The storehouse smelled of old apples, clean straw, and the sharp vinegar Qinghe had used on the tables. She stood in the center of it with a length of chalk and considered the bare walls.
“Three work surfaces,” she said. “And enough space between them that a tired hand cannot set the wrong bottle down.”
Ning held the inventory slate. “The shelves can wait. We have patients on the list already.”
“Then the shelves can wait.” Qinghe drew a line on the floorboards. She marked the first bench for ordinary medicine, the second for Yan’s private experiments, and the third for sealed samples that had not been tested. Each label was written on a separate board and tied at eye level. “If we have to explain the arrangement every hour, the arrangement is wrong.”
Yan arrived carrying two planks under one arm and a crock of clean water in his other hand. He set the water down where Qinghe pointed. “The boards came from the shed. Jori said they were scraps, but Toma asked us to check before cutting them.”
“Good,” Qinghe said. “I’ll choose the height.”
Yan propped the boards against the wall and ran his thumb over their edges. “This one is straight. The other has a twist.”
