Chapter Three: The Baili Siblings and the Third Poem

"Miss, Miss..."
In the rear garden of the Zhou Residence, a petite figure in pale green hurried along a winding path paved with pebbles, weaving through the foliage toward the lakeside pavilion. In her hand she clutched a folded piece of paper; were it to be opened, one would see written upon it the very "Bamboo and Stone" poem that Han Fu had just composed.

"Miss, you must look at this." With that, Ping’er laid the folded paper on the stone table before the girl who sat quietly, savoring poetry. This girl was Bai Li Mingsu, niece of Zhou Xinyi, seventeen years old. She possessed a delicate, oval face, features as if painted, skin like congealed cream, and in her glances there was not merely the clarity of youth, but a light that bespoke intelligence.

She wore simple white robes draped with gauzy silk. Before her, the stone table was scattered with poems submitted by those gathered beyond the mansion’s walls. Of course, not just any poem made its way to her; only those of at least moderate merit found their place. There were seventeen sheets in all—six bore the works of Qin Weiren, three those of Liu Shilin, and the remaining eight were selected from among the hundreds who had vied for the honor.

This tally was as she had expected. Liu Shilin’s poetic talent was renowned, yet composing on the spot is never easy; two above-average and one middling poem already did his reputation justice. To select eight out of more than a hundred was also reasonable. As for Qin Weiren’s six works—he had quietly assembled many scholars and literati three months prior to prepare, so it was hardly surprising.

"Another fine piece? Judging by your excitement, it isn’t from Qin Weiren. Has someone else stepped up? Or is it Liu Shilin’s fourth?" Bai Li Mingsu spoke unhurriedly, her voice melodious and calm, as though she held every answer in her palm.

"It’s not the second young master Qin, nor Liu Shilin—Liu Shilin has conceded," Ping’er replied quickly. At fifteen, Ping’er was Bai Li Mingsu’s childhood companion and personal maid, her round face fair, with softly penciled brows.

Seeing Bai Li Mingsu only mildly surprised, Ping’er composed herself, her expression tranquil as though she had expected nothing less. She continued, "It’s him—the man betrothed to General Qin. He took to the stage, though no one thought highly of him. But without a pause, he spoke a poem, and everyone outside was astonished."

"Oh?" Bai Li Mingsu’s brows arched, her interest piqued. She picked up the paper and unfolded it, reading carefully.

"'Clinging to the green mountain, never letting go... Let the winds come from east, west, south, or north...'"

As she read, surprise gradually revealed itself on Bai Li Mingsu’s refined face. She closed her eyes to savor the words, then could not help but exclaim, "A work such as this should be passed down through the ages."

"What? A poem for the ages?" Ping’er was dumbstruck, her mouth agape as if it could fit an egg.

Did she really understand what that meant? In the minds of most, poetry was judged by rank: inferior, middle, superior, and enduring—each further divided into shades of merit. Today, not a single poem had reached the level of the enduring, not even Qin Weiren’s, despite three months’ preparation. This alone showed how rare and precious such a work was...

But what had she just heard? The young miss, whom she revered as nearly divine, had praised this poem as worthy of being passed down through the ages.

"Yes," Bai Li Mingsu affirmed with a nod. Then, as if recalling something, she turned and asked, "You said he spoke it without even thinking?"

"That’s what Zhou Dong said," Ping’er replied.

Zhou Dong, a servant of the Zhou Residence and heir to the stewardship, had from childhood been sharp and perceptive—hence his given name. Today, Bai Li Mingsu had summoned him to relay the poems to her.

At this, Bai Li Mingsu’s thoughts drifted. To utter a poem for the ages on a whim—there were only two possibilities: either the man’s poetic talent eclipsed even Liu Shilin’s, or he had been extraordinarily lucky.

Yet Bai Li Mingsu did not believe in luck. She would sooner believe Han Fu a poet immortal descended to the mortal world.

But if that were so, would not the remaining six poems be just as effortless for him? He need not make each one an enduring masterpiece; if they merely matched Qin Weiren’s, he would win.

And then, the price Bai Li Mingsu would pay was to marry him.

But if that happened, wouldn’t all her careful plans—everything she had prepared for her family’s future—dissolve into nothing?

For this day, Bai Li Mingsu, ever master of strategy, had wagered even her own marriage. Was she to be thwarted after all?

It was hard to accept. Even if she felt nothing for Qin Weiren, an alliance with the Qin family at least promised the Zhou family a future amidst uncertain times.

Three months ago, she had devised this plan, even at the cost of herself. Should something go awry… For a moment, Bai Li Mingsu’s mind went blank.

Why did it have to be such a spectacle, a contest of poetry to decide a marriage alliance? All because of that figure in the palace.

That person did not wish to see the Qin and Zhou families united, though had never stated it outright. In truth, that person did not wish to see any two powerful houses join forces to become an unassailable alliance.

After the first failed campaign against Dongli, the ruler began—subtly or otherwise—to suppress the noble families. Riding the current of Emperor Xiaokang’s policies, those nobles at odds with the Zhou and Qin families were only too happy to interfere.

And so, the poetry contest was a helpless expedient. Even Emperor Xiaokang and the powerful families, seeing this, could find no means to intervene.

In Bai Li Mingsu’s eyes, poetry was but an elegant pastime for the idle, a token of wit at best. Her true path lay in the art of strategy, in talents fit for governing a nation.

Though a woman, her ambitions were as grand as any man’s.

"It can’t be. Poetry may be a minor art, but it still requires talent. Seven topics, seven poems—even if a poet immortal walked among us, could he truly…" Bai Li Mingsu’s thoughts trailed off, only to recall another matter.

Yesterday, on a whim, she had sought out her brother Bai Li Mingda to cast a divination.

The Bai Li siblings had been raised by their uncle Zhou Xinyi since childhood; one was gifted in divination, the other in strategy.

After consulting the oracle, Bai Li Mingda had assured her, "The augury is exceedingly favorable. Rest easy, little sister; all will go smoothly tomorrow."

Yet upon hearing this, Bai Li Mingsu felt a faint unease.

Everyone in the Zhou Residence knew that young master Bai Li’s predictions were always the reverse of the outcome.

What did that mean? Reality always turned out to be the opposite of the augury.

Strangely enough, since immersing himself in divination, not once had Bai Li Mingda been right.

In time, Bai Li Mingsu had mulled over her own plans, finding no flaw. She even thought perhaps, at last, her brother’s prediction would come true...

But now, in this unseen contest between brother and sister, was she to lose?

It could not be… Bai Li Mingsu shook her head, stifling her anxiety.

She had heard of that youth in passing—no teacher, no family, no background, nothing of substance. He could bring nothing to the Zhou family’s future. If he were to win, would not all her schemes come to nothing, and herself lost in the bargain?

She had wagered herself from the beginning, yes, but…

With this in mind, Bai Li Mingsu commanded, "Go, see what he offers for the second poem."

"I’ll go at once," Ping’er replied, and hurried off.

It was not long before Ping’er returned, handing a folded paper to Bai Li Mingsu.

With a nervous heart, Bai Li Mingsu opened it and read carefully.

"In the corner, a few plum branches bloom alone in the cold. From afar, you know it is not snow—for there comes a subtle fragrance..."

"This… another poem for the ages…"

Bai Li Mingsu slumped, bereft, the paper slipping from her fingers.

Meanwhile, outside the Zhou Residence, under the spellbound gazes of the crowd, Han Fu began to calmly recite his third poem.