By the time the crowd dispersed from the Threshing Ground, it was nearly midnight-very, very late by the standards of West River Village.
But no one regretted it. Families young and old dragged chairs and carried stools home, discussing the story with their relatives or neighbors as they walked: who deserved to die, who was pitiful, and so on.
At this late hour, neither the prince nor the magistrate of Yuanjiang County returned to the county town. They stayed the night in West River Village instead. Though the Yi Household could not compare to a truly grand mansion, it did have a few guest rooms.
Yet that night, the prince could not sleep no matter what he tried. The storytelling kept running through his mind. His imperial father had once said that Yi Shuyuan used his stories to speak of people, and of the realm and its governance. That was even more apparent in "Singing Heaven’s Rain."
After tossing and turning for a long while in the Yi Household's guest room, the prince finally got out of bed.
"Attend me!"
At his command, a voice immediately answered from outside the door.
"Your Highness? You haven't gone to sleep?"
"I can't sleep. Prepare brush, ink, paper, and inkstone."
The two guards stationed outside exchanged a glance. One had no choice but to find a servant of the Yi Household and ask for help preparing the supplies.
About a quarter of an hour later, the four treasures of the study had been arranged on the table in the prince's temporary guest room, and an oil lamp had been lit.
The prince draped a thick garment over himself without bothering to dress properly, then began writing by lamplight deep into the night. He wanted to record what he had seen and heard that