Chapter 14
Unfortunately, all concern for M. and the mysterious flower dissolved the moment I stepped into the study the following morning.
Dr. Ambrose was waiting for me.
He stood, hips resting against his desk, the journal that revealed Hawthorne’s creation in his hands.
I paused in the doorway, our eyes meeting across the space between us. A slow-spreading grin teased his lips, but beneath that amusement lay something cold and dangerous.
I collected myself with effort, plastering an expression on my face I hoped was casual. My pulse thrummed loudly enough that I wondered if he heard it from where he stood.
“Good morning,” I said, my voice coming out a pitch too high. The false cheerfulness rang hollow even to my own ears.
“Good morning, Miss Reed,” he replied, surveying me with those penetrating eyes, taking in my posture, and the slight tremor in my hands I was trying desperately to control.
It truly annoyed me how observant he was.
I took a few cautious steps into the study. “What do you have there?”
He held the journal up, turning it in his hands so the gold-embossed date caught the morning light streaming through the windows. “I think you know.”
My heart sank, but I tried to maintain my composure. “I am afraid I do not understand—”
“Please.” He held up one hand to stop me. “Let us not insult each other’s intelligence with unnecessary denials.”
I pressed my lips together, saying nothing.
“It is the strangest thing,” he mused, tilting his head as he watched me. “This journal went missing the very night you arrived at the house.”
He straightened from his casual lean against the desk, taking a step toward me. “But when I came into my study this morning, I noticed it had mysteriously reappeared, exactly where it belonged.”
I wrung my hands in front of me, the gesture betraying my nervousness. I forced my gaze to meet his. “I have no idea what you are implying, Dr. Ambrose. I have never seen that journal before in my life.”
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, made worse by the fact that we both knew it was a lie.
“Is that so?” One dark brow lifted, his expression shifting toward skepticism. “How odd. I asked Agnes this morning if she had taken it for any reason. She confirmed she had not, and it certainly was not me who removed it from this shelf.”
He paused, his gaze searching mine with uncomfortable thoroughness. “That would leave you, the only other person in the house.”
I swallowed hard, my lungs constricting. My mind raced through possible explanations, excuses that might sound plausible, ways to deflect his suspicion.
“Perhaps…” I began, then fumbled as the words caught in my throat. “What about Hawthorne? He might have taken it.”
Dr. Ambrose laughed, the sound low and rich. It would have been appealing under different circumstances—if I were not so panicked, if my entire position here were not hanging by a thread.
“I think you know that is a rather impossible theory.” He observed me closely now. “Hawthorne is not human. He does not have a brain. He cannot read, nor can he understand the significance of written documentation. He is, for all his remarkable animation, incapable of intellectual curiosity.”
I stared at him, emotionless.
The confirmation of what I had read was stated so baldly, so matter-of-factly, as though he were discussing a peculiar limitation in any normal servant rather than acknowledging that said servant was a botanical construct animated by a vine that fed on death.
He nodded as he watched my reaction, clearly noting that I was not shocked by the revelation—that I had already known Hawthorne lacked anything resembling human awareness.
“Not surprised, I see,” he said, grinning.
He closed the distance between us with three measured steps, lifting one hand to tilt my face up—ensuring I could not look away even if I wanted to.
“Admit it,” he said, his voice dropping intimately.
“Admit that you took this journal, that you read it without permission, and I shall tell you everything you wish to know about Hawthorne.”
My mouth opened, the confession forming almost without conscious thought. I imagined pressing my lips to his, spilling the words onto his tongue, and tasting all his dark secrets in return.
But the words stuck there, refusing to emerge.
It might be a trap, a way to coerce the truth from me so he would have grounds to dismiss me from my position.
I had already been caught in his bedchamber and eavesdropping with no logical explanation, my reputation hanging by the thinnest thread of his forbearance.
I could not afford to lose this position before I had gained access to his memory research.
He was so close to finding a cure. Soon I would be able to bring back my stolen memories, to fill in all those gaps that plagued me. I needed that research more than my pride, more than my curiosity, more than anything else I might lose by staying silent.
I frowned, feigning innocence. “I fear I cannot admit to something I did not do, sir.”
It was not a lie entirely. I did not take the journal. Hawthorne had taken it, and I had simply read what was thrust upon me.
We stood there for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine until I felt transparent. It was as if he saw straight through my bitter lies to the guilt churning beneath. I held his gaze, unable to look away, my chin still cupped gently in his palm.
A small, knowing smile curved his lips, suggesting he understood exactly what game we were playing and had decided to let me win. At least for now.
“Do be careful.” His voice dipped, thick and velvety. “Curiosity killed the cat, is that not what they say?”
I smirked, despite the hammering of my pulse, finishing the quote. “But satisfaction brought it back.”
His smile faltered, the grief I had come to recognize in him returning. “Is that what you need, Camellia? Satisfaction?”
I stared at him, confusion evident on my face, but he did not offer any clarity. He released my chin and stepped back, the absence of his touch leaving my skin cold and my chest hollow.
“I suppose,” he said finally, moving toward his desk, his fingers gripping the edge as he let out a deep breath. “If you insist you know nothing about this journal’s mysterious journey, then we must leave the matter as an unsolved mystery.”
“Though I confess,” he added, “I find myself curious what you would have thought of its contents. Had you read it, of course.”
The words hung in the air. He was giving me one final opportunity to salvage this without making it an ultimatum.
The overwhelming urge to admit to my crime, to wrench from him the truth about Hawthorne and his wife, was almost too much to let slip away so easily.
But I did not dare cave. I wanted to know his secrets, but my own needs outweighed that desperate hunger.
“I am certain it would have been fascinating,” I replied, keeping my voice level. “Your research always is… from what little I have been privileged to observe.”
He inclined his head once. “Well then. You should go have breakfast. Meet me in the greenhouse once you have finished." He paused, crossing his arms over his chest. "The Bacopa is ready for grafting."
I turned and fled the study with as much dignity as I could manage, hoping my footsteps were measured and not as panicked as I felt.
Breakfast was a hurried affair. I forced down toast and tea under Agnes's concerned gaze, offering reassurances that I was simply eager to begin the day's work.
She seemed satisfied with the explanation, chattering about the weather and the need to order more flour while I barely tasted anything I ate.
My mind kept retracing the encounter in the study. He had said the journal had gone missing the very night I had arrived at Ambrose house, which meant Hawthorne had taken it then, but why?
I could not help going over that small detail.
Hawthorne stood in the corner, gaze focused ahead without blinking.
I stared at him, wondering if the mysterious M.
had been correct. Was it possible that, even without a brain, Hawthorne had somehow managed to retain memories and think for himself?
Was that why he had given me the journal?
Did he want me to know about him? Did he want me to know about what Dr. Ambrose was capable of?
Was there some correlation between Hawthorne’s creation and Dr. Ambrose’s wife’s death?
Had the vine that had created Hawthorne’s life also taken hers?
I shoved the neverending questions away. They would have to wait for now.
As soon as I could politely escape, I hurried back through the house toward the greenhouse. Dr. Ambrose was waiting when I entered, standing at his workbench. The afternoon light streaming through the glass panels overhead caught the gold in his amber eyes as he looked up at my approach.
His workstation was arranged neatly with scalpels laid out in order of size and strips of grafting tape coiled beside them.
Two small pots sat in the center, one containing the Bacopa monnieri with its small succulent leaves, the other holding a young hemlock specimen, its feathery foliage distinctive even at this stage of growth.
A wooden grafting board had been positioned at the optimal angle, clean cloth spread beneath to catch any sap or debris. Glass vials of various solutions stood ready—rooting hormone, antiseptic wash, and a nutrient mixture I recognized from previous observations.
He smiled at me as I walked in, and despite the stolen journal and the lies and the ghost beckoning me through hallways, my heart fluttered traitorously in my chest.
"Just in time," he said, gesturing for me to join him at the bench.
I crossed the greenhouse, forcing my gaze to the table and away from his handsome face.
He reached for one of the scalpels, testing its edge with gentle pressure against his thumb. Sunlight gleamed on the blade, catching the steel at just the right angle to throw the reflection directly into my eyes.