At this moment, the maids moved silently, passing around tea, fruits, and vegetables. Amidst the colorful petals, a lady among the flowering trees casually remarked, “No more, no more, I’ve indulged too much in the scenery today and eaten too much—I’m really stuffed... Ah, speaking of Li Yi’an’s poetry, I actually forgot that line she always boasts about—‘Thinner than the yellow flowers.’”

“Ah, nowadays girls all consider thinness beautiful. I had no self-control today; when I get home, I’m afraid my mother will scold me for days and not let me eat... I’m doomed. Henry Brooks, why are you drooling at Miss Harper? How indecent, wipe your mouth quickly.”

A scholar present looked displeased: “Shh, Miss Harper is thinking, keep your voices down.”

Just then, the light in the sky seemed to shift, suddenly brightening and dimming. But the darkness lasted less than a quarter of a second, so everyone just looked around in confusion, finding nothing unusual...

The laughter continued, and a lady’s boyfriend responded with infatuation, “Exactly! If Miss Harper composes a poem that spreads across the land, we who shared this moment will surely be remembered as well... Actually, I prefer Miss Harper’s figure—this is what you call ‘gracefully plump.’”

“Go on,” the man’s girlfriend scolded playfully, not angry at all, “Eating from your own bowl while eyeing the pot. Miss Harper is like a celestial being—how could you ever be a match for her...”

The woman’s words cut off abruptly as she glanced at Henry Brooks, her expression seeming to say: Henry Brooks is even less of a match.

The fanboy’s words drew wild nods from the men present; all of them gazed at the pensive Miss Harper with adoring, idolizing eyes, as if modern people were looking up to Qiong Yao, the romance novelist.

In the Song Dynasty, there were no romance novels, no idol dramas—but the lyricists of the Song were the equivalent of today’s idol drama stars.

In this era, those who became famous for their lyrics were met with fervent adoration.

In the silent anticipation, a young scholar snapped open his fan with a flourish and suggested elegantly, “With wine and tea, and a beauty at one’s knee... if we add a bit of music, it would be even more refined. I’ll play the qin to help Miss Harper think.”

Everyone responded enthusiastically: “Robes fluttering in the wind, peach petals everywhere, sitting alone in a sea of flowers playing the qin, with a beauty reciting poetry and scholars drinking freely—what an elegant affair! Quick, bring the qin, Brother Huang, play us a ‘Moon Over the West River.’”

Just then, a lively smile blossomed on Grace Harper’s expressive face: “Wait, I’ve got it—‘On the river, pale cherry blossoms in spring...’”

The chubby Henry Brooks had only heard the first line before he shouted loudly, “What a poem! What a poem!”

Grace Harper’s expression shifted instantly from contemplation to anger as she roared at Henry Brooks, “I’ve only said one line, why are you interrupting me?”

But her anger, set on such a lively, dynamic, youthful, and sunny face, didn’t seem angry at all; instead, it added a touch of charming playfulness. Henry Brooks immediately felt rewarded and smugly said, “Even one line is wonderful, so beautiful.”

Too much! Even flattery shouldn’t go this far... hogging all the attention. So, a male companion nearby immediately snapped, “Little Henry, shut up and stay put, wait until she’s finished before you cheer, alright?”

Amid the united front of the men, Henry Brooks grinned sheepishly and scratched his head: “I just couldn’t help myself. Miss Harper, please continue... Would you like some tea to moisten your throat first? The scenery is so picturesque... Oh, if you don’t want tea, how about some wine? Grape wine from the Hu merchants? Suzhou Tusu wine? Hangzhou lychees? ...Alright, I’ll just wait over here and not disturb you... Really don’t want any? If you don’t, just say so, I thought you might.”

Under Henry Brooks’s persistent pestering and the jealous gazes of the other men, the satisfied young master finally cheerfully picked up a cup of fruit wine and trotted over to Grace Harper, offering the cup attentively. Grace Harper didn’t take the cup; instead, she leaned in next to Henry Brooks’s hand and drained the wine in one sip. Henry Brooks grinned from ear to ear, then whipped out a handkerchief and said considerately, “There’s wine on your lips, let me wipe it for you.”

This action made Grace Harper feel he’d gone too far, and she glared fiercely at Henry Brooks.

That glare made Henry Brooks go weak on one side, but he didn’t feel the slightest bit of reproach in everyone’s eyes—only jealousy. He cheerfully put away his handkerchief, smugly waved it at the crowd, and then, under Grace Harper’s glare, quickly retreated to the corner.

Grace Harper took a breath and continued reciting her poem: “Hmm, ‘On the river, pale cherry blossoms in spring, stirring up so much sorrow. Half a pole of setting sun, two lines of new wild geese, a lone leaf and a small boat.

Reluctant to part with spring, always fearing you’ll leave first, only stopping when drunk. Tonight in my eyes, tomorrow in my heart, the day after...’”

When Grace Harper reached the last line, she paused and curiously asked, “What’s that sound, so mournful and piercing?”

Henry Brooks shouted loudly, “What a poem! What a poem!”

Grace Harper stood up angrily: “The last line isn’t poetry, it’s a question—I’m asking you!”

Henry Brooks immediately replied, “A question... Ah, what a question! What a question!”

With a “pfft,” everyone present burst out laughing, doubling over and rolling on the ground.