As soon as those words fell, the women's section fell silent. Then Shen Ling'er gave the tea table a light tap.
"Beautiful."
Su Yao lifted her eyes.
"She held her ground."
Qian Muzhi stroked his beard and turned to Xie Huai'an.
"Huai'an, your daughter has a better way with words than you did when you were young."
Worry still showed on Xie Huai'an's face, but he couldn't help answering.
"Please don't tease me, master. With her stepping onto the stage today, even I wasn't sure how things would go."
Qian Muzhi looked at Xie Wanqing.
"You weren't sure, yet you didn't stop her. You've made some progress as a father."
Xie Huai'an didn't reply.
His gaze rested on Xie Wanqing, then passed over the poetry stage to Gu Moran.
He knew his daughter best.
She had talent, and she placed great importance on propriety.
In the past, her poetry had favored elegance and correctness, rarely showing a sharp edge.
She had been married into Prince Yi's Residence for only half a month, yet today, standing before the Hanlin Academy's poetry stage, she had dared ask Ye Qingyun in public whether he couldn't accept losing to a woman.
Where had such courage come from?
Xie Huai'an already had an answer in his heart.
Han Heting looked at Ye Qingyun.
"Young Master Ye, have your doubts been resolved?"
Ye Qingyun cupped his hands. His sleeve brushed his palm, and the sweat clinging to his skin reminded him of the damp, chilly smell of wooden boards in the Jizhou examination stalls.
"Half of them."
Silence fell over the crowd once more.
Zhou Wenyuan pressed his fingertips against the register, leaving faint marks on the paper, but said nothing.
Ye Qingyun raised his head and looked Xie Wanqing straight in the eye.
"Madam Xie, you are widely read. I admire that."
"But poetry is the truest test of talent."
"If I may be so bold, I would like to ask you for another contest, Madam Xie."
Xie Wanqing didn't rush to answer.
If she accepted at once, Ye Qingyun could draw her into his own rhythm.
If she withdrew to her seat, everything she had just said would be chewed over anew.
Three sheets of plain paper in her sleeve rested against her wrist, their slightly stiff edges reminding her of the lines written beneath the lamp last night.
Gu Moran had said that to establish a lasting reputation for talent, she couldn't rely solely on others to block blades for her.
Xie Wanqing lifted her eyes.
"Before we begin, I have three more poems."
Ye Qingyun watched her take the plain sheets from her sleeve pouch, his brows drawing together.
"Three?"
Xie Wanqing unfolded the first sheet and presented it to Qian Muzhi with both hands.
"I came upon these three poems recently. I wouldn't dare claim they surpass anyone's work; I only ask that the masters listen."
"Young Master Ye doubts my talent, so I shall put my answer in verse."
Qian Muzhi took the first sheet and looked down at it.
There were only four lines on the paper.
His fingers paused at the edge of the sheet, and he didn't read it aloud right away.
Han Heting looked at him.
"Elder Qian?"
Qian Muzhi read it over once more before rising and holding the sheet at chest height.
"The sun sinks beyond the mountains, its light undone; the Yellow River flows into the sea."
Someone below the stage nodded.
The tension eased from Ye Qingyun's shoulders.
The scenery was expansive and the vision grand, but it hadn't yet left him gasping for breath.
Qian Muzhi continued.
"To see a thousand miles farther, climb one more flight of stairs."
As the final words fell, every murmur in the square was pressed into silence.
Han Heting tapped his cane once against the ground.
Xie Huai'an opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Feng Shouzheng caught the ceremony register as it slipped toward the edge of the table, the back of his hand tightening.
Qian Muzhi looked at the words on the page, a soft sigh rising in his throat.
"What a line: 'Climb one more flight of stairs.'"
An elderly Hanlin scholar below the stage was the first to stand, and applause spread from him.
"'To see a thousand miles farther, climb one more flight of stairs.'"
"Read it again, and it has even more flavor."
"The words are so plain that even a child can understand them, yet they contain a thousand magnificent vistas."
"Those words could be hung over an academy gate."
Xie Huai'an looked down at the sheet, and only after a long while did he speak.
He turned to Gu Moran and lowered his voice.
"My daughter finally dares to write of greater heights."
On the second floor of the teahouse, Murong Xue sat up straight.
"That Central Plains woman-her final ten characters hit harder than several of that man's poems put together."
Batuer chewed her dried meat and nodded.
"I didn't understand much of it, but I understood the looks on their faces."
Lin Qingdai held her teacup for a moment before setting it down.
She looked at Xie Wanqing below the stage, then at Gu Moran, her brows lowering.
"This wastrel is rather interesting."
Murong Xue looked at her.
"Didn't you come to see him make a fool of himself?"
Lin Qingdai pushed her teacup away.
"As things stand, someone else is making a fool of himself."
Gu Moran rested his fan across his knees without looking upstairs.
He heard the applause growing louder, but the first thing he noticed was the astringent scent of tea gone cold.
Ye Qingyun had put himself too high the moment he stepped onto the stage today.
The wind blew hard at the top.
And falling from there hurt.
Qian Muzhi laid the first sheet on the table.
"The second poem."
Xie Wanqing handed him the second sheet.
Qian Muzhi unfolded it and, this time, read without pausing.
"For a thousand miles, yellow clouds dim the white sun; the north wind drives the geese through falling snow."
After hearing the first two lines, Ye Qingyun recovered some of his breath.
A farewell poem.
He had seen plenty of those.
Qian Muzhi read the final two lines.
"Do not fear you will find no kindred spirit on the road ahead; who under heaven does not know your name?"
Ye Qingyun's expression froze.
Among the scholars from humble families, someone softly recited the lines.
By the second time, his voice had gone hoarse.
"Do not fear you will find no kindred spirit on the road ahead; who under heaven does not know your name?"
All the bitterness and grievance Ye Qingyun had just expressed were swept aside by those two lines.
He had written of vermilion gates shut tight.
She had written of people waiting on the road ahead.
He had written of an old promise turned to ash.
She had written of the whole world knowing his name.
Han Heting lifted his teacup, then set it back down.
"A fine poem."
"Fine because it doesn't peddle suffering."
"Fine because it can send people forward."
A scholar from a humble family stood below the stage, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"Brother Ye wrote of the frustration we feel today."
"These two lines of Madam Xie's say that we can still go on tomorrow."
Someone beside him patted his shoulder.
"Stop talking. Any more and I'll want to cry."
Ye Qingyun's fingers tightened inside his sleeve, a corner of the paper softened by sweat.
Zhou Wenyuan sat at the judges' table, his hand pressed against its surface, and said nothing.
Xu Wenli glanced toward the seats reserved for nobles and high officials.
The Second Prince took a sip of tea. The porcelain made a faint sound as he replaced the lid.
An adviser leaned down.
"Your Highness, these poems have come at too convenient a time."
Gu Mochen watched Xie Wanqing.
"Whether it's convenient doesn't matter."
"What matters is knowing how to use them."
The adviser asked quietly,
"What about Prince Yi, then?"
Gu Mochen set down his teacup.
"It seems I underestimated my third brother."
Gu Moran sat among the guests, his thumb lightly rubbing the ribs of his fan.
It was a very small movement.
Su Yao looked away and took a sip of cold tea.
Bitterness settled on the tip of her tongue.
She thought of the annotations in the study, and of the glimpses Gu Moran occasionally gave of how he hid his abilities.
These poems had most likely come from his hand as well.
But the person standing onstage to meet the blade was Xie Wanqing.
Gu Moran was willing to give her the blade, and a step to stand on as well.
And Xie Wanqing hadn't retreated.
That was what made it hardest to look away.
Xie Huai'an was watching Gu Moran too.
He had originally thought that, with His Majesty bestowing the marriage, the Xie Clan was merely a chess piece swept into the affairs of a prince's household.
But today, Gu Moran had brought Xie Wanqing before the Hanlin Academy's poetry stage.
Not as a foil.
But as the main figure.
Xie Huai'an lifted his tea, the veins on the back of his hand slowly relaxing.
"Master."
Han Heting looked at him.
"What is it?"
Xie Huai'an said quietly,
"My prejudice against Prince Yi ran too deep before."
Han Heting gave a soft huff, his gaze calm and deep, and spoke slowly. "Only now have you seen through him. Your insight is still rather shallow."
Xie Huai'an said nothing more.
He looked at his daughter, then at the sheet of poetry on the table, and the worry in his heart changed.
If Gu Moran truly were a wastrel, he would never have given Xie Wanqing such an opportunity.
If he were merely using the Xie Clan, he wouldn't have let Xie Wanqing make a name for herself in public, either.
Xie Wanqing held out the third sheet.
"The last one."
Qian Muzhi took it.
He unfolded it and glanced at it, his fingers lingering on the edge of the paper for a long time.
Han Heting leaned over to look.
Qian Muzhi pressed the paper against the table without passing it over.
"Elder Qian?"