In the fourth watch of the night, when the peat fire had burned down to a thick, glowing cake of scarlet coals, Qiao Ming prepared to change the dressings on her wounded forearm.
The room was warm, the air dry and fragrant with the pine resin that still clung to the stone walls of the kiln. Yan Zhiqiu lay deeply asleep, exhausted by the emotional storm of her delirium, her face peaceful under the dim, red light of the embers.
Qiao Ming brought a fresh bowl of warm well water, clean linen strips, and a jar of his mutton-animal fat salve to the bedside.
He folded back the yak wool blanket from her left arm and carefully loosened the linen bandage. The swelling had visibly shrank. The willow bark decoction had worked its ancient magic, cooling the inflamed tissue and drawing out the septic heat. The jagged cut along her forearm was no longer weeping yellow fluid, but was beginning to knit at the margins, covered by a healthy, semi-clear crust of drying star-fire.
He cleaned the skin around the wound with a soft linen cloth. Then, the damp fabric wiped away a layer of dried salt and soot near the crook of her elbow, exposing markings that made Qiao Ming pause in his work.
