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 muchcouldshe?