Chapter 22
JINGYI
JingYi hadn’t expected Lord Wulfbane to insist on coming. Certainly not to take the reins himself, nor lift her onto the horse and swing up behind her as though he’d done it a thousand times. After securing her medicine chest to Duskwane’s saddle, they set off.
The ride was silent.
This wasn’t their first ride together, but it felt nothing like the journey from Niewberg to Blackwood-Verde.
She remembered the rhythm of his breathing then, the strength of his arms at her sides, the way he’d let her lean back in moments of fatigue.
How, just for a moment, she’d let herself believe she might find a place here. Not just in his keep, but beside him.
She should’ve known better.
Mist clung low along the path. The only sounds were a rook’s cry overhead and the steady rhythm of hooves.
She sat straight, careful not to lean back into his warmth.
His scent—spruce, leather, cold morning air—was sharper now, unfiltered by her lost suppressant.
The awareness of him prickled along her skin, a low, instinctual hum she must consciously silence.
He didn’t crowd her, only steadied her when Duskwane shifted abruptly. Even then, his hand withdrew at once.
Her throat tightened. She couldn’t forget what she’d overheard. Why did he ride with her, then? Courtesy? Control? Performance?
“Thank you,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “For what?”
“The tea. Last night.”
So, he’d found it. Was that what this was all about, then? He suspected she’d heard him.
“You drank it?” she asked.
“I did.” A pause. “I slept better than I had in weeks, and I woke up more energized than I could remember.”
She looked away. The trees, all gold and burnt sienna, blurred past. Of course he did. She’d brewed it precisely for the fatigue etched in his face, the tension in his shoulders, the shadow beneath his eyes.
“You made it yourself?” he asked.
Who else? The pert retort hovered on her tongue, but she swallowed it. “Yes.”
“What was in it?”
“Bitterroot, to dispel cold and dampness. Ground hawthorn to move stagnant blood. Ginseng, in small measure, because too much can overheat the heart. Dried orange peel, to soften the bitterness.”
He said nothing, so she went on despite herself. “I steeped them in a broth made of roasted date seeds and astragalus bark for circulation. Your eyes show a tinge—likely from a stagnant liver, worsened by sleeplessness. You grind your jaw, too. That can be nerves or digestive heat.”
Silence. Then his voice came—flat, almost defensive: “I have a stagnant liver?”
She looked over, startled, but there was no anger in his face. If anything, the faintest trace of amusement tugged at his mouth.
“Yes,” she admitted carefully, “according to the principles I was taught. It would explain your sleeplessness. The stiffness in your back. Even your . . . irritability.”
“Irritability,” he echoed.
She lowered her gaze. “It’s not a judgment. In traditional medicine, the liver governs circulation of blood and energy. It’s easily unsettled by tension. Especially in men of . . . strong temperament.”
Another pause. Then, with a huff that almost—almost—sounded like a laugh: “That would explain a few things.”
Her lips curved, just slightly, before she bowed her head again.
After a while, he asked, “How did you come to be a healer?”
JingYi’s hands adjusted on the saddle, a needless movement she hoped he wouldn’t notice. How much should she reveal? How much could she?
She decided to give him the truth, stripped of ornament.
“After my mother passed, I had no protector,” she said.
“No place. But there was one person left.” The memory was an ache she suppressed every day.
“Wu Mā. She took care of my mother and I during exile, cared for me when I was an infant. She brought me to the Royal Dispensary, where she worked. At first, I only cleaned tools and fetched water. But I listened and watched.”
“And time has proven you excel at medicine.”
She nodded.
“I had to earn my keep if I didn’t want them to starve me, or throw me outside the walls of the Imperial Palace,” she said.
To be useful was to be safe. “A skill with brewing potions, no matter how menial, is still more precious than washing floors or dusting tables. I had to learn from the bottom. In time, I rose to the post of a Physician’s Attendant. ”
“An Attendant?” he echoed. “Why not a Physician? Or even Royal Physician? You’re clearly capable.”
The question, so blunt and reasonable, caught her off guard. Of course he would ask. In his world, capability likely dictated rank.
“Because a woman is not permitted to hold the Physician’s rank,” she said, keeping her voice devoid of the resentment that still occasionally smouldered.
The rule was absolute, its injustice a dull, accepted ache.
He grunted—a sound of pure, unvarnished scorn for the law itself.
Silence fell again, broken only by Duskwane’s steady stride and the creak of leather. Then his voice came quieter, more measured. “Why was your mother exiled? And—” He paused for a long moment. “How did she pass?”
Her shoulders stiffened. The questions were direct, yet her throat closed around the answer—an old, hardened truth she had never spoken aloud. He’d asked for a story, but what lived inside her was an ember—buried for years, cool on the surface. One breath of air and it would burn them both.
But she couldn’t lie, especially not now, when he already suspected she’d conspired with her father.
“She was executed.” The words fell evenly into the space between them, though her voice had gone hoarse. “The court accused her of infidelity. My father gave the order.”
She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Instead, she focused on the worn leather of the reins, on the steady pulse of the horse beneath them. She only heard the small hitch of his breath behind her.
“I was six,” she continued, the memory arriving red and hot inside her mind. “Old enough to understand what it meant, but not old enough to defend her.”
He said nothing. The world seemed to hold its breath. She thought perhaps he wouldn’t respond at all—that her history was too bleak, too sharp to touch, that it was better to pretend it never happened at all than to add yet another blemish to her blotchy self.
Then, his voice came, low and rough at the edges. “Your mother was executed. So was my father.”
Quieter still, he added, “We have more in common than I realized.”
By the time they reached the village, the mist had thinned to fuzzy shreds, trailing across rooftops.
Chimney smoke mingled with the damp air.
JingYi dismounted slowly, legs stiff from the ride.
The soreness she hid—there was nothing to gain in letting anyone see it—but she was beginning to understand why riding sidesaddle over uneven ground had been considered a form of torture.
A few villagers looked up as they passed. Axel waved before being tugged back by his sister. JingYi returned the gesture anyway. Small things, but they eased the weight in her chest.
“Princess.”
The gruff voice came from the far side of the square. Ulrik Hearthstone stood in the doorway of his home, wiping his hands on a cloth darkened with soot. Beside him was Annett. JingYi was relieved to see her face less pale than the day before, eyes more alert.
“Ulrik,” Alexander greeted. He inclined his head, and she caught the respect in his tone.
“My lord.” Ulrik returned with a nod before addressing her. “Didn’t expect you back so soon, Highness.”
She gave the man a gentle smile. “I did say I’d return, didn’t I?”
He grunted and stepped aside, holding the door open for her. “My Annett’s feeling better today, but come in.”
The young woman offered a shy smile as JingYi approached. “The sachet helped, Your Highness. I slept well, and the pain didn’t crawl down my legs like it used to.”
“I’m glad,” JingYi murmured, ushering her to the armchair in front of a blazing hearth. She did her usual: checking the pulse, raising the girl’s hem just enough to feel her ankles.
She looked up. “You’ve been lifting the water jugs again, haven’t you?”
Annett flushed, and Ulrik made a sound from the doorway that might’ve been amusement. “I told her not to,” he said. “She listens like her mother used to—half the time.”
“She’s stubborn,” JingYi said softly, smiling as she massaged the girl’s legs, pushing upwards to improve her circulation. “That’s not always a fault.”
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Alexander waiting outside. She felt the weight of his gaze, watching, keeping a respectful distance so as to not interfere.
“Her condition is steadier today,” she concluded. “But I’ll leave more sachets to brew, this time for circulation. And poultice for the swelling.”
“She won’t drink if it tastes like roots,” Ulrik warned.
“It won’t. I’ll include hawthorn and dried lychee peel. Add a healthy dose of honey, it’ll be sweet enough she won’t notice the rest.”
Annett watched as she measured the mixture. “You’ll come again tomorrow, won’t you?”
Ulrik coughed, as if to remind the girl of her manners. Annett’s cheeks flushed, and she gave a panicked look. “Forgive me, Highness. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just . . . I feel much better having you around.”
“If you want me to, then of course I will,” JingYi said at last.
Ulrik didn’t respond, but he didn’t protest either.
Finished with her treatment, JingYi joined Alexander outside, the cottage door closing behind them.
Lornhelm had shifted in the short time she’d spent inside—mist giving way to clearer light, hearth smoke rising steadier now, drawn upward by a breeze.
Somewhere, a dog barked once. The streets smelled of yeast and woodsmoke, morning stirring in small ways in courtyards and behind closed doors.
JingYi shifted the weight of the medicine chest from one hand to the other, but before her fingers could fully settle, Alexander reached out and took it.
“I’ll carry it,” he said.
The offer caught her off guard more than it should have.
“It’s not heavy, truly,” she said.
“Still, let me.”