Chapter Fourteen
ELODIE
The greenhouse emerged from behind an old ash tree, cloaked in the same fading glory as yesterday.
Moss and ivy clung to its iron bones like a protective blanket, shielding the glass panels from the sharp bite of late autumn.
Brown leaves scattered the damp earth, their edges curling beneath the milky fog.
I found the door unlocked and slipped inside with my mum’s worn herbal book tucked under my arm. A whisper of warmth wrapped around me, thin, but kinder than the chill outside. Still, I was glad I’d chosen two sweaters, as my breath clouded from my mouth.
Light filtered through the glass, soft and grey, breaking over the room in fractured silver.
Wooden tables framed the space, each lined with rows of earthen vases, some bloomed while others wilted.
I stepped along the winding stone path, its edges worn smooth by time, and knelt beside a plant with silvery leaves and soft, pale fuzz along its stems.
I opened the book in my hands, the scent of crushed pine and damp soil wrapping around me. I flipped carefully through the pages until I found the one I was looking for.
I traced the drawing with a fingertip, pausing at the faded scribbles in the margins—my mother’s handwriting, delicate and curling like the vines around the door.
That’s why it was so familiar. She used to brew it when I had fevers, crushing the leaves with honey and lemon. It tasted bitter, but it always helped.
I plucked a few of the velvety leaves and tucked them into my pocket, then I closed the book, my fingers lingering on the worn leather cover.
The greenhouse breathed around me, quiet and damp and alive with green.
In the far corner, beside a spindly tree with curling branches, sat an iron chair and a round table dusted in rust. I made my way along the narrow stone path, trailing my fingertips along leaves both soft and spiny. Some were familiar, others strangers.
The earthy sharpness of the air filled my lungs, heady and clean. After years of city smog, this place felt like breathing for the first time. I curled into the chair, tucking my legs beneath me, and set the book on my lap. That’s when I noticed a tiny marking on the wooden surface of the table.
E.T.
Could it be Esmée Thornbury? I traced the harsh edges of the carving, my heart thudding faster than before. It felt like she had left a message, as if saying, I was here.
I placed my palm over it, hiding the letters from my eyes, until my heartbeat slowed. Only then did I lift my hand away and flip the book open. I wanted to mark the pages I thought might be useful later.