At that very same moment, in the rooms behind the Pan residence, the women set to perform were putting on makeup or resting in their separate chambers. The garden hosting the Still Water Poetry Gathering was only a single wall away, and stepping out into the corridor, one could watch the proceedings from behind the gauze curtains near the entrance.
Most of the women invited to perform tonight already carried some reputation along the Qinhuai, each with her own particular charm. At an ordinary poetry gathering, any one of them might easily have commanded the whole room — but not tonight. Not everyone at the Still Water gathering was a man; many had brought companions, such as Old Qin, who’d brought along his concubine Yun Niang, well versed in poetry, and plenty of others who’d brought their wives, or some family’s cultivated young daughter. In a setting like this, these performing women could never be the center of attention — they couldn’t even step out to draw eyes to themselves once their performance was done.
Still, simply going out to perform song and dance, if done with genuine skill, was more than enough to leave a deep impression. Women of their standing, when surrounded mostly by men, could afford to hold themselves higher, more reserved. But in a setting like this, the wiser course was to play the quiet, supporting role, making an impression through subtlety rather than spectacle. Pride and reserve were simply tools; reputation was what truly mattered.
The two women with the highest standing here tonight were, without much argument, Yuan Jin’er of the Golden Wind Tower and Lu Caicai of the Spring Pavilion. In one of the rooms, Yuan Jin’er sat cupping her chin, turning this way and that to admire her made-up face in the bronze mirror, her maid Kou’er watching beside her, chatting and giggling with her mistress. “My lady, when you went out to perform just now, that Master Cao kept looking straight at you the whole time — didn’t blink once.”
Yuan Jin’er glanced at her sideways with a smile. “Of course they all looked my way when I went out to perform — nothing strange about that. What’s strange, Kou’er, is that you apparently only had eyes for Master Cao.”
“My lady, it’s true!” Kou’er protested, her small face flushing red. “He really didn’t take his eyes off you!”
“And how would you know he didn’t take his eyes off me, unless you didn’t take your eyes off him?” Yuan Jin’er teased on, and the little maid, thoroughly flustered, pouted and decided to ignore her — only to lean in again a moment later. “My lady, who do you think will be crowned champion of tonight’s poetry contest?”
Yuan Jin’er tilted her head, tucking a small flower into her hair. “There’s no true ‘first place’ in literature, and no real standard for judging a poetry contest either — where would a champion even come from? You and your questions. Though as for which pieces will be sung and remembered the longest, that much we can probably guess.” She picked up a few sheets from the table. “Master Wang’s, Master Xi’s, and this one from your beloved Master Cao — ‘the jade-blue sky like water, the silver river shallow and clear’ — heh, this one’s probably the best of the lot. There, does that make you happy? And then there’s Master Li and Master Tang over at the Lichuan gathering…”
The little maid pouted. “Who said anything about liking Master Cao.”
“Oh? So you dislike him, then?” Yuan Jin’er’s eyes sparkled as she glanced over.
“No, not that either — Kou’er’s only thinking of what’s best for you, my lady. Master Cao likes you, and you came here together with him today. If he lends his support, next year’s title of Qinhuai’s foremost beauty might well fall to you. And if Master Cao passes the spring examinations with high honors…”
The little maid rattled on, and Yuan Jin’er laughed, giving her nose a playful tweak. “Alright, alright, I understand.” She picked up the ci Cao Guan had composed to look it over. Between herself and Lu Caicai, Lu Caicai excelled at the pipa while she herself favored the zither, and by most accounts her singing was the better of the two — this was the piece she’d be performing shortly. As she read it over, she hummed the tune softly to herself, smiling faintly, looking for all the world like a woman happily courted by a brilliant young talent.
In truth, most reasonably conscientious courtesans along the Qinhuai claimed some tale of hardship and misfortune in their past — mostly invented, fabricated in the details, though the broader notion that each of them had known some hardship was, in essence, true enough. By the time a woman reached the standing of a Yuan Jin’er or a Lu Caicai, having studied poetry and letters, it was only natural that they’d come to admire men of talent and learning. And though there were occasional tales, celebrated as heartwarming, of some renowned courtesan marrying a poor scholar purely out of admiration for his gifts, such cases were vanishingly rare. That she’d accepted the Pan family’s invitation tonight and ridden over in the same carriage as Cao Guan already looked close enough to outsiders. In her own heart, she did admire his talent, but whether she liked him — liked him in the way Kou’er imagined — was something even she herself couldn’t say for certain. To women in their position, though it might look from outside as though they were surrounded by admirers, the choices genuinely available to them were, in truth, few and far between.
Still, setting such thoughts aside for the moment, tonight’s gathering had genuinely proven worthwhile for her.
She hummed the tune over and over to herself, until after a while Kou’er came hurrying in from the doorway. “My lady, my lady, it sounds like there’s another fine poem — let’s go take a look!”
“Oh?” She set down the paper with a smile and went out with Kou’er toward the gauze curtain at the end of the corridor, where several other women had already gathered. Lu Caicai had come over too, and said softly, “What’s happened, sisters?” before leaning in near the curtain to watch. Just then came the line “wine cup in hand, I ask the blue sky” — Pan Guangyan had already read it once before; this was one of the young scholars reciting it for the second time.
The mood of the gathering had grown rather strange by this point — quieter than before. Earlier, everyone had thrown themselves into composing and reciting verse with lively enthusiasm and easy laughter; now it felt almost as if some invisible pressure had settled over the crowd. The guests were still savoring the poem, and before long the women had also gotten hold of a copy of the ci, gathering around to read it through once, then again. Yuan Jin’er looked up, meeting Lu Caicai’s eyes.
“From the Pu Garden gathering…”
“How could that be…”
“Su Residence, Ning Yi, Ning Liheng — who is that?”
“Never heard of him…”
Unlike the scholars outside, who’d first lost themselves in appreciating the verse itself, these women, once they grasped the poem’s significance, immediately turned their attention to who could possibly have written it. Several of them scanned the signature again and again, asking one another, but none had ever heard the name. Outside, someone was already asking, “What does everyone make of this piece?”
“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…”
“This ci…”
“Who could possibly have written this?”
For a moment no one offered any judgment — someone did murmur, half to themselves, “Extraordinary” — and then the man who’d been reciting picked the paper back up and read out the signature again: “Su Residence, Ning Yi, Ning Liheng — does anyone know who this is?”
Silence.
“But if his surname is Ning, why is the residence listed as Su?”
“Which Su residence?”
“From the Pu Garden gathering — surely not the Su family fabric house?”
“Could this be some steward or clerk at the Su household?”
“No one’s ever heard of this man before…”
The crowd exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves — the name meant nothing to anyone. Pan Guangyan eventually had to summon the man who’d gone out to fetch the poem; not a servant, but something like a half-apprentice of his, a young man of some talent in his own right. Asked by his teacher, he explained with a smile what he’d heard.
“Ah, from what I understand, this man is a live-in son-in-law of the Su household — married in just a few months ago, husband to the Su family’s second young lady, Su Tan’er. Interesting thing is, I did hear a bit more about it. Apparently this Ning Liheng caught a cold today and wasn’t at the Pu Garden gathering at all — he recited this ci to a young maid at home while resting this evening, purely for his own amusement. Then someone at the gathering apparently claimed he had no talent for poetry whatsoever, and the maid, unable to bear hearing it, brought the ci out to prove otherwise… or so the story goes. I can’t vouch for whether it’s true.”
“The Su residence… a live-in son-in-law?”
At these words, not only the crowd outside but the women behind the curtain exchanged startled glances as well, and voices immediately rose up.
“He wasn’t even there?”
“This whole thing sounds far too strange…”
“I’ve certainly… certainly never heard of a live-in son-in-law having talent like this…”
“Ning Yi, Ning Liheng — truly, never heard the name before…”
Behind the curtain, the little maid Kou’er said, puzzled, “This wasn’t bought, was it? Something the Pu Garden gathering paid for to build up their name?”
Every year, it was hardly unusual for a poetry gathering to buy verses to boost its reputation — everyone understood the game well enough. But even granting that, it seemed unlikely anyone could simply purchase a poem of this caliber. Once they’d learned the man’s background, most of the crowd found themselves harboring the same suspicion. If he genuinely possessed talent like this, how could he possibly have ended up marrying in as a live-in son-in-law? At this point, someone outside voiced the doubt aloud as well.
“This whole business is hard to credit…”
“Could this be a piece the Su household bought, hoping to build a name for themselves?”
The voice wasn’t loud, and the speaker’s tone was tentative, but everyone could hear it clearly enough. After a moment’s silence, someone else was clearly about to agree: “Well, that sort of thing does happen…”
The crowd, initially swept up entirely in the poem itself, hadn’t given the matter much further thought — but now, with words like “live-in son-in-law” and “unknown nobody” surfacing and set against the verse itself, the contrast proved jarring, and doubts began rising almost uncontrollably. Not everyone stayed silent out of measured restraint — tonight’s gathering had, after all, carried more than a little competitive spirit from the start, and some let their doubts slip out without quite meaning to. It was at that exact moment that a stern voice suddenly rang out from the platform: “Zixing! Hold your tongue!”
The man who’d spoken, one Yu Zixing, jumped in fright at the sound and looked up to see Old Kang standing with a writing brush in hand, his gaze severe, an unspoken authority in his bearing that silenced the murmuring at once. In an instant, the whole gathering fell completely still.