Young scholars seeking fame and success know that gaining the favor and recommendation of the powerful is a shortcut to advancement. In Chang’an, these ambitious and self-assured young literati all hope to shine or even make a name for themselves at such elegant gatherings of high society. Thus, they are the most numerous and the most enthusiastic attendees, each wearing an expectant yet reserved smile.

Where Henry Bolton stood, the area was quickly “cleared out.” Whether acquaintances or strangers, the young gentlemen all distanced themselves from him, many casting looks of disdain. With trouble befalling the Zhang family, some showed contempt, while others feared getting involved—each for their own reasons.

Thus, a strange scene formed on the outskirts of the gathering: with Henry Bolton as the dividing line, groups of young scholars clustered to his left, while to his right stood a bevy of charming ladies, mostly the daughters and maids of Chang’an’s official families.

Yet Henry Bolton remained calm and composed, unmoved by it all.

Not yet twenty, dressed in a blue long robe with a jade belt at his waist, his face handsome as carved jade, he stood tall against the wind, his robes fluttering, exuding both elegance and vigor. Some young maidens, unaware of Henry Bolton’s background, occasionally cast him bold and flirtatious glances.

Glancing around, Henry Bolton turned his slightly excited gaze toward William King Wang Mojie. This master of Tang literature, later known as the “Poet Buddha” for his many talents, wore a plain black robe, his features clear and bright, thick brows slanting into his temples, a long beard beneath his chin. Though middle-aged, he showed no sign of age, his spirit vibrant and radiant.

William King sat cross-legged, chatting animatedly with the Prince’s Right Aide Quentin Wade at his side. Suddenly, he sensed an eager gaze from the edge of the crowd, looked up, and saw a tall, handsome youth smiling at him, eyes bright with intelligence. He returned the look with a gentle smile.

Henry Bolton smiled as well, then withdrew his gaze.

A commotion arose as three young scholars, just past twenty, strode in side by side, heads held high. All were tall and handsome, outstanding among their peers. Though their faces wore gentle smiles, their innate pride and reserve were impossible to conceal.

They were none other than Harold Crane, Frederick Shaw, and Ethan Brooks, renowned representatives of Chang’an’s young literati, known as the “Three Talents of Chang’an.”

Of course, among the three, Harold Crane was the implicit leader. His poetry, prose, calligraphy, and painting were well known, and he was the favored disciple of the current literary leader, William King.

The three parted the crowd, first bowing respectfully to familiar elders and seniors, then leisurely taking their seats. Among the younger generation, only these three were qualified to sit.

Countless envious and admiring eyes fell upon them. Harold Crane remained calm and composed, sitting cross-legged without a ripple of emotion; but Frederick Shaw and Ethan Brooks, still young and spirited, looked around with a hint of self-satisfaction on their faces.

Talented and from noble families, their futures were boundless. Among the silent admiration of their peers, it was only natural for these young men to feel a bit proud and elated.

Soon, as melodious music drifted from Tingtao Pavilion on the south bank of Qujiang Pool, two rows of beautiful girls in splendid dresses, beaded curtains, and jade ornaments appeared in formation. Some carried jade trays, others held sachets or scattered flowers, their movements accompanied by the crisp, tinkling sound of gold and silver jewelry.

Between the two lines of gorgeously dressed girls, a noblewoman in heavy makeup walked forward at a measured pace. She wore a light blue silk narrow-sleeved, low-cut top, a white silk shawl draped over her shoulders, and a red skirt embroidered with golden flowers, beneath which peeped red embroidered shoes. As she walked, her long sleeves fluttered gracefully, exuding an air of nobility.

This was the famous Mrs. Grant. Henry Bolton gazed at her, secretly shaking his head: Such pomp and circumstance—surely even an imperial consort’s procession would be no grander?

When Mrs. Grant approached, all the guests bowed together and greeted, “Madam!”

Though she owed her rise to her family connections, this did nothing to diminish the subtle aura of authority and radiance on Mrs. Grant’s charming face. She smiled reservedly and waved her sleeve, saying in a clear voice, “Please, everyone, be at ease and take your seats.”

At this moment, the musicians who had followed her also sat in a circle to one side and began to play. Amid the melodious palace music, Mrs. Grant, still seated in the place of honor, looked around at the guests, raised her cup with a smile, and said, “Today, I am your host, inviting all you talented gentlemen to gather here in the Hibiscus Garden by Qujiang Pool. Let us drink and sing to our hearts’ content—no one leaves until we are all thoroughly delighted! Please, drink!”

Everyone smiled and raised their cups in salute, “Madam, please drink!”

Mrs. Grant smiled gracefully, raising her cup and drinking elegantly. The guests followed suit, covering their sleeves and draining their cups in turn.

The maids quickly presented silk handkerchiefs on jade trays. Mrs. Grant set down her cup, picked up a handkerchief with two slender, fair fingers, and carefully dabbed the corner of her mouth. Then, looking at the guests, she smiled again and said, “On such a beautiful day, a contest of wine and poetry is the true delight. Though I am unworthy, I would like to propose a topic. I invite all you talented gentlemen to compose poems and essays, so that today’s grand gathering may be remembered as a fine story.”

At this, Mrs. Grant paused in thought, then turned to look at a row of weeping willows along the bank of Qujiang Pool, and smiled, “How about taking the willows by the river as our theme?”