At the Tortoise and Crane Garden of the Pan residence, the Still Water Poetry Gathering had already reached its high point.

Music played as sheets of paper passed from hand to hand among the guests, a singer’s light, clear voice intoning the finest verses of the night. The atmosphere here was somewhat more solemn than at the Pu Garden gathering, owing to the greater number of eminent figures present, though the various performances still managed to keep things lively without losing an air of classical refinement.

The Tortoise and Crane Garden was an exquisitely laid-out garden with an air of ancient elegance — rockeries, waterways, corridors, pavilions — now dotted with lantern-riddles hung throughout. The guests had spread their banquet across the grounds, with the women seated on one side, the young scholars on another, and the host together with a group of eminent, learned elders on a third. There was no dedicated stage, and yet the song and dance performances that appeared here and there throughout the garden felt entirely natural, leaving a deep impression. Most of those invited to perform tonight already carried considerable reputation along the river, and clearly no small effort had gone into tonight’s preparations.

The gathering naturally included lantern riddles, performances, moon-viewing, and the like, along with remarks from various learned figures — the host, Pan Guangyan, among them. Even the prefect of Jiangning had stopped by earlier, offering a few words about how “you gentlemen are the pillars of the nation” and so forth — proof enough of the standing the Still Water Poetry Gathering held. Of course, with the whole city given over to revelry tonight, the prefect, as was customary, needed to remain at his post to keep watch over the city, and so he’d taken his leave in a hurry.

Whenever a talented guest produced a fine piece, he would generally rise and share it with the group for comment. Every so often, someone would bring forward a batch of especially fine verses, which would then circulate hand to hand; if a poem proved genuinely excellent, or drew particular interest, someone would rise to recite it aloud for discussion, with Pan Guangyan and the other elders offering their own commentary.

Old Qin sat to one side of the banquet, beside him the still finely dressed Kang Xian — the same Old Kang who’d sparred with Ning Yi — whose courtesy name was Mingyuan, and whom many addressed respectfully as “Sir Ming.” His background was complicated, but wealth was certainly no obstacle for him, and even judging purely by his learning and mastery of the Confucian classics, he thoroughly deserved the title of Sir Ming. Among the dozens of talented young men present tonight, two or three had studied under him and called him teacher. Old Kang had always had a stern reputation, and most people were rather afraid of him — though tonight he hadn’t criticized anyone, and in fact seemed satisfied with the overall quality of this year’s gathering.

He was now chatting quietly and cheerfully with Old Qin off to one side. By this point in the evening, the truly outstanding verses had all more or less come to light, and the two of them were now discussing them.

“…’The autumn equinox brings one night’s pause, when the moon’s dark spirit shines its clearest. Good, that it rises from the vast blue sea, then slowly passes through the deep unseen. The layered sky seems newly washed of color, ten thousand strange shapes seem to hide their form. No other night will ever be its equal, and even the morning cock cannot be heard.’ Old Qin, this piece by Li Pin on the mid-autumn moon from the Lichuan gathering is truly a work of remarkable talent. Though there’s no absolute ‘first place’ in literature, in my view, this poem is likely to be the standout of the night.”

“Talk of spirits and strange shapes, taking quite the unconventional path, and yet it gives off such a grand, sweeping feeling — it stirs the mind without ever slipping into anything eerie or contrived. There’s a flavor of the Tang dynasty in it. Li Pin, styled Dexin, has truly earned his place among the great masters. But you, Sir Ming, have always held yourself to a strict standard — surely our own Still Water gathering has produced a few fine pieces of its own tonight? Here, take this one, for instance.”

Old Qin smiled and picked up a sheet. “‘The jade-blue sky like water, the silver river shallow and clear, gold-flecked ripples pure. As if the Moon Goddess had raised her precious mirror, hung high above the Palace of Vast Cold. Forest leaves murmur of autumn, the latticed blinds like a painting, cassia-scented breezes rise. Year after year, this very night, the joy at Yulou Tower has never known its equal…’ You mustn’t play favorites now.”

“Ha, neither of us is a judge here — we’re simply enjoying these as we please, no room for favoritism. Hm, this ci is genuinely fine indeed…”

“To my mind, the two finest pieces of the night are likely both right here among these.”

Old Qin, ever low-key, had barely offered any public commentary all evening, confining his remarks to quiet exchanges among friends. In truth, Cao Guan, styled Zongchen, from the Still Water gathering, and Li Pin, styled Dexin, from the Lichuan gathering, were among the most celebrated talents in Jiangning at present, and the crowd below was largely occupied comparing the two men’s work. Though there was, in principle, no true “first place” in literature, there was always a contest of standing to be had in conversation.

As the crowd discussed the various pieces, Pan Guangyan was chatting cheerfully with Cao Guan. Before long, someone brought in a fresh batch of poems, divided into three copies to be passed around.

By this point in the evening, the genuinely outstanding poems capable of truly standing out were rarely still emerging — though a few good ones remained. The crowd chatted and passed the pages along, and one eventually made its way to Old Qin and Old Kang. Old Qin picked it up to look, then burst out laughing.

“Oh? What is it?” Kang Xian asked.

“Heh, I didn’t expect anything decent to still be coming out of the Pu Garden gathering at this hour. Take a look.”

“Oh? The Pu Garden?” Old Kang laughed as well, reading through the poem once, then glancing at the name signed below — “Xue Jin” — and shook his head, setting it down. “Middling. Passable, but nothing that particularly catches the eye.”

Just then, someone below called out: “Gentlemen, who would have thought the Lichuan gathering still had another fine piece left in it — I dare say this one is truly excellent.”

Someone who recognized him laughed. “Well, go on and read it, then.” The man nodded, and after a moment began reciting the verse: “This one uses the tune Prelude to Water Melody — listen, everyone: ‘The autumn sky washed clear as water, the moon’s mirror sits uneasy on its stand. High and solitary, music rises, laughter sheds the world’s dust and grime…'”

He had only gotten this far when something seemed to catch his attention, and he turned to glance toward the raised platform where Pan Guangyan and the other elders sat. An old man there had already risen to his feet, a sheet of paper in hand, hurrying toward Pan Guangyan, tapping at the page with his fingers, murmuring something under his breath. This elder was also on friendly terms with Old Qin and Old Kang. Seeing him rise, Pan Guangyan had already come over as well; the old man set the paper down and, in a voice not too loud, said to those nearby: “Everyone, take a look at this one.”

This too was a Prelude to Water Melody. Seeing the elders on the platform now occupied with something else, the man below who’d been reciting paused, uncertain, until Pan Guangyan noticed and, smiling, gestured for him to continue, without so much as glancing at the paper himself. Once the man finished reciting, Pan Guangyan reflected on it a moment and offered a few words of praise before finally picking up the new paper to read. A moment later, he too was murmuring under his breath, brow furrowed, and the crowd below — even the women’s side — began turning to look.

“Old Crane, if you’ve found something good, out with it already — this business of keeping us all in suspense isn’t very kind.”

Pan Guangyan was, after all, a good-natured man, and Cao Guan, as the foremost among the young scholars present, said this with a laugh, prompting chuckles from the others as well, easing the mood. Pan Guangyan smiled too. “This one is also a Prelude to Water Melody — well then, let me read it out for everyone: ‘When will there be a bright moon? Wine cup in hand, I ask the blue sky. I wonder, in those palace halls above, what year it might be tonight… I long to ride the wind and go back, yet fear those towers built of jade, too high, too cold to bear. Rising to dance, my shadow plays beside me — how could this compare to the mortal world below.'”

The lines of the Prelude to Water Melody rang out through the courtyard, and before he’d even finished the first half, every trace of conversation among the seated guests had already fallen silent. Pan Guangyan, himself a great scholar of letters, recited the piece with careful attention to its rhythm — not quickly, but perfectly suited to the mood of the verse, flowing without a single break.

Everyone present was, of course, deeply versed in literary craft, and it took only these few lines for them to sense the piece’s ethereal, sweeping, distant quality. What began as a deceptively simple question now, in an age when literary fashion favored intricate complexity and endless variation — some circles even held that a truly great poem on the moon shouldn’t so much as use the word “moon” at all — instead opened with the plainest of questions, when will the bright moon come, and yet, carried into the next line, the imagery unfolded with perfect naturalness. By the time it reached “those palace halls above,” the mood had shifted, effortlessly and without the slightest jolt, from a murmuring brook into towering mountains and flowing rivers, and then, with “I long to ride the wind and go back…,” the entire first half swelled into something as grand as a great river pouring into the sea — and yet, remarkably, remained utterly ethereal, entirely free of worldly grit. In just a handful of lines, it conjured an immortal, celestial atmosphere that left the heart soaring.

In the centuries of poetic development since the Tang dynasty, plenty of works had achieved a deep and sweeping sense of atmosphere, but by this era, much of poetry had wandered down a path of ever more elaborate, labored complexity. Some masters had managed to find their way back to simplicity and naturalness, whether spare or elaborate, each with their own distinct character — but few indeed had ever reached quite this level of atmosphere. Here the mood expanded steadily with the verse itself, and yet did so with an effortless lightness, entirely natural, calling to mind the untethered, bold spirit of early Tang literati — wild and unrestrained, yet never once straying from its central theme. In just the first half alone, this Prelude to Water Melody had already revealed the unmistakable mark of a true master’s hand. Pan Guangyan paused, glanced up at the assembled talents below, and only then continued into the second half.

“‘Turning past the vermilion pavilion, dipping past the ornate window, it shines upon the sleepless. It shouldn’t hold any grudge — why is it always full just when people part… Men know joy and sorrow, parting and reunion; the moon knows clear skies and clouds, fullness and waning. Such things have never been perfect, not since ancient times… May we all live long lives, and share this beauty of the moon, though a thousand miles apart.'”

“…May we all live long lives, and share this beauty of the moon, though a thousand miles apart.” The lines rolled easily off the tongue. Once he’d finished reading, Pan Guangyan murmured the final line over again to himself, looking out at the assembled guests, nodding slowly again and again, before finally, after a long moment, letting out a sigh. “…What a piece of writing.”

Throughout the garden, some guests exchanged glances, others murmured the lines back to themselves; an unusual stillness had settled over the gathering. Had it been any other verse, that might have been the end of it — but this Prelude to Water Melody carried a kind of enduring magic that would remain undimmed for a thousand years to come; among poets and lyricists of later ages, it would even be said that once this particular Prelude to Water Melody on the mid-autumn moon appeared, all other such poems became obsolete by comparison. Everyone present tonight had devoted decades — for some, an entire lifetime — to the study of poetry and letters, and what they felt now, hearing it, was likely something very close to that same overwhelming sense.

It was in this atmosphere that Old Kang reached over and took up the paper, read through it once, and slowly began nodding. A moment later, looking again, something seemed to catch his attention; he blinked in confusion. “Hm?” He let out the sound, then frowned, deep in thought, his expression running through a whole range of emotions. Noticing this, Old Qin, who had still been savoring the verse in his own mind, turned toward him.

“What’s the matter?”

“Heh… take a look for yourself.”

He passed the paper over. Old Qin narrowed his eyes and read through it character by character, from “when will there be a bright moon” all the way to “share this beauty of the moon, though a thousand miles apart,” without finding anything amiss — it truly was a fine piece. He let out a breath, shaking his head slightly, then narrowed his eyes as well, and paused.

There were, of course, a few more characters after the verse itself, though everyone had still been absorbed in the lines themselves, and even Pan Guangyan hadn’t yet gotten around to looking at them.

Down in the lower left corner of the page was a signature — seven characters, unmistakably written out.

— Su Residence.

— Ning Yi.

— Ning Liheng.

Old Qin froze for a moment, then glanced over at Old Kang. After a pause, he let out an involuntary laugh.

“Ha…”

Back at the small building at the Su residence, Ning Yi woke to get a drink of water and suddenly let out a great sneeze, nearly choking on it. Groggily, he lay back down and pulled the blanket tight.

Hm. Hope this cold isn’t getting worse again.