Chapter 65 Ivy

Chapter 65 Ivy
The apothecary feels different the moment Zeus steps inside.

Not heavier—older. Like the room itself straightens in his presence.

Zeus moves with quiet reverence, dark sleeves rolled to his forearms as his fingers brush along the shelves, lingering over jars and bundles as if greeting old friends. Edward follows a step behind me, entirely out of place and completely unapologetic about it.

“I’m just here to supervise,” Edward announces cheerfully, claiming a stool and spinning it around so he can sit backward on it. “Don’t mind me.”

Zeus doesn’t look at him. “I will mind you.”

Edward grins wider. “Everyone does.”

I tie my apron around my waist, trying not to laugh. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Yes, I did,” Edward replies with a smirk. “You have a lesson, you’re still recovering, and I was told to ‘keep an eye on you.’” He pauses. “William’s words. Very stern. Minimal blinking.”

Zeus exhales through his nose. “Then try not to distract her.”

“I make no promises.”

Zeus sets a worn leather satchel on the central table and opens it. Inside are linen-wrapped bundles, cracked clay jars, and yellowed scraps of parchment. The scent that rises is sharp and ancient—resin, bitterness, earth.

“This,” Zeus says, gesturing around us, “is where modern medicine forgets to listen.”

Edward leans closer to me. “He talks like this all the time.”

“Silence,” Zeus says mildly.

I smile and step forward as Zeus hands me the first bundle. “Tell me what this is.”

I unwrap it carefully, inhale once.

“Black hellebore,” I say. “Root. Late autumn harvest—too dry for spring.”

Zeus pauses.

Edward blinks. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“Low doses for pain and fever,” I continue. “Abandoned when people stopped respecting dosage.”

Zeus’s brow furrows slightly.

He hands me another container, this one cracked and sealed with wax. “And this?”

I open it and grimace. “That’s awful.”

Edward sniffs from across the table and recoils. “Why does it smell like betrayal?”

“Fermented foxglove,” I say. “Early cardiac treatment. Unstable. Killed as often as it cured.”

Zeus stares at me now.

Edward straightens on his stool. “Okay. That’s not normal.”

“You’ve read ahead,” Zeus says slowly.

“Yes,” I admit.

“How far ahead?” he asks.

I hesitate, then answer honestly. “Most of the banned texts. Several untranslated journals. Marginal notes from pre‑standard healers.”

The room goes very quiet.

Zeus sets the jar down with exaggerated care. “Those texts were buried because they frightened people.”

“Yes,” I reply. “That’s usually why useful knowledge gets buried. If we forget our past, even the bad stuff, we are doomed to relive it.”

Edward lets out a low whistle. “I leave for a few years and my baby sister becomes terrifying.”

Zeus laughs—soft, surprised, genuinely amused. “I was prepared to teach foundations.”

He studies me with new eyes. “Instead, it seems you’ve been teaching yourself.”

“I just wanted to understand,” I say quietly.

Zeus nods once. “Understanding is dangerous.”

“Ignorance is worse,” I reply.

Edward points at me. “She says things like that now. All the time.”

Zeus chuckles. “In that case—new plan.”

He gestures to the shelves. “You tell me what you’ve read. I’ll tell you where the books lied.”

My smile spreads, bright and eager.

“Deal.”

As we begin sorting roots together, mortar grinding steadily beneath my hands, I feel something settle into place.

They poisoned me because they underestimated me.

But now Zeus knows.
Edward knows.
And soon, the rest of them will too.

Knowledge isn’t just power.
It’s protection.
And this time, I’m armed.

Zeus sets the kettle over the burner, the flame catching with a quiet whoof. Steam begins to curl upward, carrying warmth through the apothecary. Edward drifts closer, arms folded, watching like he’s half guard, half audience.

“Tea,” Edward says skeptically. “I was expecting something more… dramatic.”

Zeus doesn’t even glance at him. “Old medicine doesn’t announce itself.”

Edward grins. “Of course it doesn’t.”

Zeus sets three small tins on the table, aligning them with meticulous care. “Tea was the first medicine most cultures trusted,” he says. “Because the body accepts it before it resists it.”

He opens the first tin, releasing a soft, citrus‑green scent.

“Lemon balm,” he says. “For nerves, digestion, sleep.”

I lean in, inhaling. “You’ve dried it well,” I say. “If it’s steeped too long, though, it turns bitter and loses its calming effect.”

Zeus pauses—actually pauses—and looks at me.

“Yes,” he says, slower now. “Exactly.”

Edward’s brows lift. “That sounded like approval.”

Zeus ignores him and moves to the second tin. “Hawthorn berry. Heart tonic.”

I nod. “Better for long‑term support than acute treatment. It strengthens without overstimulation.” I think for a moment. “I’d blend it with rosehip for sustained use—adds vitamin support without interfering with the cardiac benefit.”

Zeus stills.
Then he smiles.
Not amused. Not polite.
Impressed.

“That,” he says, “is precisely what most texts fail to mention.”

Edward lets out a low whistle. “Oh, he liked that.”

Zeus pours hot water into the cups, measuring by instinct. He opens the third tin. “Ginger and licorice root. Circulation. Inflammation.”

I wrinkle my nose slightly. “Licorice is effective, but heavy. Overuse raises blood pressure.”

Zeus turns the tin toward me. “Your correction?”

I open a drawer and retrieve a small bundle. “Chamomile,” I say. “It softens the licorice and reduces strain while keeping the warming effect.”

Zeus takes the bundle from me, studies it, then nods once—sharp, decisive.

“Correct,” he says.

Edward straightens. “Alright. That’s the third ‘correct.’ That’s a pattern.”

The teas steep quietly. Zeus hands me the lemon balm first, watching closely as I sip.

“Good balance,” I say. “But I’d shorten the steep slightly next time.”

Zeus nods immediately. “Agreed.”

The hawthorn blend comes next. I take a thoughtful sip. “This would be ideal for recovery over weeks. Gentle. Reliable.”

Zeus’s eyes don’t leave my face. “You’re not repeating information,” he says. “You’re evaluating outcomes.”

“Yes,” I reply. “Recipes are fixed. Bodies aren’t.”

He exhales slowly, clearly pleased.

The final tea—ginger, licorice, chamomile—warms my chest as I drink. “This is good,” I say. “Strong, but considerate.”

Zeus lets out a quiet laugh. “That may be the best description of medicine I’ve heard in years.”

Edward points at me. “She keeps doing that. Saying unsettlingly wise things before noon.”

Zeus shakes his head, smiling now without restraint. “I expected to teach you fundamentals.”

He looks at me with open respect. “Instead, I find myself refining my own.”

The words settle into me—steady, affirming.

“You’ve read more than most practitioners,” Zeus continues. “But more importantly, you understand why things work—or fail.”

Edward crosses his arms, pride plain on his face. “Told you she was dangerous.”

Zeus nods once. “Yes,” he agrees. “Quietly so.”

As the warmth of the tea spreads through me, I feel grounded—stronger than I have in days.

They tried to weaken me.
Instead, they reminded me of what I carry.

And now Zeus knows it too.

Not just that I’m capable—
But that I’m already thinking like someone who cannot be easily undone.