A gentle river breeze whispered through the willow boughs, rocking the hemp hammock in slow, lazy swings.
Six hours after his sweet potato snack, the late-day sun filtered through the green canopy of Stone-Willow Lane, painting dappled patterns of gold across Kaelen Vance’s chest. Beneath his swinging bed, the stone flue of the courtyard’s subterranean Fire-Vein radiated a steady, soothing warmth that kept the autumn chill completely at bay.
Kaelen lay propped against two oversized cotton pillows, his legs crossed at the ankles.
In his hands, he held the worn leather cover of his mother Claire Vance’s notebook. Tucked neatly between its yellowed pages rested Book 4 of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride, opened to the thrilling scene where the bandit chief bribed a border magistrate with dried plums.
On a low cedar stool within easy reach, a clay flagon of roasted jasmine-barley tea sat over a mild spirit burner. A wooden plate piled high with peeled persimmon slices rested beside it, freshly dusted with powdered sugar.
Most cultivators spend thirty years climbing freezing mountain peaks in search of enlightenment, Kaelen thought, reaching for a persimmon slice. All it takes is a well-strung hemp hammock and a reliable draft of cellar heat.
