So much so, it could have served as an unquestionable evidence of the so-called thoughtcrime. Another characteristic of the Tang Empire. A word or a phrase, let alone a poem, interpreted as possibly against the interest of the supreme ruler could put the offender in prison. Xuanji should have known better than to make such a blunder.

Was it possible that she had composed the poem purposely for someone capable of appreciating it because of its political incorrectness?

Studying ‘The Fading Peony’ under the candlelight for the third or fourth time, he had a feeling that some of the dots accumulated at random during the last few days were beginning to scramble for connection in his mind – the knife note in the hostel, the signs from the Book of Changes, the unexpected request for help from the powerful Minister Wu, the intensified apparition of the black fox spirit in the neighborhood of the nunnery, the discussion with the publisher Mo about the unheard-of edition of only two copies, the murder of Wei in broad daylight, the yellow silk underrobe embroidered with dragons wrapped around his waist inside the gown, and Mayor Pei’s complaining about somebody high above relentlessly pushing for the investigation to get to the very bottom …

But his train of thought was interrupted by loud, agitated knocks on the door.

Again it was Yang, who must have come running back, pushing open the door without waiting for Judge Dee to say ‘Come in.’

‘She’s dead, Master.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘The flower girl surnamed Zhang. She’s dead.’

‘Wasn’t she just at the temple a while ago, delivering that poem written by Xuanji?’

‘Yes, that’s her, but what the devil – two deaths in a single day,’ Yang said, still speaking incoherently, as he moved over from the doorway. Taking another deep breath, he managed to regain some composure and started narrating about the second death he had just encountered ‘in a single day.’

As it turned out, Yang could not help feeling curious about the flower girl’s surprise visit to the temple, carrying Xuanji’s poem, though he knew better than to discuss its implication in the company of Nameless when he delivered the letter from the flower girl.

After parting with Nameless, Yang walked out alone. It was quite dark outside the temple. There was no sign of the flower girl. Unfamiliar with the neighborhood, he had no idea about which direction she could have turned. The road appeared quite deserted. He remained standing under the night sky, looking left and right, with nothing but several will-o’-the-wisps floating eerily by the roadside.

His glance sweeping around the vicinity of the temple one more time, he was ready to head back when he heard a dog beginning to bark violently in the distance, even though it somehow seemed not to be too far away.