The wind in Yongxiang is the one in the palace who knows how to adapt to the wind.
In the summer, it muffled, covering every crack in the mottled palace wall; in autumn, it changed its face, sobbing along the long and narrow lanes, rolling up the yellow leaves on the ground, and taking away the last bit of warmth. The wind was restrained when it passed through the embroidered houses of Zhumen, but when it came to my abandoned courtyard in the corner of the cold palace, it became unscrupulous and made the two rotten wooden doors clang.
I gathered up the half-old quilted jacket I was wearing. The cuffs were worn white, revealing the dusty cotton wool inside. This outfit was issued to "criminals" by the Ministry of Internal Affairs as a routine last winter, so now that they are wearing it, it suits the occasion.
The small clay stove in the corner of the courtyard was one I exchanged for my last gilded silver hairpin with Fu'an, the old eunuch who was in charge of cleaning at Xihuamen. Charcoal is low-quality firewood, smokey and choking, but it's better than nothing. There was a pottery urn sitting on the stove, which originally existed in the yard. There was a small opening missing, so I made a thin paste with mud and it was barely usable.
