The snow was still falling when Fan Sizhe finally finished pushing the millstone around for the 50th time. He was breathing hard, pain was everywhere, and he felt he couldn't possible straighten his back ever again. The sweat on his face evaporated and turned white as it met the cold air; it looked as if his entire body was smoking.
"Wipe it off and then change into dry clothes. Otherwise, you'll freeze." Haitang handed him a stack of neatly folded clothes.
Fan Sizhe shook his head bitterly and walked inside to change. A moment later he
came out and yelled, "There isn't even a place to wash—what do I do about the smell?"
Haitang glanced at him and laughed, "It's the middle of winter, the things your brother made haven't been shipped to Shangjing."
Fan Sizhe couldn't help but shake his head again and. "My brother sent me north… but not for you to torture me."
