The amber beam of the horn lantern began to flicker erratically, its wick sputtering in a sudden, cold draft that seemed to rise not from the central sounding well, but from the floorboards beneath the desks. As the light wavered, casting elongated, dancing shadows against the vaulted ceiling, the silence of the writing hall took on an active, choking thickness. A pressure so intense that the ears throbbed with the rhythm of phantom tides.
Qiao Ming turned his head toward Desk One. His breath hitched in his throat. His bare feet froze against the marble floor flags.
Seated upon the whale-bone bench of Desk One was a man. He wore an oilskin coat stained with the orange-red dust of hematite and dried salt. His hair was bound in a rough topknot with a bone needle-point arrow. His bare feet were planted firmly on the floor. His head was bowed over the thick parchment roll, his right hand gripping an iron-tipped metal pen, carving characters into the leaf with clockwork, unceasing rhythm.
Qiao Ming took half a step backward, his eyes widening in horror. “Yan Zhiqiu... Do you see him?”
Yan Zhiqiu raised her lantern, her glasses catching the dim light. Her knuckles tightened around the brass frame of her magnifying lens. “There is no one there, Qiao Ming. The desk is empty. The thick parchment roll is rolled and sealed in its shark-skin case.”
