The fifth watch brought the deepest stillness to the deep pit, when even the distant underground channels ceased their groaning, and the forty leagues of overhead ocean hung suspended in the perfect balance of the turn.
In Entry hall 003, the peat fire had settled into a silent mound of glowing vermilion embers, streaming a dry, steady heat that kept the room at a comfortable twelve degrees. The smoke had fully cleared through the scrubbed chimney pipes, leaving behind only the pleasant, earthy aroma of toasted peat and the clean stone smell of warm soapstone.
Qiao Ming sat upon his driftwood stool, his bare feet resting flat upon the warm hearth apron.
Between his knees, he held a block of pale pearwood, four inches wide and a foot long, which he had salvaged two seasons ago from a stranded drift-spar in the Great Row of pillars. In his right hand, he held his small draw-knife, its curved blade of folded carbon steel sharpened to a razor edge on his black slate whetstone.
With slow, rhythmic strokes, he drew the blade toward himself.
Shhhk. Shhhk.
Fine, semi-clear curls of wood peeled away from the block, falling like pale ribbons onto the floor flags between his feet. He was shaping a spoon.
