Chapter 10
The Department of Botanical Sciences occupied one of the older buildings on campus, its stone facade darkened by decades of coal smoke and weather.
Ivy climbed the walls in thick layers, framing arched windows that looked out over meticulously maintained gardens.
The interior was cooler than the afternoon outside, all shiny mahogany paneling and high ceilings that made our footsteps echo as we walked.
Dr. Ambrose navigated the corridors with the ease of long familiarity, nodding to the occasional student or faculty member we passed.
I followed at his side, aware of the curious glances directed our way—specifically at me, the only woman visible in a building that appeared to be the exclusive domain of men.
We climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor, then turned down a corridor lined with offices. Dr. Ambrose stopped before a door bearing a brass nameplate: Dr. James Winthrop, Professor of Botanical Sciences.
He knocked twice, a familiar rhythm that suggested this was not his first visit.
“Enter,” came a voice from within.
Dr. Ambrose opened the door and gestured for me to precede him.
I stepped into an office that could only be described as chaotically magnificent.
Books lined every available wall and were stacked in precarious towers on the desk and floor where the shelves had run out of space.
Dried plant specimens hung from the ceiling, their labels dangling like toe tags on their withered corpses.
The scent of old paper and preserved vegetation filled the air, underlaid with the mustiness that came from ancient texts.
Behind the desk sat a man perhaps a decade older than Dr. Ambrose, his dark hair showing the first threads of silver at the temples.
He had the lean, angular build of someone who chose study over sustenance, and intelligent gray eyes that assessed me with frank interest from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
He rose as we entered, genuine warmth spreading across his features as his gaze landed on Dr. Ambrose.
“Nicholas,” he said, moving around the desk with his hand extended. “It has been far too long.”
“James.” Dr. Ambrose clasped his hand with obvious fondness. “I apologize for the delay. The past months have been… complicated.”
“I received your letters.” Dr. Winthrop’s expression sobered. “I am glad to see you looking well, all things considered.”
Wordless communication passed between them that spoke of shared history and understanding I was not privy to.
Then Dr. Winthrop’s attention shifted to me, and surprise flickered across his features before being masked by professional courtesy.
He stared at me for a fraction too long, his eyes widening before he caught himself.
The pause was brief, but carried weight I had not missed.
“Forgive me,” he said, recovering smoothly. “You must be the assistant Nicholas mentioned in his correspondence. I confess, I had not expected—” He stopped himself, offering a genuine smile that reached his eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”
“Reed,” I supplied, accepting the hand he extended. His grip was warm and firm, his manner welcoming despite whatever had caused that initial moment of surprise. “Camellia Reed. The pleasure is mine, Dr. Winthrop. Dr. Ambrose speaks very highly of your work.”
“Does he?” Dr. Winthrop glanced at Dr. Ambrose with raised brows. “That is generous of him, considering he finds most of my methods hopelessly boring.”
“I said your methods were conventional,” Dr. Ambrose corrected, humor coloring his tone. “There is a difference.”
“A subtle one.” Dr. Winthrop gestured toward the chairs arranged before his desk. “Please, sit. I assume this visit concerns the Bacopa monnieri you mentioned in your letter?”
We settled into the offered seats. I arranged my skirts carefully, trying to project competence despite the anxiety fluttering in my chest. This was a renowned professor, a published expert in his field. What business did I have offering botanical theories to such a man?
Dr. Ambrose must have sensed my nervousness, because his hand found mine where it rested on the arm of the chair, giving it a brief, reassuring squeeze before releasing it. The gesture was so quick I might have imagined it, but the warmth lingered.
“Yes,” Dr. Ambrose said, his gaze returning to Dr. Winthrop. “I am working with hemlock extractions—attempting to isolate the compounds that affect memory and cognitive function. The preliminary results are promising, but the side effects are significant.”
Dr. Winthrop leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “I imagine so. Conium maculatum is not known for its gentle nature. What sort of side effects?”
“Primarily autonomic disruption. Irregular heartbeat, muscle weakness, and respiratory depression at higher doses. The therapeutic window is frustratingly narrow.”
“Hence the Bacopa.” Dr. Winthrop’s eyes sharpened with interest. “You are looking for something to counteract the negative effects while preserving the cognitive benefits?”
“Not exactly.” Dr. Ambrose glanced at me, and I realized with a start that he was inviting me to explain. “Miss Reed proposed an alternative approach. Perhaps you would share your theory?”
My mouth went dry. Dr. Winthrop’s full attention fixed on me, his expression one of polite curiosity, and I found myself silently cursing how inadequate my knowledge might prove when examined by an expert.
Dr. Ambrose flashed me a reassuring grin when I glanced at him.
I straightened in my chair, gathering what confidence I possessed.
“Bacopa monnieri has well-documented effects on memory formation and cognitive enhancement through entirely different mechanisms than hemlock. Rather than attempting to counteract the hemlock’s negative effects, I wondered if combining the two compounds might create a synergistic effect—the hemlock suppressing whatever mechanisms prevent memory retrieval, while the Bacopa strengthens the neural pathways that allow new memories to form and old ones to resurface. ”
Dr. Winthrop’s eyebrows rose. He leaned forward, his entire demeanor shifting from polite intrigue to genuine fascination.
“That is actually quite clever. The two compounds work on different neurological systems—combining them could theoretically provide benefits from both without the negative interactions you might see from compounds affecting the same pathways.” He looked at Dr. Ambrose with something like approval. “Your assistant is quite brilliant.”
“That she is,” Dr. Ambrose said, and there was warmth mixed with a deeper emotion I could not name that made my cheeks heat. “Miss Reed’s understanding of plant properties is exceptional, especially given the limitations of formal education available to women.”
“Clearly.” Dr. Winthrop returned his attention to me. “Have you had any formal training, Miss Reed? Or is this entirely self-taught?”
“My father was a botanist,” I admitted. “I have read extensively on the subject. His library contained several botanical texts that I studied when I was younger.”
That much was true, even if I could not remember the specific texts or the process of learning from them. The knowledge remained, even if its origins had been stolen by whatever had happened to me.
Dr. Winthrop nodded thoughtfully. “Well, your theory is sound enough to warrant investigation. I have several Bacopa specimens in the research greenhouse, and you are welcome to take whatever you need for your experiments.”
He stood, and we rose with him. But as Dr. Ambrose moved toward the door, Dr. Winthrop caught his arm, holding him back with a gentle but insistent grip.
“Nicholas,” he said quietly, his eyes flicking to me then back to his friend. “A word, if I may?”
A look weighted with meaning I was unable to decipher passed between them. Dr. Ambrose’s jaw tightened before he nodded.
“Miss Reed, would you mind waiting in the corridor for a moment?” he asked, his tone light despite the tension in his expression.
“Of course,” I said, though curiosity burned through me.
I stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me but not quite latching it. The wood was old, slightly warped, and a narrow gap remained where the door failed to meet the frame properly.
I should not eavesdrop. It was inappropriate and invasive, exactly the sort of boundary violation that might have cost me my position after the incident in Dr. Ambrose’s bedchamber.
I pressed my ear to the gap anyway, their words ebbing and flowing through the door until I could just make out pieces of the conversation.
“Nicholas, what are you doing?” Dr. Winthrop’s voice carried clearly, hushed but urgent.
“I know how it appears, James.” Dr. Ambrose’s response was tighter, defensive. “But it is not what you think.”
“Is it not? Because from where I stand, it looks like you are…” His voice hushed, the ending trailing off.
“I know what I am doing.” The words were clipped, final.
“For how long? Nicholas, this cannot possibly end well. You do not truly believe—”
“I am not having this discussion with you.” Dr. Ambrose’s voice dropped to a register I had never heard from him before—cold and unyielding, carrying a warning that brooked no argument. “I appreciate your concern, James, but my choices are not subject to your approval.”
There was a long pause, a few more muffled words that were inaudible, then Dr. Winthrop sighed, the sound carrying a world of reluctant resignation.
“Does she know what you are working toward? What it might mean if you succeed?”
“No, not yet.”
The rest of the conversation fell too quiet to hear, even as I held my breath.
Footsteps approached the door. I stepped back quickly, arranging my expression into one of polite patience as Dr. Ambrose emerged, Dr. Winthrop following close behind.