“If that’s the worry, we’ll get you up that hill,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Me, or any one of the lads. No shame in accepting a helping hand when the path is steep.”
She continued cleaning the needles. The offer was nearly identical to Alexander’s—the same practical solution to the same limitation. Yet it landed differently. From Ulrik, it felt like support, plain and communal, with no pity in his weathered face. Simply the straightforwardness of a man who solved problems with his hands.
From Alexander, that same consideration had felt like being managed. Redirected to the sidelines. His careful tone hadn’t felt like solving a problemwithher. It felt like solving the problemofher.
The difference, she realized with a sharp pang, was in the foundation. The villagers saw the healer first, the leg merely a fact. But Alexander had first seen a liability. Every kindness since, no matter how genuine, was filtered through that original verdict. And part of her was terrified that accepting his help would only confirm it.
Annett rose with a small grunt and waddled over to the bed. “You needn’t be like the last lady. Just be you.”
If only she knew who that was.
JingYi managed a smile. “Thank you. I’ll . . . think on it.”
She performed the needle therapy in silence, her focus steady and precise. By the time the final needle was removed, Annett’s breathing had softened, her shoulders loosening.
Ulrik rose and crossed to the table. “More tea, Princess?”
JingYi had just finished cleaning her needles, wiping them carefully before placing each one inside a separate container for thorough cleaning later. “No, thank you, Ulrik. I better see if others need my assistance before that rain pours.”
Both father and daughter saw her out. The sun emerged just for a little while, drawing villagers out of their homes to make the most of the dry spell.
Before JingYi could bid her farewell, Annett jerked. Her face twisted, both hands flying to her stomach. She folded with a sharp, choking sound, then lurched two steps and retched violently into the garden bed.
Ulrik was on his daughter at once. “Annett?—?”
JingYi rushed to the girl’s side, one hand on her shoulder, the other bracing her forearm. The world narrowed to the tremors running through the young woman’s frame.
“Breathe. Through your nose if you can—” Her own voice sounded distant beneath the sudden thunder of her pulse.
Annett gagged harder. A thin stream of bile spilled onto the ground, acrid and streaked with greenish yellow. The smell bit at the back of JingYi’s throat, a familiar, sour tang of illness that now carried a spike of alarm.
“She was fine this morning—” Ulrik swore, fumbling for a cloth.
“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 notclumsily—neverclumsily. 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.