JingYi set the tray on the sideboard carefully. It was crooked. She began to straighten it, then changed her mind. Beside it, she laid his folded cloak.
He would find the tea, or he wouldn’t. Drink it or let it cool.
She turned into the dim hall, the woven rug swallowing her soft steps.
CHAPTER 21
ALEXANDER
Yrenna had just left his study when she reappeared in the doorway. She stood there, her face a mask of forced calm, but Alexander knew that look.
Something wasverywrong.
“There is something you should see,” she said.
There was a forced softness in her voice that made Alexander’s hackles rise. He followed her into the corridor. On the sideboard beside his door sat a tray with his cloak folded beside it. And on the tray, a single porcelain cup—light blue, delicate, hand-painted with spring flowers.
The cold realization twisted his gut.
JingYi had been here the entire time—while he’d been reducing her to a list of shortcomings behind her back.
Shame, hot and corrosive, climbed his throat. He felt utterly, profoundlysick.
“I didn’t know,” he muttered, the words ash in his mouth.
Yrenna’s eyes cut to him. “Is that a defence?”
He could protest, soften the truth, but . . . for what use? Hehadbelieved every word he said. Frustration had blurred into cruelty, and he’d aimed it at the one person who had asked nothing of him but room to breathe.
Yrenna lifted the tray and nudged its corner into him. He caught it before it fell, the warmth from the cup reaching his chest.
“You should think about what you’ve done,” she hissed.
Then she left, footsteps fading down the corridor. Leaving him with the crackling fire behind him and the unfamiliar scent of JingYi’s herbs. The silence weighed heavier than any reprimand.
Alexander carried the tray back into the study, closing the door behind him. He set it on the desk and sat.
The porcelain cup caught the firelight, delicate but functional in its design. Pale ivory glaze, touched with a soft celadon wash near the base. It rested on a matching saucer. A curved lid sat atop it—a simple, elegant dome, made to trap heat and enhance the brew’s strength. He’d never seen anything quite like it in Tremore.
She’d brought it from Xûen-Sarai, no doubt. There was no mistaking the craftsmanship. No mistaking the care it had taken to carry something so fragile from one end of Issoirea to another, and chose to use it, here, in a place where porcelain cracked easily in foreign hands.
He lifted the lid. Steam rose. The scent reached him—herbal and rooted in something medicinal. It didn’t smell like a brew meant to charm the senses but serve a purpose.
Alexander took a sip. The unfamiliar flavour struck him, but not unpleasant. It warmed his stomach, loosened his spine, and chased off the lingering tightness coiling there since last night.
He leaned back in the chair, cup still in hand, and realized:I should apologize.
At the very least, he should speak to her.
But what could he say that wouldn’t sound hollow?
I didn’t mean it?A lie.
I didn’t know you were there?A coward’s excuse.
His bride was a perceptive, intelligent woman. She would see through empty words faster than most courtiers could recite their titles.
He considered the usual topics. Commenting on the food at dinner, perhaps, or asking if she was adjusting to the weather. Inquiring after her wardrobe. All safe, all meaningless. He could ask about fashion, the colours she preferred, what she thought of the hall’s arrangements. Any number of polite distractions under the sun.
