On the first day of the fifth month, midsummer began, and the cicadas first sang.
In the rear garden of the Feng Residence, the paulownia blossoms had all fallen, and fresh scholar-tree blossoms carpeted the ground.
The young lotuses on the pond had yet to unfurl; only three or five round leaves floated flat against the water.
The cicadas in the old Chinese scholar tree in the garden fell silent after calling for half a day.
At dawn, the servants discovered a layer of stiff cicada shells beneath the tree, along with several cicadas that had died before fully shedding their skins.
Their thin wings were only half spread, their bodies still trapped in their earthen shells, frozen there on the trunk.
At the sight, the servants dared not delay. They swept up the dead cicadas and their shells together and buried them in the soil beneath the roots.
"The summer heat has come too early this year."
"Yes! We cleared away quite a few dead cicadas and shells."
"Cicadas lie dormant underground for years, yet once they emerge, they have only a single summer to live."
"But in that one summer, they must sing."
In the pavilion corridor behind the garden, Feng Yan sat in a round-backed chair beneath the eaves.
An old felt blanket lay across his knees, and a bowl of medicinal decoction stood beside his hand.
The medicine had cooled to lukewarm, leaving a white ring around the rim.
The old steward stood three paces away, his hands lowered at his sides.
He had served at the Feng Residence for forty-two years.
Over those forty-two years, he had grown accustomed to seeing Feng Yan review memorials at dawn and discuss affairs at midnight, accustomed to the lamp at his desk burning all through the night.