The warmth of New Year's Eve had barely faded when the bitter winds of the first lunar month returned with a vengeance. Heavy snow swept through the Forbidden City, burying heaven and earth beneath a vast white shroud. Palace walls and gilded halls wore layers of silver—solemn, magnificent, and bone-chillingly cold.
In such weather, every palace shut its doors tight and burned charcoal without restraint. But some duties could not stop for snow.
At Consort Xian's residence, a young eunuch newly transferred there—his name was Shuangxi—had been assigned to dust the shelves of precious ornaments. He was still young, his hands unsteady even on warm days. With the cold numbing his fingers, disaster struck. His sleeve brushed a small celadon vase—not particularly valuable, but dearly loved by Consort Xian.
Crash.
The crisp sound of porcelain shattering rang through the quiet hall.
Consort Xian, who had been seated on the warm kang copying sutras to calm her mind, looked up at once. Her brows drew together. She had already been in a foul mood over troubles in her natal family, and the sudden noise was like oil poured onto a flame.
The supervising matron, eager to show her strictness, didn't bother to ask for details. She scolded Shuangxi harshly, then ordered him to strip off his outer coat and kneel in the snowy courtyard.
"You'll stay there until you truly know your fault!"
Shuangxi went pale, tears streaming as he begged for mercy. The matron showed none. He was dragged outside and forced to kneel in ankle-deep snow, wearing only thin clothes. The wind cut like knives. In less than a quarter hour, his lips turned purple, his whole body shaking like a leaf in autumn. His vision began to blur.
The news reached the Office of Imperial Provisions quietly.
A young palace maid from Shuangxi's hometown, seizing the chance while fetching hot water, rushed to Qing Sweet. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
"Director Qing—please… please save Shuangxi! He's freezing to death. Consort Xian is furious—no one dares to speak up…"
Qing Sweet set down her brush, her brow creasing.
Consort Xian was upright and strict, a woman who valued rules above all. If Qing Sweet barged in to plead, she might not save Shuangxi at all—she might even make things worse, provoking the Consort's pride.
After a moment of thought, Qing Sweet's gaze fell on the charcoal allocation records for Consort Xian's palace lying beside her. An idea formed.
She summoned the eunuch assigned to deliver vegetables to Consort Xian that day.
"The weather is bitter," she said calmly. "Go to the storeroom and draw one extra brazier of fine silver-bone charcoal. Then take a pot of freshly boiled red-date ginger tea from me. Deliver both together."
The eunuch hesitated. "Director… Consort Xian's charcoal quota is already full. Sending extra—won't that be against regulations?"
"It's fine." Qing Sweet quickly wrote a few lines on plain paper and handed it to him."When you deliver them, present this note to the head matron. Say this: The Office of Imperial Provisions, mindful of winter hardships and constant duty, respectfully offers charcoal to warm the hall and tea to warm the body. We ask Her Ladyship to distribute them at her discretion to those on duty, as a small token of care."
The eunuch obeyed.
Battling the snow, he arrived at Consort Xian's palace with the heavy brazier and the insulated pot of tea. The matron was surprised but took the items inside to report.
Consort Xian was already watching Shuangxi kneeling outside the window, swaying on the edge of collapse. Regret had begun to creep into her heart—the boy was honest, not malicious. But words once spoken could not be easily withdrawn; the punishment had already been carried out.
Then she read the note.
The handwriting was neat, graceful yet firm:
The cold bites deep, snow and wind pierce the bone.A brazier of silver charcoal—to drive away the chill.A pot of ginger tea—to warm body and heart.Your Ladyship's health is paramount, yet the labor of servants deserves compassion.May the fire warm the hall—and warm hearts.May the tea warm the body—and soothe hardship.—Qing Sweet, Office of Imperial Provisions.
There was not a single word pleading for Shuangxi.
And yet every line spoke of mercy, gently praising the Consort's benevolence, turning an "extra delivery" into an act of official care. It offered Consort Xian a perfect step down—graceful, reasonable, dignified.
She was silent for a long moment.
Finally, she sighed softly. "Enough. The cold truly is too severe. He's been punished. Let him come in—give him a bowl of hot ginger tea and dry clothes. And light the charcoal. The hall has felt colder today."
The matron hurried out. Shuangxi, barely conscious, was dragged inside and forced to drink a steaming bowl of ginger tea, thick with spicy heat and red-date sweetness. Warmth surged through his frozen limbs. Color slowly returned to his face as tears poured down—fear, relief, gratitude all tangled together.
Consort Xian ordered the tea shared with other servants who had been running errands in the snow. The silver-bone charcoal burned bright orange in its bronze brazier, driving away the hall's chill—and quietly melting something harder and colder than winter air.
Not just the room grew warm.
So did human hearts.
Later, Consort Xian remarked to her trusted matron, almost thoughtfully,"Director Qing… truly understands people."
The words soon reached Qing Sweet.
She knew then that once again, she had found a narrow, gentle path—threading warmth through the frozen cracks of palace rules and harsh punishments.