of the springtime. Alas, it is easier

to find an extremely valuable treasure

than a true-hearted lover.

Weeping against the tear-soaked pillow

at night, you suffer a heartbreak

walking in the midst of the flowers.

With a handsome talent like Song Yu

beside you, why should you feel bitter

about a cold-hearted Wang Chang?

According to the information gathered by Yang, Xuanji did not have any friends in the neighborhood except the flower girl surnamed Zhang. Both the textual and the contextual pointed to the flower girl in question, but at the same time, the poem pointed more to Xuanji herself. It was conventional for people to express themselves through a poem seemingly addressed to another. With the two men mentioned at the end of the poem – Song Yu and Wang Chang – both known as handsome men and gifted writers – the poem actually read more like self-encouragement. The mentioning of ‘a cold-hearted Wang Chang’ at the end of the poem came with an implied disparagement of Wen or Zi’an. After all, she had some other young, handsome talents available to her in those ‘poetry talks’ at the nunnery, so why should she feel so inconsolable about her situation?

Putting aside the proof, Judge Dee found his mind bogged down in the sentimental lines. He was not a poet on a par with Xuanji. Taking a sip of the cold tea, he stroked his gray beard with a sigh.

For a break from the poetry, he decided to work his way through the list of the possible contacts Yang had obtained for him. The next day, he was going to start with the flower girl in question, who was called by her neighbors ‘another young fox spirit like Xuanji.’ And the typesetter/publisher of the poetry collection, who appeared to be quite knowledgeable about the literature circle Xuanji had moved in. And the bookstore owner, who had a scroll of Xuanji’s poem in her own calligraphy. And then Wei, who had the poem copied out to him … but possibly after Judge Dee had talked to all other contacts.

The list of names turned out to be quite long. He wondered whether he would be able to approach all of them in one day.

After circling a couple more names, he put down the list, He felt inexplicably tired, rubbing his temples.

Looking out of the paper window, he could hardly see anything in the temple courtyard, though a lone monk’s scripture-chanting was heard in a barely audible monotone. Probably something about the vanity of human passion in the world of red dust, the chanting went on in a broken rhythm to the night watchman’s insistent knocker beating along the trail outside the temple.