‘As I have told you, I’m here for the project of compiling a new poetry collection of Xuanji. I’m taking a look into the case simply because it makes up a part of the much-needed backdrop for her poetry. On the other hand, it is Yang who has done a good job inquiring about those poems of Xuanji’s so far unknown and uncollected. If that’s the investigation you’re talking about, it’s really to Yang’s credit. Because of his good work, I was able to approach the flower girl, for whom Xuanji wrote a couple of poems. And you see, here’s one of the poems Xuanji dashed out in the flower garden.’

‘It will surely be a successful project, Your Honor, that collection of Xuanji’s poems. And Yang is a capable assistant for your worthy literary project, I totally agree,’ Nameless said, changing the subject readily, nodding, and producing two candles out of his enormous sleeves. ‘By the way, I’m bringing a pair of large candles for you. Pilgrims make a point of donating candles to the Buddha images in the temple. The weightier the candles, the more devout the pilgrims. These are two-catty ones. You can read as many poems as you like in the evening, but don’t stay up too late, Your Honor.’

‘Don’t stay up too late again, Master,’ Yang said aside, echoing as he turned to step out of the room, leaving in the company of Nameless.

Left alone in the room, Judge Dee was listening to the rain pattering against the window, picking up the cup of tea, when he became aware of a black bat flitting over the courtyard, hovering around, hissing portentously, as if anxious to break in through the white paper of the window. It appeared to be another ominous sign. Making an effort to laugh himself out of his apprehensive mood, he tried to assure himself that his nerves had been overwrought for the last couple of days.

So he turned to spread out on the table the paper with the poem on it. From time to time, poetry could soothe the tension, he knew from past experience. It was Xuanji’s elegant handwriting, which he recognized at once.

‘The Fading Peony.’ He was murmuring to himself the title of the poem, stroking his gray beard, when he was thunderstruck by something in it.

It was too much of a political taboo for Xuanji to write about the topic of a peony under the reign of Empress Wu. The thought flashed through his mind. Even more so given Xuanji’s singular treatment in those lines.