The Crown Prince’s Physician and Wife

Chapter 5

By evening, Linh Yue had unpacked everything she owned into half a cabinet and one corner of the shared room she now occupied with Han Jue.

She liked the room more than she’d expected. The window overlooked a small ornamental pond with stone steps and sleepy koi. The bedding was clean, the floor polished, and the lanterns cast a warm glow that softened the clinical edges of palace life.

Han Jue had already claimed the left side of the room and populated it with three pairs of embroidered slippers, an illegal stash of candied lotus seeds, and a tiny hand-painted fan that read: “I Do Not Listen to Orders, Only Good Ideas.”

“Subtle,” Yue said, eyeing the fan.

“Thank you,” Han Jue said, lying flat on her back on the bed. “It keeps me from being smothered in my sleep by palace hierarchy.”

Yue snorted and rolled up her sleeves, sorting through a pile of folded linens. “You do realize you’re supposed to be one of those layers of hierarchy.”

“Technically. But no one listens to me. I’m a personal attendant with a big mouth. I have no real power and no real fear. It’s the perfect position.”

“I’ll give you that. You’re strangely unbothered by the terror of being executed.”

Han Jue sat up and grabbed a roasted chestnut from a hidden paper pouch beside her pillow. “Want one?”

Yue hesitated. “You just pulled that out from under your bedding.”

“It’s a palace-grade chestnut. These pillows are cleaner than my conscience.”

Yue accepted one and cracked the shell with her teeth. “Fair.”

They chewed in companionable silence for a few minutes before Han Jue’s gaze slid toward her sideways.

“So,” she said, voice drawn out and casual, “His Highness drank your tonic.”

Yue gasped and said sarcastically. “You heard about that?”

“I spread it. And you’re welcome.”

“I’m not trying to make a name for myself.”

Han Jue smirked. “You’re succeeding anyway. Half the servants are terrified of you. The other half are betting on when you’ll be dismissed for saying something sarcastic during a pulse check.”

“Let them bet. I’ll split the winnings with you when I survive the year.”

“Deal.” Han Jue popped another chestnut into her mouth. “So, do you like him?”

Yue choked.

Han Jue grinned. “That’s a yes.”

“That is not a yes,” Yue sputtered, coughing. “That is a ‘please choke quietly while I clarify that the prince is a well-dressed statue with no emotional function.’”

“So, your type.”

Yue groaned. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m overheating. That’s different.”

Han Jue rolled over onto her stomach, kicking her feet up like a gossiping schoolgirl. “Come on. You have to admit he’s… intense.”

“He stared at me for fifteen seconds, then insulted my voice,” Yue said. “That’s not intense. That’s customer service at a haunted tea shop.”

Han Jue laughed so hard she nearly fell off the bed.

When she finally calmed, she propped her chin on her palms. “I like you. You’re not afraid of him.”

Yue shrugged. “Fear doesn’t help me treat him. If he hates me, I still have to check his pulse. If he respects me, I still have to check his pulse. Either way, my fingers end up on his wrist. So he can deal with it.”

Han Jue tilted her head. “You’re going to last longer here than anyone expects.”

Yue leaned back on her elbows. “I always do.”

_____________

The prince’s receiving room was the same as before: too quiet, too perfect, the air just a little too still. Yue stepped inside when summoned, kit slung under one arm, her robes crisp, her expression unreadable.

Ji An was seated on a raised wooden platform behind a small table. His robes were pale grey today, the sleeves loosely draped over his hands. He didn’t look at her when she entered.

She bowed low. “Physician Linh Yue, reporting for the midday examination.”

Still no response.

Good, she thought. Let’s keep the standard low.

A guard stood at the far wall, still as a statue. Another attendant hovered near the screen, then slipped away silently when Ji An lifted two fingers in a lazy, almost imperceptible gesture.

The room cleared.

She stepped forward.

“I’ll begin with pulse and temperature,” she said, kneeling before the low table, unpacking her kit.

He offered his arm without a word.

His wrist was bare — surprisingly so — and she blinked once before leaning forward. His skin was cool. Smooth. Veins faintly visible beneath the surface. She pressed two fingers gently to the radial point and counted silently.

…Even.

…Slow.

…but just a hint of irregularity in the final beat of each cycle. Almost imperceptible.

She adjusted her pressure.

He didn’t move. He also didn’t blink.

She felt his eyes on her.

“I noticed some joint strain during your training,” she said, eyes on her own hand. “If you keep favoring the right side, you’re going to overcompensate and cause muscle erosion.”

No answer.

She glanced up. “Unless that’s your plan?”

His gaze didn’t shift, but something in it sharpened.

“You assume too much,” he said finally, voice cool.

“It’s part of the job,” Yue replied, reaching for her thermometer vial. “Assume. Diagnose. Be unappreciated. Repeat.”

That earned her… nothing. Not even the ghost of a smirk.

She uncorked the vial, placed a drop of the herbal solution on the copper reading strip, and held it briefly to his temple. The strip darkened to a healthy green.

“No fever,” she said. “Good circulation in the upper arms. Your diet’s being followed, more or less. I’ll need to adjust the evening blend, though. Your sleep cycle’s off.”

At that, his brow twitched.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. “You’re having trouble sleeping.”

Still, he didn’t answer.

She returned to her notes and began writing.

Loudly.

Each stroke of her brush was exaggerated, deliberate. She made a show of tapping the ink stone between sentences.

Finally, he spoke.

“Speak less.”

Yue didn’t look up. “Write more. Got it.”

He didn’t move, but she saw the faintest tension settle in his shoulders.

They sat in silence as she finished the note.

When she packed up to leave, she bowed again, just as formally.

“Midday assessment complete, Your Highness. I’ll revise your prescriptions and submit the record to the Bureau.”

He gave no acknowledgment.

As she turned to go, she let her voice drop just loud enough to carry:

“Next time, I’ll bring stronger ink. That way you won’t have to wonder whether I’m talking or just thinking very loudly.”

The corner of his mouth didn’t move.

But his eyes—those sharp, unreadable eyes—followed her all the way to the door.