The sky was just beginning to lighten, not yet at the crow of the rooster, but Ethan Brooks was already up. The thin bedding really couldn’t keep in the warmth, and besides, Ethan Brooks had developed the habit of rising early and sleeping late during his apprenticeship at the porcelain kiln. Ethan Brooks opened the door and stepped into the soft earth of the small courtyard. After taking a deep breath and stretching, he walked out of the yard. Turning his head, he saw a slender figure, bent over, carrying a wooden bucket of water in both hands, using her shoulder to push open her own courtyard gate. It was Jason Smith’s maid, who must have just returned from fetching water at the iron-locked well in Xinghua Lane.

Ethan Brooks withdrew his gaze and jogged through the streets and alleys toward the east side of the small town. Mud Bottle Alley was on the west side, and at the easternmost city gate, there was someone in charge of the comings and goings of merchants and travelers, as well as the night patrol. Usually, this person also collected and passed on letters sent from outside. What Ethan Brooks needed to do next was deliver those letters to the townsfolk, earning one copper coin per letter—a hard-won way to make money that he had managed to secure. He had already agreed with the person in charge that he would take over this business after the “Dragon Raises Its Head” festival on the second day of the second lunar month.

In Jason Smith’s words, it was a life destined for poverty; even if good fortune came to his door, Ethan Brooks couldn’t hold onto it. Jason Smith often said things that were obscure and hard to understand, probably lifted from books, and Ethan Brooks rarely understood them. For example, a few days ago, he was muttering about “the lingering chill of early spring killing the youth,” which Ethan Brooks didn’t understand at all. But as for how, after surviving the winter, there was a period in early spring that felt even colder, that was something the boy had experienced firsthand. Jason Smith said that was called a “cold snap in spring,” as fierce as a cavalry’s feigned retreat on the battlefield, and that many people would die at these critical junctures.

The small town wasn’t surrounded by city walls. In fact, not only were there no bandits or robbers, even petty thieves were rare. So, though it was called a city gate, it was really just a row of rickety old fences, barely enough to let people and carts pass through—this was considered the face of the town.

As Ethan Brooks jogged past Xinghua Lane, he saw quite a few women and children gathered around the iron-locked well, the well’s windlass creaking continuously.

After turning another street, Ethan Brooks heard the familiar sound of reading aloud coming from not far away. There was a village school there, funded by several of the town’s wealthy families. The teacher was from out of town. When Ethan Brooks was little, he often ran over to hide outside the window, squatting and listening in secretly. Although the teacher was very strict in class, he never scolded or stopped kids like Ethan Brooks who “snuck in to listen and learn.” Later, when Ethan Brooks became an apprentice at a dragon kiln outside town, he never went to the school again.

A bit further on, Ethan Brooks passed a stone archway. Because it was built with twelve stone pillars, the locals liked to call it the “Crab Archway.” As for its real name, Jason Smith and Brian Clark had very different opinions. Jason Smith swore that an old book called the County Gazetteer said this was the “Grand Academician’s Archway,” an imperial gift from the emperor to commemorate a great official’s civil and military achievements. Brian Clark, a country bumpkin like Ethan Brooks, said it was just the Crab Archway, and that’s what everyone had called it for hundreds of years—there was no reason to use some ridiculous name like “Grand Academician’s Archway.” Brian Clark even asked Jason Smith, “Just how big is a Grand Academician’s official hat? Is it bigger than the mouth of the iron-locked well?” The question made Jason Smith blush bright red.

At this moment, Ethan Brooks ran a circle around the twelve-legged archway. On each side were four large characters, the calligraphy strange and each different: “Take on responsibility unflinchingly,” “Let words be natural,” “Do not seek outside,” and “Spirit soars to the heavens.” According to Jason Smith, except for one set of four characters, the other three plaques had all been painted over or altered at some point. Ethan Brooks was always rather muddled about these things and had never thought deeply about them. Of course, even if the boy wanted to get to the bottom of it, it would be in vain—he didn’t even know what kind of book the County Gazetteer that Jason Smith always mentioned was.

Not far past the archway, he soon saw a lush old locust tree. Beneath it was a tree trunk, moved there by someone unknown, roughly chopped at both ends and propped up on two bluestone slabs, making a simple bench. Every summer, the townsfolk liked to cool off here. The wealthier families would have their elders fish out a basket of chilled melons and fruits from the well, and after the children had eaten and drunk their fill, they would band together to play and frolic in the shade.

Ethan Brooks was used to roaming the hills and waters. He ran to the area near the fence gate and stopped in front of a solitary yellow mud house, his heart steady and breath calm.

Few outsiders came to the town, and now that the official kiln—the town’s money tree—had closed, there was even less chance of seeing new faces. When Old Yao was alive, he once got drunk and told Ethan Brooks and Brian Clark and the other apprentices that they were in a one-of-a-kind business, making official kiln porcelain for the emperor and empress. No matter how rich or powerful other people were, if they dared to touch it, they’d be beheaded. That day, Old Yao was in especially high spirits.

Today, when Ethan Brooks looked outside the fence, he saw quite a few people waiting for the city gate to open—no fewer than seven or eight, men and women, young and old.

And they were all strangers. The local townsfolk rarely used the east gate, whether going to the kiln or working the fields. The reason was simple: the road from the east gate led to neither dragon kilns nor farmland.