As the first long, summer cicadas chirped from the 300-year-old locust tree at the General's Mansion, the front courtyard gatehouse was thronged with book lovers eager to catch the news. The old housekeeper, leaning on a glistening jujube wood cane, watched the servants sweating profusely as they carried piles of thread-bound books into the storeroom. His brow furrowed so hard it could have killed a passing mosquito: "Slow down! You young boys, don't you see how the corners of the books are buckled? This is..."
"Grandpa Housekeeper!" Chuntao scurried out from the crowd like a nimble swallow, the silver ornaments on her temples jingling as she held up a book with a crooked cabbage on the cover. "It's the young lady's 'Three Hundred Crooked Poems'! The bookshop owner said it started printing at noon yesterday and sold out by noon. Even the old beggar under the West City Bridge used the money he begged to buy a copy to use as a coffin board!"
The old housekeeper took the book, his fingertips tracing the four flamboyantly written characters on the cover: "陈微婉着." The handwriting was as sloppy as windblown dogtail grass, yet it exuded an unrestrained energy. He tremblingly flipped open the title page. The first poem was the famous poem, "Auntie's abacus is clever, but she's calculated everything and the family fortune is gone." Next to it was a simple sketch—in it, an old woman with a bun crouched over a dark abacus, red smoke billowing from her nostrils, a symbol of anger. It looked like one of those New Year pictures sold on the street—cheesy yet incredibly vivid.
"Alas..." The old housekeeper sighed, his cloudy old eyes looking at the portrait of the general in the main hall, remembering that when the general was alive, the eldest daughter could only recite the "Lessons for Women" with difficulty, and her eyes would turn red at the slightest coaxing from Liu. Now she can actually publish a book? "General, if you could see what the eldest daughter looks like now..."
As she was sighing with emotion, Shen Weiwan, dressed in a moon-white gauze dress, approached, waving a bamboo fan painted with "Stir-fried Pork and Cabbage." The pork belly on the fan was so shiny it seemed to drip with oil. Behind her came Xiao Yu, carrying a stack of books. His Highness the Seventh Prince wasn't wearing a dragon robe today; his moon-white casual clothes made him look like a pine or bamboo. His sleeve pockets were bulging, and I wondered what was stuffed inside.
"What are you sighing about here, Grandpa Butler?" Shen Weiwan raised her eyebrows and took a sharp look at the poetry collection in his hand. "Oh! Have you started reading my masterpiece? Are you shocked by my talent?"
The old butler slammed the book down on the table, his goatee sticking out. "Miss! Your poem...how could you possibly depict Liu as a tigress with her hands on her hips? And this doggerel, it doesn't even rhyme. How can it be considered serious writing?"
Xiao Yu stifled a laugh and pulled out an oil-paper bag from his sleeve pocket. "Old housekeeper, try these candied haws. Uncle Wang said they're stained with your eldest daughter's poetic spirit, so they're selling for an extra two cents a bunch now."
Chen Weiwan quickly snatched the candied haws and bit off a hawthorn covered in a shiny sugar shell. She said vaguely, "Grandpa Housekeeper, this is called 'folk art'! Look—" She pointed out the window, where several children with pigtails were chasing each other and singing:
"The old housekeeper, with a proud heart,
Miss, you really know how to do it.
A crooked poem makes me laugh out loud,
"Liu's brain is so angry that it's bent!"
The old housekeeper was both angry and amused when he heard this. Suddenly, he remembered something and pulled out a crumpled piece of mulberry paper from his bosom. "My dear lady, this is the account book sent by Wenbaozhai in the west of the city. Your poetry collection...sold for three thousand taels of silver!"
"Three thousand taels?!" Shen Weiwan's eyes lit up like a lamp, "How many roast ducks can I buy from Quanjude?"
Xiao Yu helplessly used a handkerchief to wipe the sugar residue from the corners of her mouth: "Enough for you to eat from here to the gate of the palace, different every day."
As he was speaking, the doorman came stumbling over, his hat askew. "My Lady! Your Highness the Seventh Prince! This is terrible! Someone's selling a pirated copy of 'Three Hundred Perverted Poems' on Bookshop Street, and they've drawn you as...as Zhu Bajie!"
"He's rebelling!" Shen Weiwan stood up with a bang, clapping her folding fan in her palm. "Let's go! Let's take a look!"
When the group arrived at Bookshop Street, it was the busiest time of the afternoon. A fat, bloated man stood behind a bookstall, spit flying, shouting, "Look, look, look! Miss Shen's latest masterpiece, 'Three Hundred Pigs' of Crooked Poems!' Only five cents, you won't be cheated!" The book cover on the stall featured a pig with big ears and a long nose, clutching a tattered fan, with the title scribbled crookedly beside it.
"Stop!" Shen Weiwan stood still with her hands on her hips, her skirt lifted by the summer breeze. "Your pirated book is not only infringing on my rights, but also vilifies me!"
The fat man glanced at her with disdain on his face: "Are you Shen Weiwan? You look just like that. Compared to the pig spirit I drew, you're still two pounds fatter!"
Xiao Yu took a step forward, his white uniform gilded by the sunlight, but his eyes were as cold as ice in December. "Do you know who I am?"
The fat man looked him up and down. Seeing that he was dressed elegantly but without any expensive jewelry, he curled his lips and said, "Who are you? You are dressed so well. Are you her lover?"
"Pah!" The guard beside him suddenly threw out a glittering golden military token, "Open your eyes! This is His Royal Highness the Seventh Prince!"
The fat man's face instantly collapsed, and he knelt down with a loud thud, his forehead banging against the bluestone slab: "Your Highness... Your Highness, spare my life! I have been blinded by greed and have failed to recognize the true emperor..."
Chen Weiwan squatted down, pinched the fat man's double chin and shook it from side to side: "Can my poems be pirated casually? How about this, you help me shout "Genuine poetry collection, honest to children and adults" for three days, and then draw ten beautiful portraits of me and post them at the door of the bookstore, and then this matter will be forgotten."
The fat man kowtowed repeatedly as if he had been pardoned. From then on, Shufang Street had a new wonder: a fat bookseller holding a sign that read "Authentic and perverted poetry, reject pig spirits," singing a newly composed jingle as he walked:
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