Honeysuckle opened the paper.
Ah Lai had written:
Clear Rain commented: “Is this not more your affair than mine, sister? After all, I hardly saw the boy when I was there.”
“And I,” Honeysuckle replied, turning the paper over, “am not, it seems, the object of this exceedingly erudite poem, for it is addressed to the girl Winter Cherry, whom I last saw wearing her short hair without particular distinction. Listen to this.”
She read:
Clear Rain sniffed: “A gardener’s catalogue of hum-drum events, bereft of unexpected charm.”
Honeysuckle replied: “Apart from the purely instructive part, it seems promising. From what I know of him, that young man will have some difficulty in living up to his professions. From what I know of him, his backwardness in deeds may prove hard to forgive, when he writes words like these. But he is a pleasant youth, and no doubt practice will narrow down the space betwixt promise and performance.”
“You ought to know,” Clear Rain answered, so that Honeysuckle threw the nearest thing at her. “I suppose that you want to experience again the delights of stealing a man.”
Honeysuckle said: “She lost nothing which time cannot replace. Yes: I think you and I might go to Ma Wei. It will be a change from this, whatever Mother Feng may think.”
They set to planning how they might have their journey at another’s expense, and finally sent the maid Cinnamon with a letter to the Palace.
When Cinnamon came back with her answer, she told Clear Rain: “I had difficulty in finding An Ching-hsu, but one of his servants says that his master will call on you as soon as he can get away from the girls he is with now.”
Honeysuckle laughed: “So we break our rule and receive men from the very beds of other girls! Well, let us hope that it will be worth it. As the son of An Lu-shan, he should be able to arrange our visit to the farm. We shall see.”
Clear Rain said: “I hear that this An Ching-hsu is not in the least like his father. That is all to the good, for tall Northerners are apt to be exhausting.”
They spent the next hour or so preparing for the visit of An Ching-hsu. Cinnamon was sent to buy wine. No one took any notice of Mother Feng’s protests about taking cast-offs from the house next door.
When, finally, An Ching-hsu came, he turned out to be a short, merry man with fat enough to keep out the winter and energy enough to keep warm. He was pleased at the invitation, and asked how the two girls had heard of him.
Honeysuckle said: “It is difficult not to hear of you. Now that the extravagance of the late Emperor and his mistress are no longer discussed at every street corner, we poor women have time to open our ears to other, more important things. Is it true that you knew Yang Kuei-fei?”
An Ching-hsu smiled, and although his smile seemed to be one of pleasure at the question, both girls sensed more behind it. He said: “My father, An Lu-shan, knew her, nearly ten years ago. He hated her cousin, Yang Kuo-chung, but I think he still loved her. He is sad that his action led to her death.”
Clear Rain said: “This is a depressing subject to speak of on a visit. I will pour the wine.”
Honeysuckle agreed: “It would be better to forget sorrow in the kindly essence of the earth. Sister, sing us one of your songs when you have served the wine.”