The sign outside Starlight Medicine Hall had split down the middle. Rain had washed most of the paint off the letters.
A little oil lamp burned among empty herb drawers. Through the cedar boards overhead came the low groans of Gu’s son, still fighting a fever. Twelve-year-old Xiao Ling slept by the cold hearth under a horsehair blanket. Soot smudged one cheek.
Old Apothecary Gu sat behind the pine counter, grinding dried willow bark. His glasses slipped on his nose with every turn of the pestle. A twist of copper wire held them together.
His ledger lay open.
Golden Sun debt, 312 low-grade stones. Eighty due at noon tomorrow. If unpaid, the guild takes the lease and the family.
A tear fell onto the pestle. He had two silver coins, five handfuls of bitter root, and a rusty bone saw. At noon they’d come for Xiao Ling.
The back latch lifted. A tall man in a coarse hemp coat stood three paces from the counter. A bamboo hat cast his face into shadow. Gu reached into a drawer and caught the handle of the saw.
“Leave it, Apothecary Gu.” The man’s voice sounded like grit falling down iron. “I’m here to talk.”
