The morning of the third day began not with the rising of a sun, but with the changing scent of the draft through the upper copper angled slats.
Qiao Ming knelt beside the salt-kiln, his bare soles resting flat upon the soapstone apron, his calloused hands stirring the morning ash with an iron poker. The fire had burned down to a compact, scarlet core of peat embers, streaming a dry, gentle warmth that kept the chill of seventy deep-water lengths from settling into the glow-stone bases. Beside him, the battered copper kettle was beginning to murmur, its small spout sending a thin, fragrant plume of steam toward the ceiling.
Across the hearth, Yan Zhiqiu sat upon her three-legged stool, combing her dark hair with a wide-toothed comb of polished whalebone that Qiao Ming had retrieved from the cedar chest.
Her movements were slow and deliberate. Her left arm, though still supported by a light linen sling, moved with far greater ease. The swelling had subsided fully, and the clean edge of the scar tissue was firm and dry beneath the boiled cloth. Yet as she drew the whalebone through the long, dark strands, a faint, acrid odor drifted from the fabric of her tattered indigo courier tunic hanging upon the drying rack three paces away.
