Chapter 26 #2
“I know,” JingYi murmured. The girl sagged against her arm, trembling. The air had turned sharp, bitter. Beyond the gate, villagers had paused mid-task, their murmurs a low wave against JingYi’s concentration. Their eyes flicked between her and Annett.
JingYi’s stomach knotted. She’d performed the same ritual a hundred times before. The same herbs, the same pressure points, the same intentions. Her hands had not wavered. Her knowledge had not changed.
And yet—
“Let’s bring her inside,” she said.
Ulrik scooped his daughter up and carried her into the cottage. JingYi followed, the whispers outside buzzing around her.
Inside, Ulrik laid Annett on the bed, the big man wringing his hands as he hovered over his daughter. “Is it the baby? Please—”
“No,” JingYi said quickly, fingers pressing low with practiced precision. “No blood, no contractions. Her womb is unaffected.”
But Annett’s pulse was like a hummingbird flapping its wings, her breath rapid and shallow. Something terrible was sweeping through her system.
“Keep her on her side,” she said, shifting Annett’s shoulder. “If she vomits again, she mustn’t be on her back.”
While Ulrik obeyed, a burn rose in JingYi’s throat.
She reached for her medicine chest, hands moving quickly but not clumsily—never clumsily.
She uncorked a vial of smoked fennel with her teeth, the scent pungent and grounding, and dropped a few beads under Annett’s tongue.
“She may gag, but it should calm the spasms.”
Poison? But her herbs were fresh, her measurements exact. She didn’t mistake the ingredients for her tinctures, and she would’ve smelled a contaminant. Besides, Annett had been stable before the treatment.
She re-checked the pulse—still fluttering like a trapped bird.
Her gaze slid lower—to the crease above Annett’s ankle where a needle had gone in.
A bruise was blooming, purplish grey at the edges.
Not the healthy flush of released energy.
She checked other insertion sites and found similar bruising.
They weren’t normal.
Carefully, she smoothed cooling salve across the marks. She said nothing to Ulrik—not yet. A chill slid beneath her skin, colder than the wind curling past the eaves.
Her needles caused this.
She turned to Ulrik. “Give her only plain food. Barley or rice. Small sips of broth when she wakes. No work, no lifting.”
His voice came roughly. “We’ll do whatever you say, Highness.”
JingYi couldn’t meet his eyes.
She had done everything right.
And still, she hurt Annett.
Jing Yi stayed at Annett’s bedside until the girl stirred—groggy and weak, but no longer wracked with nausea.
Her pulse had steadied, and the ashen hue had faded from her skin.
She instructed Ulrik to prepare an infusion of goldenroot and chrysanthemum—two herbs she trusted to purge the remaining toxins while restoring inner balance.
The soft drizzle had turned into a downpour by the time she and Tedric returned to Parandor, the evening shadows stretching long across the stone halls. She barely had the time to change out of her muddied cloak and gown before supper.
Now, she sat in her place between Alexander and Yrenna at the head table. Outwardly, she believed she looked calm, but the unease in her throat made each mouthful feel like swallowing knives. The fire roaring behind her did little to chase away the chill coiling at her spine.
The hall buzzed with Harvest Festival preparations. Workmen hauled cider barrels while maidens stitched golden wheat onto flax banners. Copper leaves already framed the archways, and the smell of spiced apples hung in the air beneath the savoury fare.
Yrenna hadn’t stopped talking about the festival all evening.
“They’ll be setting up the tug-of-war field tomorrow,” she said now, cutting her fish with the efficiency of someone who’d hosted more than a few festivals. “The cobblers’ guild is entering a team this year. You’d think they were preparing for war, the way they’ve been training.”
JingYi offered a polite smile, but the words passed over her like wind over ice.
Tonight’s fare was Tremorian in its simplicity: smoked trout in horseradish butter, roasted root vegetables drizzled in dark vinegar, and barley bread still warm from the hearth to dip into carrot and pumpkin soup.
Good, solid ingredients prepared to let the earthy autumn flavours stand out.
The horseradish butter had been blended with wild fennel and feverleaf for their warming properties, flaxseeds ground into the bread for easier digestion.
It was a healer’s meal, meant to fortify as much as to feed. She’d suggested the adjustments to the head cook a few days ago. Seeing them served now—accepted without comment—she felt, for the first time, like a part of the household’s rhythm.
Yet tonight, even that subtle victory rang hollow.
She sipped her wine, but she barely noticed the flavour. The same images kept returning.
Annett retching into the garden beds.
Her thready pulse.
The bruised tint at the needle sites.
None of it made sense. And worse—she’d found no answer by the time she left.
She didn’t realize Alexander had spoken until she felt his hand on her sleeve.
“Pardon me,” she murmured, setting down her goblet. “What did you say?”
He turned toward her—not fully, but just enough to remind her of the breadth of him. The line of his shoulders, the stillness that always carried weight. His gaze didn’t waver as he looked at her.
“I asked how your visit to the village went today.”
She picked up her spoon and ran it through her soup, watching the orange swirl. “Annett had . . . a difficult turn. Sudden nausea. I stayed until she improved.”
A crease formed between his brows. “Isn’t nausea common during pregnancy?”
“Yes, but she is well past that stage, and she hasn’t been sick in weeks.”
“What do you suspect?”
She ate a spoonful, though the taste didn’t register. The memory of discoloured skin still hovered behind her eyes.
“I don’t know yet,” she said, her tone careful.
A beat passed. She could feel his gaze on her, though she kept hers on her bowl, watching the surface tremble with each roll of thunder. Then—sudden and searing—a bolt of lightning lit the dining hall, stark and white. A ripple of startled whoops followed, punctuated by a few uneasy laughs.
Alexander calmly pierced a piece of fish with his knife. “I was concerned when the rain started. You shouldn’t have gone to the village in that weather.”
JingYi didn’t look at him. “Sickness doesn’t wait for clear skies. Tedric carried the medicine chest. I carried my share.”
He turned toward her. “You’re not made of iron, Princess.”
She set the spoon down, voice cool. “No. But I’m not salt either. Rain doesn’t dissolve me.”
Their eyes met. It wasn’t comfort, and it certainly wasn’t flirtation. It was a test—an instinctive tug between two animals learning how to coexist without wounding. His gaze didn’t soften, but it didn’t challenge her either. He simply held her there, as if measuring the limits of her endurance.
And to her own surprise, she looked on.
The heat from the hearth licked along the back of her legs. The velvet gown felt tight, the sleeves clinging to her arms. Even the weight of her braid at her nape felt too much. The flush crept up her neck and across her cheek. Languid. Inescapable.
Without the suppressants, everything was amplified. His nearness, his scent, the low timbre of his voice—all resonated deep in her blood, a hum she couldn’t silence.
She turned her face away, lifting her cup with deliberate calm. The wine had gone lukewarm. She drank it anyway.
Across the hall, the conversation flowed in waves. Somewhere, a serving boy dropped a platter. Someone laughed. But up at their table, silence sat between them like a second course neither had ordered.
Alexander’s voice came low enough that only she heard. “If you suspect danger, you will tell me.”
The rise at the last word made it sound like a question. She looked up and realized his gaze hadn’t left her.
“I will,” she said softly, “when I understand what it is.”
She was used to uncertainty in healing. Some medicines had to be tested, monitored, adjusted. But this felt . . . different, like reaching for something that wasn’t just missing, but taken deliberately. And if she said the words aloud—if she gave shape to the suspicion—it would become real.
His jaw ticked, but he said nothing more. He reached for his goblet, took a sip, and turned his attention to the far end of the hall where Tedric was laughing at something a steward said, shoulders loose and smile easy.
She turned back to her plate, ate another spoonful, and let it linger on her tongue.
This time, she tasted the soup.