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. “Forgiveme, 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.”
She released it. His fingers were firm around the chest’s handle, carrying it as though the weight were nothing. They walked in silence, boots crunching softly against the damp gravel road.
“Ulrik Hearthstone is gruff,” Alexander said at last, “but he’s a good man.”
“Any man who cares for his daughter has good in him.”
He gave a single nod. “He was the Lead Foreman of the limyerite mines in my father’s days. He’s known me since I was born. When my father—” His words broke off. He took a sharp breath. “When it happened, Ulrik stood by him. Wouldn’t believe the treason. He and his family stayed in Lornhelm even though his neighbours left in droves.”
JingYi studied him from the corner of her eye. His broad shoulders were set in a way that looked less like pride and more like strain. For him, too, the wound was still tender.
“Loyalty like that,” she murmured, “isn’t easily found. You must value it greatly.”
His blue gaze flicked toward her before turning back to the path. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s more than I deserve.”
JingYi caught the way his stride lengthened, as if he’d said too much and wanted to walk ahead of the words. She kept her eyes forward, giving him the dignity of pretending he hadn’t. “Ulrik’s daughter is lucky to have both of you standing for her.”
“Annett hasn’t had it easy either. Her mother died a few years ago. Her husband, Willem, went to find work in Gravenfort. He’s only given leave once every few months.”
A small knot of villagers passed along the road. Among them was the boy with the scraped knee and the dove-shaped birthmark. He spotted her at once and waved with both hands. The adults bowed and bobbed a curtsy, their smiles cautious. JingYi returned both.
“You know them already,” Alexander commented. “Only after a day.”
“I spent some time with them yesterday, enough to remember faces.”
“They speak to you easily.”
“I’m not someone important to them. That helps bring down the barrier.”