Chapter Thirty-Four: September 16th, The Literary Gathering at the Lotus Garden

Leaves fluttered on the wind, a scene rich with autumn’s sentiment.

Thanks to the Lady of the Zhou family making an example of her own kin, the servants of the Zhou household now treated Han Fu with a changed attitude. Their earlier courtesy, though outwardly respectful, had always carried an unspoken undercurrent. Yet ever since Zhou Yuanshan had been chastised by the old matron, the lesson had not been lost on the staff, and their manner shifted accordingly.

Two days had passed, and Zhou Yuantong still had not fulfilled his promise. Han Fu, left with no other choice, simply continued as before: rising early for a run, practicing calligraphy upon his return, then spending the afternoon reading and training—his routine unwavering.

The second tale, “The Painted Skin,” was already finished, while the third remained untouched. Baili Mingsu had been the first to read it, eagerly passing it on to the waiting Binger and Lian’er. The two young women read with rapt attention, chattering animatedly over its contents. Thus Han Fu realized that, though his stories had not yet been published, he had already gained three loyal readers.

Over these two days, Han Fu and Baili Mingsu continued to share a room but not a bed; there was no real progress between them. Yet he felt no urgency—such matters, he believed, should unfold naturally.

In the thirteenth year of Xiaokang, on the fifteenth day of the ninth month, at midday, Han Fu still spent his days in his own small courtyard rather than Baili Mingsu’s chambers, finding it more convenient for reading and training. Meals were taken there as well.

Baili Mingda, as persistent as a plaster, was impossible to shake off and clung to him all day long. Even during lunch, nothing could stop his incessant chatter.

“Brother-in-law, I can’t help but feel something’s amiss,” he began. “You and Mingsu have already shared a room, and by rights, you ought to be inseparable. Yet you’re just as before, save for sleeping in the same chamber at night.”

“Perhaps I’m overthinking it. Brother-in-law, your diligence is commendable—a true path to virtue.”

“And Mingsu is the fairest in all of Dingxing. Yet you’re not captivated by her beauty—such strength of will! I’m truly gratified.”

“This is the brother-in-law I chose. I knew I wasn’t mistaken.”

“You two have now been married for over three days, brother-in-law. Time to start thinking about what to name your future child.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t always happen right away, but keep at it in the coming days and I’m sure you’ll succeed…”

Baili Mingda’s prattle was endless. Han Fu, though not annoyed, could scarcely restrain the urge to kick him out.

At the same time—

At the Qin residence, the gates suddenly swung open. Qin Weiren emerged and departed in a carriage. The carriage rolled west, then veered north, crossed a bridge, continued straight along the road, turned east and then south, finally stopping less than a hundred paces from a courtyard gate.

White walls, dark tiles, and green bamboo dripping with dew greeted him. A servant knocked at the gate, which opened at once.

“My master has been expecting you, Young Master Qin. Please, come in.” The doorkeeper greeted him with deference and led the way.

A few moments later, Qin Weizhong sat in the main hall across from a middle-aged man: Zhao Ziqian, the literary luminary of the Xu Dynasty. Clad in a blue robe, face gaunt, a wisp of black beard trailing to his chest, already a little sparse.

Behind him hung seven scrolls of calligraphy; on closer inspection, they were none other than the poems Han Fu had composed on the dueling platform some days before—each poem, a scroll.

Qin Weiren produced a brocade box from his sleeve, opened it, and offered it to Zhao Ziqian. “This string of beads is carved from yellow rosewood; wearing it soothes the mind and calms the spirit. Please accept it, sir.”

Inwardly, Zhao Ziqian was delighted, though he maintained a calm facade. “Many thanks for your generosity, Young Master Qin. I cannot refuse such a thoughtful gift.”

Qin Weiren set the box before him, smiling. “Just a token of esteem. Should tomorrow prove successful, there will be greater rewards.”

“Rest assured, Young Master Qin. Tomorrow’s literary gathering shall mark the ruin of Han Fu’s reputation.” Zhao Ziqian smiled, then feigned a sigh, saying, “To steal another’s work and destroy a man’s name is beneath any true scholar. This is the only time I’ll assist—never again.”

Such hypocrisy. Qin Weiren laughed inwardly, but outwardly he only bowed with respect. “I shall remember your words.”

At that moment, someone entered in haste, but seeing the two men in conversation, stood quietly to the side and waited.

Qin Weiren rose. “I shall take my leave, sir, and congratulate you in advance—the literary world will soon sing your praises.”

“Reputation is not my concern,” Zhao Ziqian insisted.

“I was too shallow to assume otherwise.”

Qin Weiren turned to go, led away by the servants.

Zhao Ziqian then looked to the newcomer and asked, “Well?”

The man replied, “Sir, Orchid Laurel Bookhouse declined your manuscript, saying they already have Commentary on the Classic of Elegance by Master Sun and will not publish yours.”

Orchid Laurel Bookhouse was the largest in Dingxing, the place where most scholars bought their books. To have one’s work sold there was a sure way to gain recognition in short order.

Zhao Ziqian had poured days and nights into his own annotated version of the Classic of Elegance, hoping to make his name through its publication. Yet now, the bookhouse had refused him.

His face darkened, then he let out a cold laugh. “No matter. After tomorrow, they’ll come seeking me.”

Just days before, Qin Weiren had approached him with a scheme against Han Fu. Zhao Ziqian had been tempted, though he’d intended to refuse—yet the Qin family’s offer was simply too generous. The yellow rosewood beads were but a small portion of it.

If the plan succeeded, those seven masterful poems would bear his name. Fame and fortune would follow. Weighing it all, he found no reason to refuse.

After tomorrow, when the world believed those seven poems to be his, and Han Fu dismissed as a mere plagiarist, Orchid Laurel Bookhouse would surely come to apologize.

Night fell. The moon hung high and stars glittered in the sky.

Ever since being doused with ink, Baili Mingda had not dared eavesdrop at the walls again.

Baili Mingsu sat at her desk, practicing Han Fu’s calligraphy with intense concentration. Han Fu stood beside her, watching in silence.

“Will you be attending the literary gathering at Lotus Garden tomorrow?” she asked suddenly, her brush never pausing.

Han Fu nodded. “Received an invitation, so I thought I’d see what the fuss is about. Staying cooped up in the house all day grows dull.”

To be honest, he wasn’t eager for such excitement. But he was curious about the caliber of Xu Dynasty scholars and wanted to see for himself.

“I’ll be going too,” Baili Mingsu replied with a smile.

“You as well?” Han Fu was taken aback.

“You didn’t know?” She looked up at him, amusement in her eyes.

“What should I know?” he asked.

“At every literary gathering, there are two sections. The scholars discuss their studies in one, while the young ladies hold their own gathering in another. Lotus Garden will be no exception. The two groups are separated by a gallery, and many unmarried girls use the event to observe the scholars, hoping to find a suitable match. Though we are already wed, I still received an invitation. I hadn’t planned to attend, but since you’re going, I’ll come as well.”

Han Fu smiled in understanding and nodded. “Very well.”

In the thirteenth year of Xiaokang, on the sixteenth day of the ninth month, in the afternoon, the Lotus Garden Literary Gathering commenced as scheduled. Scholars and writers flocked to the event, spirits high with anticipation. Those not fortunate enough to receive invitations could only wait outside the garden gates for news from within.