Chapter 6 Eliza #2
One of the negatives to being alone while I worked was that being a perpetual overthinker, my mind did what it always seemed to do and started to wander, going to the thoughts and memories I didn’t want to relive.
This was an escape from that situation at least, as I was distracted by the sense of desolation in the place, but I was certainly overthinking that.
“Focus on the plants,” I reminded myself.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I moved to where I saw the plant that had made me agree to this stupidly absurd arrangement. It was my personal Winged Victory of Samothrace, reminding me of the battles I had yet to fight and the victories I hadn’t yet achieved—my beacon of hope.
With trembling hands, I knelt next to a patch of dead vines, brushing away the thick blanket of foliage covering the plant that used to be a focal point in this garden, if its location at the center of the conservatory was anything to go by.
It was nestled against a water feature, most likely a koi pond of sorts.
The tendrils of weeds, thick and twisted, clung to anything they could.
I ran my fingers through them, pulling apart the layers of decay, being gentle to not break even the plants I knew were weeds.
Beneath it, a faint shape emerged. A stalk.
The camouflaged outline of the Amorphophallus titanum, the Titan arum.
Better known as the corpse flower.
I stilled, afraid to move—afraid to blink for fear the plant would disappear from where it sat in front of me. The breath caught in my throat when I reached out and touched it. A shiver rolled down my body, leaving goose bumps across my skin.
It was rare. Impossibly rare. I thought the species had been lost to time, a nearly forgotten about, borderline mythical plant only whispered about; yet here it was, hidden under layers of neglect.
It was faded, not flourishing, but still alive somehow.
I could almost feel its pulse of life as I gingerly touched the edges of its growing bud.
There was an elongated, pointed tip emerging from the soil, surrounded by protective bracts that had already started to show signs of drying and splitting, indicating the flower was preparing to open.
I’d have to check, but I’d guess it was going to be about three months before it showed its rare bloom—something that only happened every seven to ten years.
It was exciting to think that there may be corms in the soil right now that could be collected after it bloomed.
This individual plant had the ability to single-handedly save Pinehurst—and my job.
Which meant, I would be able to keep my apartment and not have to move back with my mother: a priceless victory.
An idea hit me like a punch to the gut. If I could restore this conservatory—if I could do it in time to showcase the corpse flower’s rare bloom—I would prove myself.
Not just to the Jasper Blackwood—and truly, did I really care about that?
—but to the botanical world. To my family.
To myself. I would finally be able to stand on my own two feet with confidence.
Maybe other gardens, like the Kew Gardens in London, would even want to hire me then, and I could be with my sister, Lucy, again—away and safe.
But I couldn’t get too excited; I needed to remain logical. The task ahead of me was monumental. This conservatory, the plants here—they needed care. They needed attention. They needed someone to love them while letting them breathe.
The thought of my mother lingered in the air like the faintest perfume.
Almost reflexively, I pulled my phone out to send her photos of the garden, but I had no service.
A quick tinge of panic rushed through me—only for a second.
The woman was explosive when she couldn’t get ahold of me.
There was no doubt already ten missed calls waiting to pop up as soon as I got service.
My mother would show up here before she went another two days without talking to me.
No matter how much I’d like to escape her reach, it seemed I never could.
In truth, being out of reach from the world was a draw, not a setback.
It was the reason I agreed so quickly to staying on site at Blackwood Manor despite living with a known murderer.
My parents met working for an environmental advocacy organization as conservation biologists. They said they fell in love at a campaign for sustainable land use practices. Romantic.
My mom was especially…let’s go with serious about her mission to save the planet.
She believed in the importance of protecting nature and had always pushed both my sister and me to follow in their footsteps, not only because it was a noble cause but because they wanted us to continue their fight for the environment.
It was drilled into us that their line of work offered the opportunity to make a lasting, positive impact on the world.
My mother—an intelligent, stubborn, eccentric woman—was emotionally overinvested in everything we did, be it the no-plastic rule in our house or the mandated seven a.m. green smoothie or changing every single facet of our lives to benefit her and the earth.
Somehow, she had masterminded ways to maintain control over me well into my twenties.
Just three weeks before, I had been called home from work for a fire in the living room of my duplex.
It was small and put out quickly with no real harm.
It had started when my mother had gone through my house and gathered every nonrecyclable, polyester, nylon item of clothing and lit it on fire on the new, non-sustainable area rug I had just bought.
She had called me while the firemen were still there and asked me what it felt like to live in an environmental disaster.
My father was just as set in his fierce role as environmental god as my mother but with a contrasting personality—quiet and intelligent and completely unwilling to help us for fear he would befall her scrutiny.
My younger sister, Lucy, had become a chemical-using hair stylist—just to spite my mother, I thought.
She’d always been the rebel of the family in some way or another and always hated me for getting their approval and doing what they wanted.
In some ways, I’d always been jealous of her for doing what she wanted.
I always wondered what kind of relationship the two of us could have had if the flame of our jealousy hadn’t been stoked by my mother and instead been allowed to settle into appreciation.
I only realized how much I needed her in my life once she moved away.
As the oldest and the “good child,” I was petrified of disappointing them, though in truth, I also tried to be what they wanted so they wouldn’t yell at her when she wasn’t, but it never worked out that way.
She moved away and I became a botanist. I never had my own passions or interests; there wasn’t enough room to.
My blueprint had already been drawn up before I was born.
In the conservatory, I took another deep breath and steadied my hands, shaking off the moment of weakness. I had always refused to fail, and this time would be no different.
There were so many other plants hidden under the layers of ruin and neglect, all of them somewhat exotic-looking.
Several stuck out like lights in the dark, while others were more subtle.
I couldn’t identify half of them; their shapes were so distorted, their once-beautiful features marred by age and decay.
The lack of sunlight and proper conditions had changed the colors and shapes of some, hidden them beneath the deciduous layer, but there was more variety than I had dared hope for.
The vines twisted and curled like something out of a nightmare, creeping up to the tall ceiling in some parts, enveloping everything in their dark embrace.
It was overwhelming. Every inch of this place was filled with the repercussions of abandonment, and it wasn’t just the plants that were dead—it was the entire atmosphere at Blackwood Manor.
It had the feel of Dracula’s castle with the dressings of a luxurious hotel…
and the ambiance of Alcatraz. No one ever smiled with more than a tight-lipped formality, no doubt terrified of the head of the estate.
I glanced around, the skin on the back of my neck prickling again with the sensation that I was not alone.
I turned quickly, half expecting someone to be standing in the shadows.
Nope, no one there. It was just me in the sad ruins of the garden.
My heart was racing. The silence pressed in even closer now, so loud it made me wince.
I shook my head and chastised myself to pull it together.
It was just the isolation of this large, lonely space—I was sure of it. Er, I was trying to be sure of it.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was lingering here. Something more than the dust and the dead vines.
There was a soft creak in the distance, then a scrape of stone.
A soft, almost imperceivable melody sounded, and I caught a few notes before I turned, adrenaline shooting through my system, but again, there was nothing.
I turned back to my small section of a flower bed and squatted, careful not to crush anything.
I needed to pull soil samples. Determining the soil composition as well as the nutrient and pH levels was imperative to determine which areas were more fertile or depleted.
Noting the way that it looked like the plants moved toward me, I was most definitely going to have it checked for toxins and heavy metals.
After letting the soil samples air-dry, I would get them mailed out to the lab tomorrow and have the results back in a few days.
A chill filled the air, and I shivered when there was movement in front of me.