The snow in the forty-first year of Qianlong came earlier than in previous years. Just past the hour of Chen, half a foot of snow had already piled up on the eaves of Yikun Palace. The wind swept snowflakes against the window lattice with a fine rustling sound, like someone gently scraping wood with a fingernail. Hailan sat at the pearwood table by the window, holding a purple-haired brush, its tip hovering above the plain paper, unable to fall. The candle flame on the table wavered in the cold wind blowing through the window, casting her shadow on the wall. The white hairs at her temples looked as if they were covered in frost. Three full pages of "Ruyi" had already been copied onto the paper, the ink dark in some places and pale in others: the darker strokes were written when she was concentrating
