Qinghe had spread the travel chest across the storehouse table before Yan arrived. A row of bottles stood beside a list, and two soft-wrapped bundles waited by the door. Ning compared each label with the clinic’s own supply record while Qinghe chose what the voyage would need.
“This rare salve stays here,” Ning said, sliding it toward the clinic shelf. “The crew has an ordinary burn ointment, and no one should waste this on a bruise.”
Qinghe agreed. She moved a second jar into the Orchard supply basket. “The ship can manage without both. If one of the clinic patients needs it, the healer on duty will know where it is.”
They took out two other salves whose ingredients spoiled in damp heat. Qinghe explained that they were unlikely to hold up at sea. In their place, she added a simple fever powder that island ports might not carry. “It has a short list of ingredients and a known dose. If we need it, the captain can keep it dry.”
Yan lifted the medicine chest to test its weight. “I can carry it.”
“Of course,” Qinghe said. “But you don’t decide how it’s packed.”
“I wasn’t going to.” He set it back without a thump. “Tell me where you want the weight.”
