Free Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) by Elizabeth McCoy Page B

been
bleeding . . . but she was. Better to stay inside.
    When
they were back at his house, he bowed over her hand and went to nap.
And she . . . went to research.
    Iathor's
library wasn't much bigger than the hospice's. Like that one, it was
lined with books: mostly newer ones, printed with wooden plates and
thick, potion-soaked vellum, so the ink could be taken and pressed
onto sheets of paper. There was a low table in the middle of the
room, side tables for Incandescens Stones (she wondered, vaguely, how
many silver trees – or gold ones – the house's lighting
was worth), high-backed, leather covered chairs and a short,
cloth-covered couch that all faced the table. Two chairs were shades
of alchemist gray, but one was a faded earth-brown; Kessa liked it
best.
    His
hands . . . should've been warmer. Or colder. Kessa sat and looked at her hand, that he'd inexplicably taken in
his. More something .
    She
curled her hand into a fist. (She should've still felt his touch.) Stop wasting time, half-breed. She pulled a book into her lap.
    When
Iathor'd discovered her doubled over with moon-flow agony in her
shop, he'd insisted on sending to Herbmaster Keli, asking for a
painkiller that'd work on an immune woman, but not make her
moon-flow blood useless for dry tea. Keli'd sent back several
preparations, and four books. One'd been Pregnancy and Moon-flows,
A Compilation by Keli Greenhands . While they'd waited for the
hornflower paste to take effect, Iathor'd brought it out as a
distraction.
    The
second chapter had discussed dry tea and preparations to cause
miscarriages.
    If
Iasen wanted to prevent any quarter-barbarian heir, without risking
the scrutiny that would've descended upon her murder, he'd have
needed a potion. If he hadn't wanted to buy it from someone who might
remember selling it, he'd have had to brew it himself, on short
notice.
    Iathor's
library didn't have a copy of the Herbmaster's book. But such an
herb-focused book wouldn't be in Iasen's library, either.
    She
could ask Keli for her book again if she found nothing here. She
could ask Nicia to let her search the guild hospice's books. She
could look in the guild's library.
    She
felt like a rat, snared in an eagle's claws and told that if she hung
on long enough, there'd be a saddle made for her. She turned a page. The wings are his, not mine. She'd never dreamed of anything
but a small life: keeping her head down, keeping her family safe.
    She
turned another page, past a minor poison she already knew. Of course,
if she'd known her Guild Master was inclined to be helpful, she'd
have gone to him long ago. If she'd known how valuable her immunity
was . . .
    There
were too many what-ifs. She might've arrived on his doorstep, even
before her moon-flows had started, that cold winter when she'd been
sure Laita'd die, and grown up betrothed, running through the
servants' halls with her crèche-siblings. She might've been caught
as a Shadow alchemist's apprentice, justly accused of helping brew
the joy-powders that'd claimed lives and fortunes. She might've
stayed with the Shadow Guild after her teacher was poisoned, a veiled
queen in charcoal, with influence and power to meet the Lord
Alchemist's sun-lit status.
    Nothing
in this book but a variation on men's tea. She set it aside and took
the next.
    She'd
finished it and gotten half-way through another, when one of the
young servants (the lot of them as pale and straw-haired as Tania and
Loria) knocked on the door. "M-miss?"
    That'll
be m'lady soon enough. But she didn't feel
anticipation of confidence or power. She looked up enough to see the
child was wearing a dress. "Yes?"
    "Miss
Nicia Greenhands, to see you, miss."
    "Oh,
good." Having a better-trained apprentice, whose reading was
more confident, would help. "Do I come to her, or . . . ?"
    "Either,
miss."
    Kessa
set the book aside. "Could you show me where guests are usually
put?"
    "Of
course, miss!" The girl led the way.
    "And . . .
tea's