Chapter 6 #2
Across the greenhouse, he worked with that same absorbed focus I had observed the day before.
The distillation apparatus ran beside him, its glass components carrying liquids in a steady progression.
He bent over his notes, rubbing his forehead in deep concentration, and occasionally reached for a reference text stacked at the end of the bench, cross-checking something against his observations with a small, dissatisfied frown.
I tried to focus on my own work, but found myself watching him—and his experiments—from the corner of my eye.
The logbook lay open beside him, but the notes were too far away to read.
What I was able to determine with any certainty was that the belladonna extraction he had been working on the day before had yielded disappointing results.
He had pushed it to one side and brought forward a different cutting, though I was unable to identify it from where I stood.
His fingers brushed a poisonous leaf, and I imagined the plant recognizing him. A colleague, perhaps, or a rival. Something equally as dangerous.
I forced my gaze away from his hands, focusing on his journal. The urge to cross the greenhouse and simply look at his notes was almost overwhelming.
Instead, I bent over my own log and wrote down the root structure of a hogweed seedling while trying to think strategically.
I needed to find a way to impress him, to demonstrate my knowledge in a way he would not expect—to offer him something useful enough that cataloging would become an obvious waste of my time.
But how?
I was still calculating the geometry of this problem when something moved forward in my skull.
It was the same feeling that had been present the day before—the slithering sensation I had grown accustomed to each time my companion emerged from the darkened depths.
There was a directional pull against my eyes as my attention slid from my work without my permission.
My gaze drifted from one corner of the greenhouse to the next, searching, though I still had no guess at what it wanted.
I set down my pen, curious as to what it could possibly hope to find.
What are you looking for? I thought, but no answer came.
My eyes continued sweeping the room, pausing on certain specimens and moving past others, following some logic to which I was not privy.
I was used to the voice's occasional intrusions.
The encouragement toward darkness, and even the cold observations.
I had learned to resist it and, when I was unable to resist it, to ignore it, but this was different.
It felt purposeful in a way that had nothing to do with me—a want that existed independently of my own, a hunger that was not mine settling against the inside of my skull with the quiet weight of something that had been patient a very long time and was beginning, at last, to tire of it.
With great effort, I forced my eyes back to my worktable, just long enough to take up my pen again before its search continued.
I noted the specimens my eyes paused on—nothing identifiable as a pattern yet, no obvious connection to one another, but whatever it was searching for, it believed it might be found here.
After examining every possible plant, my companion lost interest—or hope—and went still again, leaving behind only the residue of its disappointment.
I chose not to consider what it meant that I was unbothered by this.
By late afternoon, I had cataloged perhaps two dozen specimens, my hand aching from repetitive writing, and my vision blurring as it did when I had pushed myself too hard.
I was focused on the seedling before me, trying to determine whether it was Datura stramonium or the closely related Datura metel—when Hawthorne appeared, carrying a tray laden with tea things and sandwiches.
He set it on the small table between our workstations, inclined his head in that barely perceptible motion that constituted his version of acknowledgment, then left just as soundlessly as he came.
“Miss Reed,” Dr. Ambrose called, rolling his shoulders as he straightened from his bench. “Join me, please.”
I set down my pen and crossed to the table where he was already pouring tea. He dropped two cubes of sugar into mine—which was precisely how I took it.
I glanced at him curiously as he held it out to me. “How did you know how I prefer my tea?”
He considered this a moment before grinning. “I am a doctor. Being observant is a curse of the occupation.”
I made a noncommittal sound and told myself it was a reasonable answer.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked, his eyes drifting to my hands where they rested around the teacup.
I followed his gaze and suppressed a groan. I had forgotten to position them to conceal the lividity.
“Better now that I am eating something,” I said, which was true if not the answer to the question he had actually asked. I released the teacup and reached for a sandwich, tucking my other hand into my lap. “The work is going well. I have made good progress.”
He watched me closely, but appeared to choose not to press the subject of my health—which I was both grateful for, and simultaneously envious of his ability to contain his curiosity.
“The cataloging is still quite boring, I imagine,” he said, with a teasing edge to his voice.
“As you said, it is necessary work,” I replied with a shrug.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You do not need to dissemble, Miss Reed. I know it is hardly exciting. That is rather the point.”
“The point?”
“Yes, to see if you have the patience for it.” He sipped his tea. “Many people are attracted to scientific research because they imagine dramatic discoveries. They do not realize that ninety percent of the work is exactly this—boring.”
“And you think I might be one of those people?”
“No,” he said. “But one can never be sure.”
I resisted the urge to narrow my eyes, turning my focus to gaining whatever trust he deemed necessary to allow me to assist with the extractions.
“How is your research progressing?” I asked innocently, calculating my plan.
He leaned back, considering. “Belladonna is not the right plant. The alkaloids are too unstable and I believe the effects are too unpredictable. I can induce temporary memory disruption, but the dosage required is dangerously close to toxic levels.”
“That is unfortunate,” I said, feigning disappointment, though I had already guessed as much. “So what plant are you working with now?”
“Hemlock,” he replied, glancing briefly around the greenhouse.
I hid my smile behind my teacup, pulling information from what memory I still possessed. “Interesting choice. You should try grafting it with Bacopa monnieri,” I suggested, as though I had only just thought of the idea. “It has been used in Ayurvedic medicine for memory enhancement for centuries.”
He looked at me with interest, then suspicion—he truly was irritatingly observant.
“You are familiar with Eastern medicinal plants?” he asked, tilting his head curiously.
“My father had correspondence with scholars in India and China and believed Western botanists were foolish to dismiss traditional medicine simply because it came from different cultures.” I wrapped my hands around my teacup again, forgetting to hide the discoloration in my enthusiasm.
“Remarkable.” He was watching me with a slight grin now. “And Bacopa—you’ve worked with it personally?”
“Only in preserved form. My father had samples, though I do not recall…” I trailed off, frustrated as I hit another wall in my memory. “I remember the plant itself, but not the specific research he was conducting.”
“A pity,” he said, his tone almost disappointed. “It is an intriguing theory, nevertheless.”
He sat forward then, tapping his finger over his lips, and I watched his brilliant mind working over the possible solution. I jumped at the opportunity, doubting I had much time before he would figure it out on his own.
“Bacopa enhances acetylcholine activity,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual. “Which is the mechanism the alkaloids disrupt. They might work in opposition, one clearing the pathway while the other strengthens it.”
He looked at me steadily for a moment, and I recognized the slight recalibration of how he was seeing me—the adjustment that happened when someone exceeded what you had anticipated.
"You have read Müller's work on cholinergic transmission," he said. It was not quite a question, but I nodded anyway.
“My father had the monograph. I read most of what he kept.” I hesitated.
“I would like to read yours—your notes, I mean, your actual research documentation, if you would let me.” I kept my voice measured and matter-of-fact.
“I could contribute more meaningfully if I understood the full scope of what you are attempting.”
He was quiet for a moment, then one corner of his mouth curved into a devilish smirk. He leaned forward, making the distance between us over the small table nearly obsolete.
“Miss Reed,” he said softly, his tone deep and rich. “If one did not know better, one might assume you are trying to seduce me with your brilliance into revealing all my secrets.”
I opened my mouth to deny the accusation, but words failed me when his eyes trailed to my lips, lingering there. His throat bobbed when he swallowed, and my gaze caught on his pulse. So much life gathered in one fragile column of flesh.
I reached up, touching the ribbon around my neck, feeling my own heartbeat beneath, moving in time with his. His expression faltered as he watched, the moment vanishing before I could fully process it. He stood abruptly and turned away from me.
“Finish the cataloging,” he said over his shoulder, moving toward his workstation. “I will consider your request.”
I remained at the table a moment longer, staring at his back—irritated, confused, and breathless—before returning to my workstation and forcing my attention onto the remaining seedlings.