The cold wind, laden with moisture from the Bohai Sea, swept through the crooked archway of Qili Lane. Chen Qingwu crouched in the back courtyard of the pawnshop, packing peachwood shavings mixed with cinnabar into cracks in the blue bricks. The sixteen-year-old boy's fingertips were covered in chilblains, yet he carefully traced the remnants of a talisman along the cracks. It was homework his master had assigned before staggering out in a drunken stupor.
