Sera tapped the edge of the charcoal parchment, letting the midnight breeze rustle its frayed edges.
Twenty-six hours of deep sleep and warm baths later, the parchment lay pinned beneath three river stones on the breakfast table.
Morning fog drifted over the cedar railing, carrying the savory smell of salted millet porridge and steamed turnip buns.
Barnaby Holt set down a clay teapot with a hollow clatter, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
“Eat before it gets cold,” Barnaby grunted, nudging a bowl toward Kaelen. “The ginger in the broth will soothe your spleen meridian.”
Kaelen took his wooden spoon and stirred the thick porridge.
Beside him, Mina sat cross-legged on the cedar bench, blowing gently on her bowl. A thin wisp of frost danced across the surface of her spoon, cooling the broth in seconds.
“Mina,” Kaelen said mildly, not looking up. “No internal cooling at the table. If you freeze the pickled mustard greens again, you are eating dry rice.”
