Chapter 11 #2
“I believe learning about their preservation will tell us more about the ways they used the herbs. Different methods might reveal if a leaf was intended to be brewed into a tea or ground into a powder, for example.”
“And that relates to your other work?” Mrs. Henry asked. “I understand you’ve made something of a name for yourself at the university as a poisons expert.”
“Oh,” Saffron began awkwardly, “well, I don’t know about that. My other research does include poisonous plants … and this does relate, in a roundabout sort of way. I suppose it may seem unrelated, since the plants in the urns have been more gastronomical and medicinal.”
Mrs. Henry paused, peering at Saffron from over her smoked lenses. “I read your application. Your study proposal mentioned something about searching for remnants of henbane, belladonna. Those are poisonous. Why not speak about those?”
Saffron was still taken aback to learn Mrs. Henry had read her application. “Well, I …”
“It could be that you believe I lack enough knowledge about your field of study, or indeed, this field”—she nodded to the literal field they stood in—“to have any interest or potential for real conversation about your work.” She set off again through the grass.
“Or you might think to be coy with your plans. That is fair, in this climate.”
As she trotted to keep up, Mrs. Demirel looked between Saffron and Mrs. Henry as one might watch a tennis match if one was desperately concerned about the outcome.
Mrs. Henry smiled back at Saffron. “Academics, you know, are terribly competitive. Secrets kept are studies published, or so my dear husband has told me.”
Unsure if she was being teased, shamed, or challenged, Saffron said nothing, and found herself naming the plants they walked over in the sooth, unconscious manner of a botanist. It was mostly species of grass she’d learned on arrival, but her eyes caught on a cottony tuft trapped in spiny bracts, and she smiled, comforted by the familiar plant.
She threw her arm out just in time to catch Mrs. Demirel before she trod on the milk thistle. “I wouldn’t step on that,” she cautioned, but Mrs. Demirel scrambled away, clawing at Saffron’s arm.
“A snake!” she cried, her eyes wild as she looked about the now trampled grass. Then her scrambling abruptly stopped. “Oh, but it’s just s—” She glanced at Saffron, then back down at the thistle. “I actually don’t know what that’s called.”
Surely, Mrs. Demirel wasn’t poking fun at her, too.
Saffron exhaled, telling herself to stop hearing insult in every word.
“It’s Silybum marianum, milk thistle.” And as Mrs. Henry was looking at her with an arched brow, added hesitantly, “The seeds have been used to ease stomach and liver troubles. But it would be quite unpleasant to step on.”
Mrs. Demirel was staring down at the plant with an abstracted frown.
“Did it scratch you?” Saffron asked her, peering down at Mrs. Demirel’s canvas Mary-Janes, not an ideal shoe to be walking a field or a dig site in.
She shook her head, flashing her a quick, strained smile.
“No, not at all. Just, it’s such a strange-looking thing, with all those spikes, isn’t it?
But there are more flowers here, aren’t there?
More pleasant ones? What about that one?
” She pointed to a small flower peeking between two discarded, overgrown rocks.
Its thin petals were palest purple, the color of clouds at sunrise, and crested with long stamens of gold. “Oh!” Saffron hurried over to crouch by the plant. “This is meadow saffron!”
“Meadow … saffron?” Mrs. Henry repeated with a smile playing at her red lips.
Too pleased to wonder if mockery was forthcoming, she traced one delicate petal with a finger. How could she have missed it during her rambles around the site? “Colchicum autumnale. It’s not the source of the spice, that is Crocus sativus.”
Mrs. Henry peered down at the little flower. “Is this one edible, like saffron?”
“Not at all. It’s poisonous, too.” She had the exact information about meadow saffron, along with dozens of other species she’d predicted finding in the agora’s stores, stashed away in a notebook or one of the textbooks she’d brought with her.
She vaguely recalled meadow saffron was used for joint pain.
“Though, like many poisonous plants, it can be used medicinally. But I certainly wouldn’t recommend taking a bite out of it. ”
“Cynthia!”
Dr. Henry’s voice was so loud, it carried from the edge of the pit, which Saffron hadn’t noticed they’d ventured so far from. They made their way back across the field, and found the flurry of movement had ebbed, but the excitement had not.
Dr. Henry stood at the center of it, hands braced on his hips, covered in dust and his clothing stained with sweat. He watched his wife’s approach with a gleam in his eyes and a smirk on his hard face.
“Cynthia,” he growled, “come here.”
Mrs. Henry shot Saffron a quick grin. “Yes, darling.”
He led his wife down the steps to the pit with all the care of a knight guiding his lady queen.
Wakefield walked by, hefting a large crate. “Had a nice stroll through the flowers, did you?” he sneered between huffs.
“Evaluating the local landscape is part of my research, yes,” she said stiffly.
She’d have left it at that, but Mrs. Demirel decided to speak up. “Do you enjoy plants, too, Mr. Wakefield?”
He grinned. “I enjoy the ones I can eat and smoke, ma’am.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t eat the ones Miss Everleigh showed us,” Mrs. Demirel said, deadly serious. “Even the charming little meadow saffron is dangerous. Isn’t that right, Miss Everleigh?”
Wakefield’s eyes glittered at her. “Meadow saffron?”
Saffron wouldn’t have minded if Mrs. Demirel’s timidity had been more pronounced just then. “Yes. It is a local species here,” she said with as much unbothered dignity she could manage, knowing this was going to be used to mock her later.
Alexander had appeared over the edge of the pit, and waved her over. “Excuse me,” she told Wakefield and Mrs. Demirel, and went to him.
The interior of the pit itself had been cleared away of most of the crew, save for a handful of people in the middle of the trench.
Mr. Hayrettin stood with a few of the Turkish guides and a few crew members.
Alexander was grinning when she reached him at the bottom of the steps.
His cheeks were ruddy and sweat streaked the dust clinging to his skin.
Utterly distracted, she followed the progress of a droplet as it trickled from his temple to his jaw and down his neck to disappear into the parted collar of his rumpled shirt.
She swallowed hard, and forced her eyes back to his. His smile had faded, leaving behind a rather hungry expression.
“Ashton!”
Dr. Henry’s bark drew their attention. He stood in a crooked arch of mismatched wood built into the wall. Saffron blinked. That doorway had not been there yesterday.
“Take a look,” Henry said. His gruff tones couldn’t hide his delight.
“What happened?” Saffron asked as she followed Alexander closer.
“The wall they were working on collapsed inward,” he said over his shoulder. “It was partially hollow inside. Look.”
With wonder, Saffron peered inside the arch. There was only a few feet of space immediately within the door, the rest blocked by loose dirt and rock. Her eyes caught on the edge of one of the piles of rubble and what it covered. Or rather, what had been uncovered.
“Oh,” she gasped, and pressed her hands to her mouth.
There were three rows of urns, just like the ones she’d opened. She could see at least seven, and if the shelves on which they sat was any indication—
“This room might hold dozens of vessels,” Alexander told her quietly.
She tore her gaze away from urns. “That’s amazing,” she whispered. It promised that the study she’d set out to do would actually be possible.
Alexander reached into a pocket and retrieved a clean handkerchief before carefully swiping it over her mouth. She could feel the grit she’d left behind from her dirty hands pressing against it a moment before, but she got the feeling this gesture was more tender than simply clearing away dirt.
He smiled at her. “It is amazing. I can’t wait to see what you discover in here.”
And for the first time since setting foot on the boat to Turkey, she felt the same.