shake out my sleeves and take away not a single cloud’s flame… What a poem. What an exquisite mood it conjures. Sixth Miss, does this poem have a title?”

“It does,” Yan Qing replied. “Farewell to Cambridge.”

“Cambridge? Is that a bridge in Shun Cheng?”

Yan Qing was slightly awkward. “It’s a foreign bridge.”

“Ah, I see — no wonder I hadn’t heard of it. The Sixth Miss truly has broad knowledge and wide experience.”

As she spoke, Shi Xin glanced toward the ornately carved garden wall. The tall, upright figure that had been standing there was gone.

Shi Ting walked along the winding path of the rear courtyard. The corner of his mouth lifted, and his lips parted softly, murmuring, “I shake out my sleeves and take away not a single cloud’s flame…”

He looked up toward the sky. “Yan Qing — how much of you remains unknown to me? You are truly an enigma.”

Yan Qing’s poem had struck the gathering like lightning, silencing every last mocking, expectant voice. Even the celebrated literary talent Ma Xiaotong stood with a face gone rigid.

Yan Qin caught her eye and gave a significant look. Only then did Ma Xiaotong come back to herself. “Sixth Miss Yan’s poem is copied, isn’t it?”

Yan Qing looked over at her. “May I ask, Miss Ma — copied from whom?”

“A foreign poet. I have heard this poem before — the word ‘Cambridge’ is particularly familiar to me.”

“And which country is Cambridge’s bridge in, may I ask?”

“That…”

“If Miss Ma believes I have copied it, you are most welcome to produce the documented source — the published text or collection — for us all to compare. Without evidence, one cannot make accusations based on face alone.”

Yan Qing inwardly scoffed. If she can actually produce proof, that would be a miracle. This is Xu Zhimo’s poem — Xu Zhimo doesn’t exist in this era. Xu Zhimo’s “Farewell to Cambridge” had appeared in school textbooks; she could practically recite it backward. If there was a definitive classic of the vernacular poetry of the Republican era, who could possibly rival this poem?

She quietly offered a silent word of gratitude to Mr. Xu.

“Miss Ma,” Shi Xin said, her expression cooling. “If you have no evidence, how can you presume to make such an assertion?”

“I…” Ma Xiaotong truly had no evidence to present, because she had never actually heard this poem before — not a single line of it.

Under Shi Xin’s all-seeing gaze, she felt her face flush scarlet with shame, wishing she could sink into the ground.

“Today, the poem composed by Sixth Miss Yan opens one’s eyes to something entirely new.” Shi Xin made no effort to conceal her appreciation. “I do hope that at future poetry gatherings, the Sixth Miss will honor us with her presence often.”

Yan Qing thought to herself that she would certainly not be coming back. Apart from “Farewell to Cambridge,” she could not recite more than three poems from memory.

“Thank you for your kindness, Liu Madam.” Yan Qing gave a polite nod.

“On that note, let us bring today’s poetry gathering to a close.” Shi Xin rose to her feet. “Chun Xiu, please see the young misses off.”

Once the guests had all dispersed, Shi Xin returned to the rear courtyard to find a tall, slender figure standing at her writing desk, brush in hand.

“Your calligraphy is growing more accomplished with each passing day,” Shi Xin said, not holding back her praise. “I thought you’d already left.”

“I’ll leave when I’m done.” Shi Ting set the brush back in its holder after the last stroke.

“Ah — it’s the Sixth Miss’s poem.” Shi Xin covered her mouth in amusement. “What’s this — planning to take it home and have it mounted and framed?”

“I wrote it down because I found it worth keeping.”

“In that case, why not give it to me? Your brother-in-law has long admired your calligraphy.”

“Very well.” Shi Ting gave a small nod.

“Did you know she could compose poetry?”

“I did not.”

“This Sixth Miss truly has many hidden talents.” Shi Xin placed a sheet of paper before him. “Look — while everyone else was bent over writing their poems, she was drawing. Though what she drew is rather unsettling.”

Shi Ting took it and looked. His gaze softened with a trace of warmth. “That is her way.”

“I wanted to keep this draft.” Shi Xin was about to tuck it away carefully — but the page had already passed into Shi Ting’s hands.

He took the paper and, already walking away, said, “The calligraphy I wrote goes to you. This one is mine.”

“What brazen robbery,” Shi Xin said, stamping her foot.

Shi Ting had barely taken a few steps with the paper when he noticed that beside the cranium diagram, Yan Qing had written a small line of text:

*Who is the killer?*

—