That would be true in the outside world. Things were different in Zalindov, and Kiva often had to make do with what she had, creating her own remedies using the small medicinal garden behind the infirmary and whatever other supplies she could scrounge up.

“So you’re saying that healers are the hands, and apothecaries are the brains?”

Kiva scrunched her nose at his analogy, but said, “Close enough.” She began cleaning the graze on his forehead and added, somewhat musingly, “This is all common knowledge. I’m surprised you don’t know it already.”

“I didn’t have much of a chance to learn about this kind of thing in my childhood.” Jaren shrugged. “My medicine always came directly from a healer, so I just assumed they made it themselves.” He gestured toward the workbench. “Like you do here.”

His answer wasn’t surprising, since any good healer maintained a healthy stockpile of supplies. Kiva’s father had always kept more than he’d ever needed on hand, and was careful to do a regular inventory to avoid the risk of running out. That was something he’d repeatedly emphasized when she’d started under his tutelage: Better to be overprepared than underprepared, little mouse. If you get an influx of patients, it can mean the difference between life or death, so best to stock up whenever you can.

What was surprising was Jaren’s lack of what Kiva considered general life knowledge, and she debated pressing for more details, but was unsure what to ask. She’d assumed for some time that he’d come from a wealthy upper-class family, but now she wondered if she’d been wrong. Perhaps the opposite was true, especially if his parents hadn’t hired a tutor to teach him such things. Maybe they hadn’t been able to afford one.

“Well, now you know,” Kiva said in an upbeat voice, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. People—especially men—could react poorly if they thought their intelligence was being criticized.

Setting down her cloth, she reached for her small pot of ballico sap and, without thinking, scraped some onto her finger and leaned forward to dab it onto his cut lip.

Jaren sucked in a startled breath, and Kiva’s eyes jumped up to meet his.

They were so close, her fingertip frozen on his lip.

She had a split second to decide what to do. Part of her wanted to leap backwards and put as much distance between them as possible, but she knew how that would look, how he might perceive such an action, how telling it would be that she was so affected by him. So despite her entire nervous system being hyperaware of how—and where—she was touching him, she continued applying the healing sap to his wound with unhurried ease, willing the heat from her cheeks and praying to anyone who would listen that she looked more relaxed than she felt.