Page 9 of Tethered In Blood

The silence stretched before she spoke again. “The beginning,” she murmured, tilting the journal toward the light. “It’s all herbs and flowers—basic uses, trial and error notes.” She paused. A faint crease formed between her brows as her fingers traced the edge of a page. “Topical ointments, salves… nothing too intricate, but detailed. Painstakingly so.”

I resisted the sting of her words. It had taken years to compile those notes, test every mixture on myself, and record the effects. The writing and diagrams on those pages exceeded mere study—they were survival.

Calder continued. Her fingers flipped through more pages. The candlelight caught in her expression—a mix of curiosity and skepticism wrapped in exhaustion. “Later,” she muttered, “it changes. General remedies, tinctures, poultices…”

She stopped, tapping her finger against a section where I had scrawled names and ailments in uneven handwriting. “Other people’s needs. Their pains and illnesses. You started keeping track of them.”

I nodded. “I did.”

Calder lifted her gaze from the pages, fixing me with a stare that saw far too much. “Why?”

The single word reverberated in my mind.Why?Because nobody had ever kept track of mine.

I hesitated, unable to speak. Her gaze was too steady and perceptive, squeezing the truth out of me regardless of whether I wanted to give it.

“It started as a matter of survival,” I admitted, my voice just above a whisper. “I needed to learn to keep myself alive. But… it became more. I saw how much I could help others. Their needs became just as important as mine.” It was the most straightforward answer I could give—the truth, but not all of it.

Calder’s assessing eyes raked over me, peeling back layers I had kept hidden my entire life. Her gaze lingered in places that left me exposed and raw.

“You’ve spent much time under the sun,” she murmured, her tone soft, as she read the unspoken story etched into my skin. Her words became a blade pressed to a nerve. “Freckles, tinted skin… even the way you stand. You braced against the elements. It’s all written on you.”

A piece of me wanted to recoil from her words, deny them, and correct her. But she was right, and that unsettled me the most. She had unraveled me piece by piece, with observations that felt too personal and precise.

I nodded, unsure how to respond. My hands clasped the hem of my cloak, my fingers gripping the fabric to anchor myself. I had spent so long hiding behind masks, careful smiles, and chosen words. Yet she tugged at the fringes of everything I had been reluctant to let show.

Calder straightened. The fleeting softness in her tone vanished as quickly as it had come. The moment of quiet assessment had ended. She snapped my journal shut and set it on top of the desk with a decisivethud. Her lips curved into a faint, testing smile.

“Create three things from your journal—ointments, tinctures, or anything else.” Her eyes turned to me. “But you won’t be using your notes. If they are truly yours, you won’t need them.”

My hand lingered on the journal for a moment, fingers twitching over the worn leather cover, before I resolved to let it go. Its weight had always been a comfort. It proved my knowledge and everything I had survived. Now, it amounted to an untouchable test.

My fingers quivered as I withdrew my hand. “What would you like me to make?”

“That’s for you to decide,” she said, turning toward the opposite end of the room and glancing over her shoulder. “Follow.”

Although smaller, the next room had shelves covering the walls, filled with jars, vials, and bundles of dried herbs. The aroma overwhelmed me—elduven, sharp, medicinal. Layers of dried roots, preserved flowers, and infused oils created a dense fragrance that lingered on my skin.

Calder gestured around us. “Everything you need is here,” she announced, eliminating any space for doubt. “You have until sunrise.”

The flickering light of the sconces cast long, shifting shadows across the stone floor.Breathe. Stop shaking.I had to prove myself. I memorized my notes, each formula, and each ratio etched into my memory, scarred.

Her gaze made the room suffocating. Every move I made gave the impression of being watched, weighed, and dissected. My fingers clung to the worktable. “Well,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like wearing an ill-fitting mask. “Let’s see if I can impress you.” The words came laced with the same constructed ease I had mastered over the years.

Calder only clasped her hands and watched. Scanning the shelves, my mind sorted through the possibilities before settling on the first remedy—a simple burn salve I had made countless times. My fingers skimmed the jars and bundles, selecting comfrey root, calendula petals, and beeswax. Each ingredient had become an old friend—familiar and reliable.

I arranged them with precision, hoping Calder would notice. With a quick strike of flint and steel, I ignited a small flame beneath a brass cauldron, the metal catching the warm glow of the firelight. The wax melted, and the scent of honey infused the air as I mixed in the herbs. The once-separate elements blended into a smooth, golden balm that was thick and glistening when I lifted the spoon.

Calder’s silence hung heavy, but I fixed my smile and glanced at her with a practiced air of ease. “First one’s done,” I chirped, sliding the jar toward her. She didn’t respond or acknowledge the effort, but her eyes tracked my every move.

Next—a joint pain liniment. I reached for dried arnica flowers and cayenne pepper, a potent combination. The pestle was heavy in my hand as I ground them into a fine powder. My movements remained calm and measured, but inside, my nerves buzzed like a hive of bees. The powder combined with oil and alcohol, and I shook the jar until the scent of spice and medicine permeated the air, stimulating my senses.

“Be careful with that one,” I joked, even though my stomach knotted. “It’ll wake you up if you’re not prepared for it.”

Calder’s brow twitched.Amusement? Annoyance?I couldn’t tell.

The final remedy was more personal, more daring. I hesitated before reaching for what I needed to create a frost salve I had crafted during one of the darkest winters of my life. The nights had been long with biting frost, and I needed something to keep my fingers from stiffening beyond use. I gathered pine resin, chamomile, violet petals, and a pinch of myrrh, their scents wrapping around me with a memory. My hands trembled while I measured and ground, but I disguised it with a cheerful hum, keeping my movements fluid. I couldn’t falter. Not where she could see.

When the resin melted, I stirred in the herbs. The mixture thickened as it became fragrant, elduven, and familiar. A warmth spread through my chest from the comfort of doing something I understood.

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