At the third quarter of the Xu hour, the night watchman's clapper echoed through the narrow alley from two streets away. The dull sound was like someone knocking on an empty coffin. Wind whistled through the woodshed in the Jiang family's back courtyard. A few roof tiles had collapsed under the snow a few days earlier, and moonlight streamed through the hole, falling squarely on the figure curled up in the corner.
Jiang Xingwan woke up.
The bitter taste still lingered in her mouth. Her tongue was numb at the root, and her throat felt as if it were stuffed with a wad of soaked cotton. She tried to move her fingers, but all she felt was a sharp, needle-like pain. The sleeping draught had not yet worn off.
The woodpile dug into her back. She remembered that she'd been embroidering a handkerchief. Her stepmother, Madam Wang, had said the year was nearly over and she should embroider more to sell. She had worked by lamplight for three days, then run out of red thread and gone to the main house to ask for more. Madam Wang had been unusually kind and handed her a bowl of sweet soup. “Look how thin you've gotten. Drink this.”
