The moment Ming Huashang entered Chang’an, she was overwhelmed by the city’s air of grave and imposing majesty. The Empress had moved the capital more than ten years ago, yet this had done nothing to diminish Chang’an’s splendor. The streets were still full of flowing carriages and horses, commerce was thriving, and many Western Region merchants with high noses and deep-set eyes walked at ease along the roads while passersby looked on with complete indifference, as if the sight were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Ming Huashang was stunned into speechlessness. She turned her gaze from the broad avenues of Chang’an to the Western Region trade caravans and back again, dazzled and overwhelmed, unable to take it all in at once. Ming Huazhang, seeing this, said, “You were born in Chang’an, but you’ve been away for so many years that you’ve surely long since forgotten it. For all intents and purposes, this is your first time here. Is there anywhere you’d like to see?”

Ming Huashang was startled and asked tentatively, “But, Second Elder Brother — isn’t your matter quite urgent? Shouldn’t we find Elder Brother Xie first?”

Now that they had left the Zhongnan Mountain base, they could use their real names again. Code names were primarily a precaution against defection within the Xuan Xiaowei, to prevent a traitor from exposing everyone at once; but back in civilian life, continuing to address one another by code would be the strange thing.

On the road, they had agreed: five people entering the city together would draw too much attention. Conveniently, Ming Huashang’s riding was weak, so Ming Huazhang would accompany her at a slower pace from behind while Xie Jichuan, Jiang Ling, and Ren Yao went ahead, and they would all meet up at the Yueman Pavilion.

Ming Huashang had assumed that once Ming Huazhang entered the city he would head straight for the Yueman Pavilion, yet to her surprise, Ming Huazhang appeared entirely unhurried — almost leisurely — and said, “There’s no rush. You’ve just arrived in Chang’an. Let me show you around first.”

Ming Huazhang was a thorough and dependable person who planned everything he did, so when he said this, Ming Huashang did not refuse. She took her horse by the reins and strolled through the streets of Chang’an with him.

The setting sun melted gold into the sky, and the clouds blazed like fire. Ming Huashang and Ming Huazhang walked side by side through Chang’an as evening fell. On either side of them, pedestrians of every hair color passed by; Hu girls from the Western Regions moved through the crowd like flowers, drums and music sounded here and there, and groups of talented scholars and beauties strolled past together. Almost without noticing, Ming Huashang felt her mood unwind and soften.

They came to a temple, where a crowd had gathered before a wall to compose and read poems. A wall that had once been clean and bare was now covered entirely in ink, with characters that drifted and floated, characters that were precise and orderly, and characters that sprawled in wild abandon, all crowded together on the same surface, all writing the same Chang’an.

Chang’an was famed throughout the land. Any aspiring writer who considered himself talented, young or old, wanted to come to Chang’an and make a name for himself. The way to do so was, in principle, simple — and yet far from easy. It was to write poetry.

Buddhist temples and convents, wine shops and teahouses, banquets held by the powerful and the well-born — every place could serve as their paper. And writing poems on the great white walls of temples was undeniably the cheapest and most favored option for scholars of humble origin.

The young monks of the temple had grown entirely accustomed to this. Having poems written on the walls lent the temple a refined, literary air, and visitors who came to burn incense were willing to linger a little longer after their prayers. And the temple’s large footfall in turn gave writers an audience and a following. Both sides benefited: when a wall was covered to capacity, the temple would even kindly have it whitewashed and readied for the writers to fill again.

In this atmosphere, there was poetry in every street and alley of Chang’an. Even children of five years old could recite verses from memory.

Ming Huashang also paused before the wall and read through the poems one by one. Through the handwriting and content — each so different in style — she could almost picture the sort of person who had stood at that same wall and lifted a brush to set down those words.

Ming Huashang had become absorbed in looking when she spotted a particularly fine poem, turned to call Ming Huazhang over, and found that he had somehow produced a brush and was writing a five-line verse in the one small blank patch that remained at the edge of the wall.

Surprised, she squeezed over to look: “Second Elder Brother, what did you write?”

In the gaps of a dense, jostling mass of wild cursive script, a single row of neat, clear characters stood quietly apart. Ming Huazhang’s handwriting was slender and upright, flowing with ease, yet each turn and hook was crisp and forceful, carrying within it a quality all its own. By comparison, the poem itself was less remarkable — four lines of scenery with well-matched couplets, clean and refined, not bad at all, but measured against his calligraphy, it fell somewhat short of the characters it wore.

Ming Huazhang took Ming Huashang’s wrist and said lightly, “Just something dashed off on a whim, nothing worth mentioning. Come, let’s look further along.”

Ming Huazhang’s fingers were long, closing without any effort around Ming Huashang’s wrist. Ming Huashang walked on, glancing back with genuine admiration: “Second Elder Brother, you tossed off something this polished and fresh on the spur of the moment — it shows how deeply you’ve read and how solid your foundation is. If you went back and refined it for a moment, I’m sure it would astonish everyone who saw it!”

Ming Huazhang gave a quiet laugh and said, “Chang’an is full of people with extraordinary talent. What could my careless scribblings amount to?”

“That’s only because you choose not to compete,” Ming Huashang said. “Those with more natural talent than you aren’t as grounded and diligent as you; those as diligent as you aren’t as clear-headed and methodical; those as clear-headed as you aren’t as upright and principled. Take any one quality on its own and you might not come first — but you rank high in all of them at once, and when you put them together, you are simply the best of all.”

Within the Xuan Xiaowei, Xie Jichuan had a photographic memory that might as well have been cheating; in academic testing, he was the undisputed first. And Ren Yao, driven by the desire to honor her father’s legacy, had put in twice the effort of anyone else during physical training — in sheer diligence, no one could match her. And yet when Han Jie assigned missions, he still placed Ming Huazhang in charge.

Because Ming Huazhang was steady.

He might not be the absolute best in any single area, but he could do everything well simultaneously. If Xie Jichuan was someone heaven had handed a meal, and Ren Yao was someone who wrestled a meal away from heaven, then Ming Huazhang was someone who tried to become heaven itself.

Firm in offense and defense, methodical and sure-footed — whatever he set his mind to, however difficult, he could accomplish. A person like that would make even the heavens shake their head.

Ming Huazhang never stopped feeling he was not quite good enough, yet in Ming Huashang’s eyes, he was perfect in every respect. He shook his head with an amused smile: “You — instead of studying properly, all you know is how to say pleasant things to flatter people. I dare say no matter who your elder brother was, you’d say the same to him.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Ming Huashang said. “I only want everyone to be happy — that doesn’t mean what I’m saying is false.”

“You always have an answer for everything.” Ming Huazhang paused and gestured toward the lakeside ahead. “That is Qujiang Pool — shall we walk along the shore?”

Ming Huashang agreed with pleasure. They tied their horses to a tree and strolled along the water side by side.

Qujiang Pool was an imperial garden, but beloved by all — noble and commoner alike. Even as the golden sun dipped toward the horizon, painted pleasure boats still drifted across the lake, with the faint, unhurried sounds of stringed instruments and bamboo flutes floating above the water.

Ming Huashang crouched at the lakeside and gently trailed her fingers through the water.

She had just finished washing her hands clean and was about to turn and call to Ming Huazhang when she noticed someone walking toward them. The newcomer was dressed as a scholar and carried a scroll in his hand, inscribed with the title “Roaming the Immortal’s Grotto.” Upon seeing them, he greeted them with easy warmth: “Are you two here to enjoy the lake as well? I know of a few spots nearby with particularly fine views — shall we visit them together?”

Ming Huashang’s first thought was that this person was rather too familiar, and she was just about to decline when she heard Ming Huazhang say, “With pleasure.”

Ming Huashang was brought up short and stared at Ming Huazhang in surprise. Ming Huazhang’s expression was cool and composed. The scholar looked them over with a smile and asked: “I don’t recognize you — newly arrived in Chang’an?”

“We arrived today.”

“Where have you come from, and what brings you to Chang’an?”

“From the south. We’ve long heard of Chang’an’s reputation and have come to the western capital to seek out ancient sites and scenes worthy of painting.”

“A man of similar interests, I see.” The scholar smiled. “And whose paintings does your distinguished self wish to seek out?”

“Those of Right Chancellor Yan.”

“Those are not easy to find,” the scholar said. “These days, the Right Chancellor’s works are either in the imperial inner vaults or enshrined in Buddhist temples. For an outsider to view them is no easier than ascending to heaven.”

Ming Huazhang’s patience for this circling had run its course. He extended his arm; from his sleeve slid half a token, which he drew back as casually as it had appeared. His voice was unhurried: “I am Double Jade. I am here under orders to investigate. Your cooperation is appreciated.”

The scholar’s eyes skimmed the token without any visible reaction, and he smiled: “Double Jade? That’s an unusual name. I don’t believe I’ve heard it before.”

“Newly given.” Ming Huazhang’s tone remained even. “I have pledged on a military oath of honor to recover the lost item within ten days. I have no time for roundabout negotiations, and I ask your understanding. What were the specific circumstances surrounding Wei Tan’s death?”

Ming Huashang’s eyes had gone wide as she looked between the two of them, thoroughly at a loss. Even with her wits working at their slowest, she could by now have guessed that this seemingly idle, dissolute scholar was the Xuan Xiaowei’s contact in the city. But how had she missed something? Why had the situation developed this far without her noticing?

She had been at Ming Huazhang’s side the whole time, and neither of them had spoken to anyone in the interim — so how had the scholar managed to find them?

Then it struck her — and she caught herself sharply. Ming Huazhang had not done nothing. Not long ago, he had written a poem on the temple wall.

That wall faced all the people of Chang’an. Anyone could approach to read it; anyone could scrawl over it. It would not attract the least notice. Ming Huazhang had concealed his identity and location within the poem and then gone to wait at the agreed spot; when the contact read it, he followed them here.

For a moment Ming Huashang’s feelings were rather complicated. She had been too naive — she had genuinely believed Ming Huazhang was accompanying her on a stroll, and had even argued in full earnest about the merits of his poem. All along, the drunkard’s heart had not been in the wine at all. She had been the one fool who missed everything.

Thinking back on how she had behaved, Ming Huashang was almost overcome with misery.

Ming Huazhang noticed that Ming Huashang had gone very quiet and looked back at her. He pulled her up from the water’s edge and carefully dried her fingers: “It’s getting dark. Mind you don’t catch cold.” Then, to the scholar: “I still need to take her to eat. Let us be quick about this — speak plainly and say what needs to be said.”

The scholar glanced between Ming Huazhang and Ming Huashang, asked no questions about their relationship, and said, “My name is Moon Fox. My emblem is a fox.”

Ming Huazhang and the scholar exchanged code phrases, each confirming the other was not an impersonator. Standing together in a group of three was too conspicuous, so Ming Huazhang proposed they walk the circuit of the lake while they spoke.

They made a show of strolling together around the lake, and Ming Huazhang asked, “Were you present the day Wei Tan died?”

“I was not,” Moon Fox said. “Wei Tan was the sole disciple of Yan Liben and held himself accordingly in high esteem; the guests he invited were only his close friends and talented associates. I am a writer of no standing — Wei Tan would not have spared me a glance. But yesterday I received orders informing me that Wei Tan had died suddenly at his family banquet, and that the plan of the Daming Palace he had just completed had vanished without a trace. The suspected thief is Wei Tan’s friend — a man named Zhang Zi Yun. Zhang Zi Yun is the third son in his household, and everyone generally calls him Zhang San.”

Ming Huashang and Ming Huazhang exchanged a glance, both equally surprised. So Zhang San was, in fact, genuinely named Zhang San.

Ming Huazhang asked, “Zhang San — Zhang Zi Yun — who is he?”

“He passed the imperial examination in the fourth year of Chuigong, but he was never given a position of consequence. So he abandoned officialdom entirely and dedicated himself to poetry and painting, immersing himself in literary and artistic pursuits. He and Wei Tan were on excellent terms. That he would kill Wei Tan to steal the painting was beyond all imagining — yet my superiors told me to keep watch on Zhang Zi Yun, and so I followed him to Tiānxiāng Pavilion in Pingkang Quarter. He was lucky enough to catch the eye of the courtesans’ top beauty, Yu Qiong, who granted him the favor of entertaining him privately on the second floor. That was a distinction not afforded to me; I stayed in the main hall, drinking and listening to the music, quietly keeping his door in my sights. Later, however, a wealthy patron arrived and also asked for Yu Qiong by name. The madam went up to Wind Sentiment Longing Garden to fetch her. Zhang Zi Yun refused to let Yu Qiong leave; he and the madam quarreled loudly and made a terrible scene — I could hear it all the way from the main hall. In the end, it was Yu Qiong herself who came out, calmed Zhang Zi Yun down, and then left with the madam.”

Though Ming Huashang had never been to Pingkang Quarter, the name “Tiānxiāng Pavilion” alone told her precisely what sort of establishment it was. She was a little embarrassed, but genuinely curious about what had happened to Zhang Zi Yun. Hearing that Yu Qiong had simply gone, she made a small sound of disbelief: “She just… left, just like that?”

“And what else would she do?” Moon Fox looked at her, taking her measure from head to toe, as if finding her naivety rather hard to credit. “In a brothel, the rule has always been: whoever bids highest, whoever holds the most power — that is whom you obey. Zhang Zi Yun had nothing — what could he possibly use to compete against someone like that?”

Ming Huashang was silenced. She knew that women in the pleasure quarters had no say over their own fates, and that even a courtesan in the prime of her fame had no real choice in the matter. But she had not expected that the men who came there seeking pleasure would so readily accept and affirm this arrangement.

Ming Huazhang exerted a small pressure with his hand and quietly drew Ming Huashang behind him. The gesture was slight, but Moon Fox understood its meaning at once.

He stopped looking at Ming Huashang and continued: “The madam had planned to send a different woman to keep Zhang Zi Yun company, but he refused. From the main hall, I could hear him shouting something about waiting in the room for Yu Qiong to return. The madam was busy attending to her new patron and had no time to deal with him; she had someone send up wine, then shut the door and left him to his own devices. I stayed on in the main hall, waiting and feigning a half-drunk stupor, biding my time until midnight, when I intended to slip in and retrieve the painting. But before I could make my move, the madam let out a scream — someone was dead. I took advantage of the commotion and made my way up to the second floor. Sure enough, there was Zhang Zi Yun, lying on the floor of the room with blood pooled all around him. I later found a chance to examine his walking staff — it was already empty.”

Ming Huashang’s interest was piqued. She asked, “With so many people in the brothel, how was it that no one heard anything when someone was killed?”

Moon Fox shook his head: “Nothing at all. It’s true that a performer named Shān Chá was giving a dance performance that night, and music had been playing all evening. But the sounds of killing and a struggle are unmistakable — even if I had not heard them, someone else in the main hall would have. I can say with confidence that there was nothing out of the ordinary.”

Ming Huazhang turned over several possibilities at once: “Sedative drugs, poison, a concealed weapon, a cut throat, strangulation — any of these could be carried out without a sound.”

But all these methods required physical access to the victim. How does one commit a murder in a sealed room that no one entered?

Ming Huashang ventured cautiously: “Of the methods you’ve named, only poison can be administered in advance with a delayed effect. Before this, only Yu Qiong had been alone with Zhang Zi Yun — could it have been Yu Qiong who poisoned him?”

“Not necessarily,” Ming Huazhang said. “The madam later sent up wine as well — the wine may also have been tampered with.”

“What made you think of Yu Qiong?” Moon Fox let out a quiet, dismissive sound. Women, he thought — he had described the entire crime scene with such care and precision, and the best she could come up with was such a foolish question. Without a single useful thought in her head.

He had no idea how his superiors could have dispatched these two to take over the mission — one barely grown, the other a woman. What could they possibly accomplish?

His contempt, unguarded, showed itself in his manner: “Even if she did poison Zhang Zi Yun, she was called away to attend to the other patron afterward and was not out of his sight for a moment. The madam discovered the body while Yu Qiong was still with the patron. If she was the one who did it, how did the painting disappear?”

“Then was it poison in the wine?”

“That’s impossible too.” Moon Fox said. “Whatever method was used, no one entered or left the room in the interval. And the moment the madam opened the door afterward, I went in right behind her. You tell me — how was the painting stolen?”

That was a fair point. A murder could perhaps be arranged remotely or with a time delay, but stealing a physical object still required someone to get their hands on it. Ming Huashang paid no attention to the dismissiveness in Moon Fox’s tone and continued with cheerful curiosity: “Is it possible you dozed off? You thought you were only pretending to be drunk, but you actually were drunk, and while you weren’t paying attention, someone slipped inside, killed Zhang Zi Yun, took the painting, and slipped out again while you were still unaware?”

“Impossible.” Moon Fox denied it flatly. “I never drank a drop — how could I have gotten drunk? My position was directly across from Zhang Zi Yun’s room. With his door right in front of my eyes, how could someone walk past me without my noticing?”

“Did the room have a window?” Ming Huashang asked. “Is it possible the murderer entered and left through the window?”

Moon Fox shook his head again: “I inspected that room afterward. There was only one window, facing the street. We had people stationed on the street keeping watch, and he confirmed that not a single person entered or left through it.”

Ming Huashang fell into a quiet, thoughtful silence. She found this quite interesting. The window was closed, no one came through the door, and yet under everyone’s watch, the man inside was dead. A sealed-room murder. How intriguing.

Moon Fox, having watched Ming Huashang pose one foolish question after another — and then have the audacity to question him on top of it — wore an expression of open scorn.

Ming Huazhang was deeply displeased by Moon Fox’s attitude but, in consideration of the man’s role as a contact, restrained himself. Once Moon Fox had covered all the details he had to offer, Ming Huazhang immediately grew cool and said, “Good. We have what we need. From here we will go to Tiānxiāng Pavilion and get to the bottom of this. If we need your assistance afterward, I will leave a message for you on the temple wall, as I did today.”

Moon Fox said: “Very well. If circumstances prevent me from coming, or if I am being followed, I will leave a white silk flower on the offering table in the west side hall of the temple, and afterward get word to you through coded message. This copy of ‘Roaming the Immortal’s Grotto’ is the cipher key. When you receive a coded message, find the corresponding page and line in this book, and you will understand.”

This was more advanced than anything Ming Huashang had yet been taught; she followed it only in the vaguest outline. But Ming Huazhang understood it at a glance. He accepted the book and gave a bow of clasped hands: “Many thanks. It grows late. We will take our leave first. Take care of yourself.”

“Take care.” Moon Fox returned the bow with equal courtesy, then departed — waving a hand in easy farewell, like two strangers who had shared an agreeable conversation by chance and would now go their separate ways.

Neither of them said anything about meeting again. For people like them, not meeting again was the better outcome.

After Ming Huazhang had made contact with the liaison in Chang’an, they went to find Xie Jichuan at the agreed meeting place — the Yueman Pavilion.

The Yueman Pavilion’s name was poetic, but in truth it was one of the Xuan Xiaowei’s safe houses in Chang’an. When Ming Huazhang and Ming Huashang stepped through the door, the waiter came bustling out to greet them with great enthusiasm: “Honored guests — are you staying for a meal, or taking a room?”

Ming Huazhang said, without any particular inflection: “Do you still have the Reflecting River Red, aged seventeen years?”

The waiter paused almost imperceptibly, then beamed: “Yes, we do. How many jars would the honored guests like?”

“Never mind — I still have things to attend to afterward, and the Reflecting River Red is more trouble than it’s worth. Change it to Bamboo Leaf Green instead. One flask, to take away.”

The waiter accepted this with eager attentiveness, bowing as he replied: “Understood. This way, please, honored guests.”

This exchange, to the ear, was nothing more than a perfectly ordinary order. Ming Huashang would once have ignored it entirely — but today, she heard layers upon layers of meaning beneath the surface.

What seemed like a casually placed order was in fact entirely coded. The name of the wine indicated the nature of the mission: when Ming Huazhang asked for Reflecting River Red, he was announcing that they had come here to make contact.

The vintage was the cipher, arranged between Ming Huazhang and Xie Jichuan on the road: Xie Jichuan, who arrived first, had ordered a seventeen-year Reflecting River Red, signaling to the waiter that they were waiting for someone. Even if an outsider knew the significance of Reflecting River Red, without the internal cipher they could not complete the exchange.

As for the waiter’s question — asking how many jars they wanted — that was a trap. To guard against the code being leaked or stumbled upon by someone who guessed right by chance, the waiter would conduct a verification: anyone who simply went along with the question was flagged as unreliable. The correct response was to refuse and order a different wine. As for Bamboo Leaf Green, that too had been settled in advance between Ming Huazhang and Xie Jichuan as the correction code.

The waiter led them upstairs and brought them to the door of a private room, then withdrew. Ming Huazhang pushed the door open, and inside, as expected, sat Xie Jichuan, Jiang Ling, and Ren Yao.

Jiang Ling heard the sound and turned: “We’ve already eaten a full meal while waiting. What took you so long?”

Ren Yao said: “The food on the table has gone cold. Shall we order a few more dishes?”

“No need.” Ming Huazhang sat down. “Time is short; the mission takes priority. We discussed the mission on the road — I’ll go over it once more. What we are looking for is the painting that Zhang Zi Yun stole. Zhang Zi Yun was murdered in a brothel; the painting that was hidden in his staff has vanished. My initial assessment is that the murderer took it with him. We are now going to investigate at the establishment where Zhang Zi Yun was killed — Tiānxiāng Pavilion. We will split into two groups: one operating openly, one in the shadows, to track down whoever murdered Zhang Zi Yun.”

The four of them gave a collective nod. Given the circumstances, it was not hard to conclude that Zhang Zi Yun was the Zhang San they had been looking for. Ming Huazhang continued with the assignments: “Xie Jichuan and I will operate in the shadows, slipping quietly into Tiānxiāng Pavilion and investigating covertly. Jiang Ling, you will go openly with Second Lady and Ren Yao — enter as patrons, draw their attention, and provide cover for us when necessary.”