Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Submitting his paper takes until midday, and by then, the rain has stopped.
The stone paths of the university glisten in the faint autumn sunlight.
Ethram navigates the slick paving stones to the greenhouses in the botanical yard.
It’s not a place he’s ever had much reason to be, but he’s on the search for Ky’s riverleaf.
Ethram had asked Taylor, a Luminary he finds mostly tolerable, and Taylor had asked Yates, who had reminded them both that the university has its own greenhouses and botany faculty.
He nudges the door to the main greenhouse open. It’s empty, but for a single man in hide gloves and an apron at a potting bench. The rich soil is piled around him in mounds, and he’s tugging apart seedlings in efficient, brisk motions.
“Pardon the intrusion,” says Ethram, and the man looks up.
He’s got pale hair, too, though not near as moon-soft as Ky’s. “Yes?” he says. “You aren’t my usual sort of visitor at all.” He smiles, and it makes his face friendly.
“I’m trying to track down a plant for my garden, and I haven’t been able to find it. I wondered if someone here might help.”
“Oh, a fellow gardener,” says the man with cheer. “Well, I’ll certainly do my best.” He tugs his gloves off and throws them onto the mound of soil. When he sticks out a hand to shake Ethram’s, his hands are dark and soil-caked, anyway.
Ethram shakes his hand because he’s polite, but he’s rather caught off guard by a scholar who greets people like a sailor does. People in Esk do not touch hands quite so easily as outer-isles folk do.
“I’m hardly a gardener,” admits Ethram. He hesitates, then says, “My lover is. It’s for him.”
“A romantic, then. Even better. I’m a bit of a romantic myself.” He laughs at whatever Ethram’s face is doing. “I’m Fletcher Avelin, by-the-by. Pleased to meet you.”
“Hart.”
Avelin clearly wants to make the obvious jest about romantics and hearts, but he keeps it back. Ethram appreciates his restraint.
“So, Hart. What are you searching for?”
“All I know is that it’s called riverleaf.”
So far, everyone at the market has met this request with a blank face. Ethram is expecting much the same, but Avelin’s eyes turn bright.
“Riverleaf, is it? That’s an odd request. Your lover must be a true antiquary. It’s quite a rare plant these days.” He doesn’t seem at all daunted by this. He claps a hand on Ethram’s shoulder, gesturing him out of the greenhouse. “Lucky for you, my mentor is absolutely wild about rare plants.”
“Might they have some seeds they would part with?”
Avelin raises a brow. “I can do you better.”
He takes them to a small greenhouse that is half stone and half tilted glass windows, and mostly overgrown with a fragrant, tangling plant with pale yellow leaves.
There’s a heap of trays and clay pots inside, and a woodland of plants in various stages of growth.
Avelin steps into the mess of it, and after some sifting through things, returns with a shallow clay pot crammed with a soft, spilling plant.
The blue-green leaves have a faint silver pattern.
“Riverleaf,” says Avelin. “Grew these myself.” When Ethram makes no move, he jostles the pot a little, like a fishing lure in the river. “Go on, then. Take it.”
Ethram does. “The whole pot?”
“Sure, why not? I grew too much. And putting it back into some gardens in Esk would be no bad thing. It used to grow all over, you know. It’s almost disappeared from the river banks, and I’ve never seen it in a garden.”
Ethram considers the pot. It’s small enough. It won’t be too difficult to take home. He’ll wrap the pot in some paper to preserve his coat, though. “Does it have any uses?”
“Salves, balms. Apparently, you can make tea from it, though I’ve not tried to do so yet. Mostly, it used to be used in wreaths and garlands for festivals and such, which isn’t surprising, given its folkloric properties.”
Ethram waits, but Avelin seems finished. “The folkloric properties?” he prompts.
Avelin blinks, as if he’s reeled himself back from some thought. “Protection, consecration of a sacred space. Blessing with safety.”
“Ah,” says Ethram.
Avelin tips his head, considers. “What else is your lover planting?”
“Rosemary, marigolds, artemisia, yarrow, rue, lavender—” He breaks off, seeing Avelin’s grin.
“Elderberry?” Avelin laughs when Ethram inclines his head. “Your lover is a very cautious folklorist, I see. Well, no harm. You’ll have the most protected house in Esk.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Oh, nothing.” Avelin bustles him out of the greenhouse. “It was my pleasure. Always happy to indulge a fellow plant-lover. I hope your gift makes him very happy.”
Avelin is an odd fellow, Ethram decides.
He’s also perhaps the most pleasant person Ethram has ever met on university grounds.
He doesn’t know how Avelin has survived so far with such an obliging nature.
Usually, those sorts are the first torn down.
Either way, he can’t see someone so generous sticking around for long.
The cottage is empty when he gets home. He puts the riverleaf on the kitchen windowsill and checks the garden and the washhouse.
There is no sign of Ky, but that’s not so unusual.
He might be in any number places, doing odd jobs or stopping by for tea with one of the many neighbours he has befriended.
He makes dinner, and by the time the dark is pressing in and the meal is ready, Ky is still not home. Ethram eats and washes his dishes. He sets Ky’s portion aside in the pantry, though he’s not expecting it to be eaten.
He’s not a foolish man. He knows where Ky has gone.
He knows now what his mood had heralded, and what that kiss had been.
There is an aether lantern in the hall, and he turns it on and sets it in the front window. Then he takes a knife from the kitchen and places it beside the bed before he turns in.
It’s been almost a year since he’s slept alone. The dark has never felt so present.