The midday light never reached Entry hall 003, but the turn of the six-hour tide was marked by the subtle lightening of the shadows along the upper ceiling chimney pipes.
Qiao Ming brought a fresh basin of boiled water drops water, a bundle of clean linen bandages, and his horn pot of sulfur-animal fat salve to the edge of the glow-stone berth. He walked barefoot across the smooth soapstone flags. His soles were silent, moving with the quiet rhythm of a caretaker who knew that any abrupt motion could startle the fragile peace taking root in the chamber.
Yan Zhiqiu sat upright upon the green stone slab. Her stance was straight, her shoulders held with royal discipline despite the heavy, giant folds of the hemp tunic she wore. Her right hand rested casually, yet possessively, upon the clean surface of the Broken Slate resting beside her hip.
She watched him approach without reaching for a weapon. Her dark eyes, clear now that the fever had passed, tracked the movement of his broad, calloused hands as he arranged his instruments upon the low wooden stool.
“The linen must be changed,” Qiao Ming said, his voice deep and measured. “The sulfur has drawn the dark salt water from the margins. If we leave the dressing past noon, the dried serum will stick to the new skin.”
