Chapter 19
JINGYI
Athin blade of morning light cut through the windowpane and found her eyelids.
She stirred, awareness returning in a cascade of discomfort: the parched bitterness of her mouth; the stiff protest of her neck; the deep, familiar ache along her spine from a night spent curled in a chair.
For one dizzying heartbeat, she didn’t know where she was, only that she was cold and sore.
Then, the memory descended, and her eyes flew open. She pushed herself upright, the movement too sharp, sending a jolt of pain through her stiffened joints. She ignored it, gaze flying to the bed.
Empty. Furs undisturbed. The pillows plump and untouched. The Nest in the corner, with its silent, soaring ravens, also lay pristine.
Her husband had not returned.
A confusing tide of feelings washed over her.
She should’ve felt relief. She’d dreaded the wedding night—the awkwardness, the surrender.
But the cold, empty bed didn’t feel like an escape anymore, but a verdict.
By midday, perhaps sooner, Parandor would hum with whispers: Lord Wulfbane and his bride hadn’t shared a bed.
She left the chair and returned to her own borrowed chamber to wash and dress. Her fingers trembled as she fastened a simple gown, the laces slipping against her skin. Yet another memory surfaced, and her hands paused at her hips.
Shame burned up her neck. She remembered the nightgown slipping from her shoulder, the ties slithering through her numb fingers, her own voice whispering that she understood what was required.
She had stood there, trembling, offering herself to her husband.
And he—calm, unreadable—had stopped her with a single word.
He hadn’t looked at her with hatred, not even anger. What she’d seen in his eyes had been worse.
Disappointment. Revulsion.
She wanted to cover her face with her hands, but what good would it do?
The portrait had lied to him. Her father had sanctioned it, just as he’d sanctioned giving her away instead of LinXin.
Her sister had been too precious to give away to a disgraced lord, yet the bride price had been too valuable to lose.
She almost laughed. Almost wept. How perfectly cunning, perfectly cruel: to destroy not just one life, but two.
Yet, perfectly predictable.
A soft knock at the door startled her. She cleared her throat. “Come in.”
The door eased open. Aliz slipped inside with a tray in her hands.
“Good morning, Princess,” she said, dipping into a curtsy, her voice warm. “We thought you might be hungry. The kitchen sent breakfast and tea, still hot.”
JingYi’s shoulders eased. “Thank you, Aliz,” she murmured, grateful not just for the food but for the kindness in her tone.
Aliz set the tray by the hearth, steam curling into the air. She lingered for a moment, glancing up—hesitant, but with a spark of sincerity. “It was a long day yesterday. I hope you were able to rest a little.”
“I did,” JingYi lied, offering a small smile.
Aliz’s own smile bloomed in answer. “That’s good. Lord Wulfbane left before dawn to hunt with some of the guests. Lady Yrenna wondered if you’d join her in the kitchens when you’re ready.”
“I will,” JingYi said with a nod.
Her eyes dropped to the tray after the maid left. Hunger struck suddenly. She’d barely eaten the night before, too knotted with nerves to swallow more than a few bites.
The fare was simple but delicious: a bowl of barley porridge, rich with melted butter, salt, and a drizzle of honey.
Beside it sat a small dish of stewed apples, smelling of cinnamon, and a spoonful of fresh, creamy cheese curds.
She savoured her breakfast, grateful for the privacy and the comfort of a full belly.
Finished with the meal, she rose and looked out the window.
The courtyard was already stirring—servants darting between tasks, the clang of the forge ringing out, estate workers humming as they went about their tasks.
Parandor breathed around her like a great beast, shaking off slumber.
She watched them a moment longer, these people who moved with purpose, each contributing something vital to the keep’s survival.
They had their place here. What was hers?
She was a healer—trained, capable, tireless. She had studied the botany of Tremore before her journey here, and she would continue to study it. She’d learn the shape and scent of every herb that grew on these mountainsides and wield them with sure hands.
If she couldn’t be the bride Alexander Wulfbane had expected, she’d become someone different. Someone he couldn’t dismiss. Someone he’d learn to rely on.
She pulled her hair up into a neat bun and fastened the small pouch of suppressants at her waist. She needed it now, more than ever.
Already, a faint warmth, the early signs of Heat, stirred low in her belly.
Her body sensed what her reason already knew: There was an Alpha near, one she was drawn to, no matter what words or silence lay between them.
Stepping out into the corridor, JingYi followed the scent of baking bread.
The kitchen met her with a rush of heat and savoury smells—bread rising, meat roasting, copper kettles hissing.
For a moment, she was carried back to the Royal Dispensary, where the air was always alive with the perfume of herbs crushed beneath pestles and decoctions simmering over banked fires.
The rhythm was different here, but the hum of labour felt strikingly familiar.
She paused at the threshold, acutely aware of the glances cast her way. The foreign bride. The limp. The mark.
The unconsummated marriage.
JingYi tried a smile. An older kitchen hand gave her a curt nod—nothing warm, but not unkind.
The scullion near the ovens, flustered by her presence, dropped a ladle into a pot with a clatter.
At the side table, two girls whispered over their onions, stealing glances until one of them flushed and looked away.
Not all were wary. A boy polishing copper pots straightened when their eyes met, unsure but respectful.
Then, Yrenna’s cheerful voice cut through. “Sister. I’d hoped you’d come.”
Relief loosened something tight in her chest. She crossed the floor littered with potato peels and carrot shavings to her sister-in-law, who steered her lightly by the elbow toward a quieter corner near the hearth.
“Thank you for breakfast,” JingYi said, the words almost lost in the kitchen’s clamour.
“I thought you might need a gentler start.” Yrenna smiled, then gestured around them. “It may look overwhelming at first, but this is your domain now. The cooks can handle the meals. The staff knows their duties. You don’t need to mind every little thing. And you’ll have me.”
JingYi looked around, her gaze lingering on the bundles of thyme and marjoram drying from the rafters. Good, wholesome herbs—a solid foundation. Her mind drifted to the hardy mountain plants she had studied—the roots and bitter leaves that could strengthen blood and guard against winter’s grip.
Yrenna followed her glance. “Something caught your eye?”
“Your stores are well-kept. I see barley for strength, thyme and angelica to ward off damp, honey to soothe the lungs.” She met Yrenna’s gaze, her tone an open offer.
“In my homeland, we blend food and remedies to fortify people against the cold. With your permission, I could . . . I could work with your cook. Show how to draw more strength from what Blackwood-Veyrde already grows.”
Yrenna stared at her, smile deepening. “You see a purpose in every jar.”
“It is part of my training,” JingYi admitted, “to see a whole pantry as a healer’s chest.”
“You have access to everything. The stillroom is past the pantry—I’ll show you. The herb stores, the cook’s ledger. If we lack something you need, we can send someone to Niewberg to fetch it.”
A small bench had been cleared near the drying racks, and JingYi accepted the seat gratefully. The ache in her lower back made her wince as she sat, though she masked the pain the way she’d always done.
“I was also hoping I could go down to the village today,” she said. The request hung in the air, more revealing than she’d intended. It wasn’t just a visit she was asking for; it was a role. A place.
Yrenna studied her, the kitchen’s warmth momentarily forgotten. “You are serious about being the village healer, aren’t you?”
It was all she had, the truth bare and plain. Her beauty was a marked currency, her royal blood a worthless thing.
“I know I have much to prove,” JingYi said. “Healing is the one thing I know how to do.”
A silence stretched between them, thin and taut. In it, JingYi heard every possible rejection: ‘It’s too soon. They won’t trust you. You are the lord’s new wife, not a physician.’
Her heart pounded, bracing for the let-down.
Then, Yrenna reached over and touched her hand. The contact was simple, but it felt like a mooring line.
“You don’t need to prove yourself,” she said. “But if you wish to help the villagers, I’ll stand behind you. I know a few who could use your skills. Annett—Ulrik Hearthstone’s daughter, the one I mentioned yesterday, is eight months pregnant. She’s been complaining of lower belly pain.”
The tension in JingYi’s body crystallized into a single, clear purpose. “Has she seen anyone yet?”
“No healer in the village, remember? We have a travelling midwife, but she hasn’t come around since last year.”
“I’d be glad to visit her.” Caring for expectant consorts and noble ladies was a familiar duty—one she’d performed often at the Peony Court.
“I’ll have Conrad accompany you,” Yrenna said. “He wanted to go with the wedding party to hunt, but Alexander told him to stay put and rest. I imagine he’d be glad for a chance to stretch his legs.”
Not long after, JingYi emerged into the courtyard, her medicine chest in hand. Conrad was already waiting beside an open wagonette hitched to a placid-looking, shaggy pony. When he spotted her, his whole face split into a grin that made him look even younger.