Chapter 8 #2
Turning from the rich scenery, I glance at Callan. “Anything I need to know before we get there?”
He shakes his head. “Just be yourself.”
My brows rise, questioning that statement.
Callan shrugs. “I meant what I said.”
“Okay…” I return my attention to the greenhouse. “This should be fun.”
I take in the stained-glass building as we approach, the rusted metal frame holding each pane in place.
At its domed apex, the glass roof is nearly three stories tall, and the massive arched door is propped open.
All around us, Floras flitter about, unbothered by our approach as they head out to the gardens, thick sacks slung over their shoulders and wide-brimmed hats shading their faces from the sun.
Callan steps inside with purpose, while I step inside like a child seeing snow for the first time—eyes wide and head on a swivel.
Sunlight filters in from all directions, shooting beams of green light over every inch of the space. Vines creep over the walls, wrapping around the spiraling staircases, and the open-faced railings allow you to see each level from the ground to the domed ceiling.
Floras walk back and forth between planter boxes, much like nurses checking patient vitals, and I follow Callan past desks littered with stems, seeds, and glass beakers, keeping in step as he leads us towards a massive column along the back wall.
There are deep shelves lining it, each packed with glass jars of various, seemingly alive things. Things that zip around inside as if they’re trying to escape. Things that crawl down the sides of the glass and things that cause the jars to rattle.
“Whoa,” I gape, unable to contain my wonder. “What are those?”
“All kinds of things,” Callan explains. “Poisons and potions, herbs that could do just about anything you want. Plants with healing properties and others with magic abilities that they’ve yet to even discover.
The Floras are Botanists.” He lifts his eyes, dragging his gaze up the column of shelves all the way to the ceiling. “And that is their collection.”
I’m admiring said collection when a feminine voice drawls from somewhere in front of us, snapping my gaze forward. “What brings you to my side of camp, Captain?”
Shit.
She’s beautiful.
Light, flawless skin, shoulder-length golden hair that barely brushes her collarbones.
Her eyes are green like clovers, bright and vibrant.
They match the fine-line ink that wraps her arms in delicate vines and flowers.
Even though everyone else wears smocks, she’s in denim overalls, and there’s a cheery look on her face that falters when she notices me.
“You must be Lucina.” She pulls off her gloves as she approaches, tucking them into her pocket before offering her hand to me. “I’m Aster.”
Of course she is.
I hesitate before taking her hand. “You know who I am?”
Aster looks on the edge of laughter, an incredulous tilt to her heart-shaped lips. “You’ve been the talk of Pirn,” she says, bright green eyes sliding to Callan. “Ever since the Captain made such a spectacle on Selumira.”
Callan stares blankly back at her, with no evidence that what she’d said affected him at all.
“We have a few questions for you,” he says finally. Callan’s tone is every bit the Captain—short, stern, and straight to the point.
“And skip the pleasantries?” Aster mocks offense, which leads Callan to draw in a deep breath.
I’m not quite sure who to look at. I suddenly feel like I’m eavesdropping on a conversation I shouldn’t be a part of.
Aster’s head tilts to the side. “Don’t talk to me like you don’t know me, Callan.”
Gross.
“The business we’re here on has nothing to do with you, just information you may or may not know.” Callan’s face remains unreadable, completely indifferent. I, on the other hand, am surely grimacing.
Aster stares back at his stoic face, as if she’s expecting it to crack. Or at least, that’s how I’m interpreting the look.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come.
Her green eyes dart back to me. “What’s your question?”
It takes me a second to find my words. “Uh, do you know of any herb or…plant…” I look to Callan for approval, unsure of what we’re allowed to share, and I continue my question when he nods, “...that could grant clearance through a ward?”
Aster’s brow lifts, and she plants both hands on her hips as she surveys us both. “What kind of ward?”
“Blood,” Callan supplies.
Aster stares off for a moment, rolling her lips together as she thinks. When the answer strikes her, she lets out a small laugh, and my brows furrow.
“You’d have to take the perfect dosage,” she sighs, “mixed with a fraction of the antidote, and even then the chances of surviving are slim, but…” Aster glances at me. “Ashvine.”
My lips part to ask a follow-up question, but Callan beats me to it. “Why the fuck is that funny?”
That wasn’t my follow-up question.
Aster looks a bit shocked at his tone, but not at all remorseful. “Not funny, sorry, just a coincidence.” But it looks like she might laugh again. Aster’s attention falls back on me, and I’m not confident that she’s very sincere as she says, “It was awful what happened to you, Lucina.”
My eyes narrow, a beat of silence passing between us.
Either she thinks I’m stupid, or she herself doesn’t have much behind the eyes.
“You sold it to him, didn’t you?” I reply. “The Ashvine. You sold it to Fenton.”
All the amusement is wiped from her face, and I feel the weight of Callan’s stare as I piece it together. Where else would he have gotten the poison? He sure as shit wasn’t growing it behind his cabin.
Aster fumbles for an explanation, static filling the space we stand in. “I-I only sell poison with the antidote.”