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 andchrysanthemum—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?”