The thirty-fourth day brought a strange, unnatural calm to the underground ravine.
The freezing sleet had stopped, replaced by a dense, stale blanket of white sulfur fog that hung motionless between the dark rock cliff faces. The air in the workshop was cold and dry. It smelled faintly of old paper, cold hearth ash, and the sweet, lingering herbal notes of dried mint.
Old Monster Gui was propped upright against his straw blade collar.
His eyes were sunken, the skin around his eye sockets dark purple. But his pupils were steady. He had refused his morning porridge, accepting only small sips of warm water infused with two drops of viper venom to keep his throat pipe clear.
On the wooden table beside his cot, Pei Jing had laid out the unrolled sheepskin map, weighed down at the four corners with smooth dark rock pebbles.
“The map shows the route,” Gui said, his voice a dry, rasping whisper that needed Pei Jing to lean close to hear. “Twelve li through the underground water halls. But the map can’t tell you how to harvest the milk. If you walk into that cave with an ordinary iron ladle or a copper pot, you’ll destroy five hundred years of heaven’s work in three breaths.”
