Chapter 2 #2
He crossed to his desk and retrieved the application I had sent days ago—the letter I had written and rewritten a dozen times, choosing every word with the care of someone trying to sound whole.
"Your father was Edmund Reed?"
"Yes,” I replied, giving him a small, manufactured smile.
"I am familiar with his work on South American orchids. He was quite thorough." He scanned the page, though I suspected he had already committed it to memory. "You assisted him?"
"From childhood, yes.” The small pang of grief beneath my ribs was familiar enough that I spoke through it. “He taught me plant identification, cultivation techniques, and preservation methods. I can recognize most specimens by structure alone, even damaged or incomplete samples."
"Can you?" One dark brow lifted in challenge, or curiosity. It was impossible to determine which. "That is a useful skill."
"My father believed the best botanists understood plants as living systems," I replied, keeping my voice even. "Not merely as pretty flowers to be pressed and mounted for aesthetic pleasure."
"Your father was correct." He set the résumé aside. "Though pretty flowers have their place as well."
Was that amusement threading through his voice? It was difficult to tell. His expression remained maddeningly neutral.
"The position," I said, steering the conversation to the heart of why I was there. "Your advertisement mentioned work with rare and poisonous specimens for your memory research?"
"Yes." His tone shifted, the moment of levity, if it had been such, draining away. "Specifically, I am researching how certain botanical compounds affect cognitive function in dementia patients."
My heart leapt.
"For memory restoration?"
"Memory preservation," he corrected, then paused before adding, "The restoration aspect is more theoretical at this stage."
"But not impossible?"
The question escaped before I could stop it, desperation showing through my careful facade.
His interest sharpened. "Does that possibility intrigue you, Miss Reed?"
He knows, the voice said, pleased at the prospect.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat and forced myself to ease back in the chair, arranging my expression into professional curiosity rather than the raw, frantic hope of someone drowning.
"I find the intersection of botany and medicine fascinating," I replied, the lie slipping between my teeth with ease. “And I have often wondered at its broader applications, at the ways in which plants might heal as well as beautify."
He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, and my thoughts fixed on the gesture—curious if his mouth would feel soft and tender, like the fleshy petals of a flower, or rough and brutal, like rose thorns scraping against my skin until all the darkness inside me bled out onto his tongue.
"I see.”
He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair, as though the vivid image in my mind had somehow materialized in the space between us and unnerved him.
"The work is demanding,” he said, abruptly shifting the topic. “You will be exposed to long hours and potentially dangerous specimens. Many of the plants I study are toxic in their raw form. You will need to follow safety protocols at all times."
"Of course,” I said.
He stepped closer and my pulse stumbled. I caught his scent then—clean and earthy, like soil after rain with something herbal underneath. It was pleasant and soothing in a way that surprised me.
"And what do you hope to gain from this position?"
The question caught me off guard even though I had known it would come eventually. I shifted in my seat, buying myself a precious second to formulate an answer that would not reveal too much.
"Experience," I said, one shoulder lifting. "Knowledge. The opportunity to work with someone at the forefront of their field."
"Nothing else?"
I tilted my head and offered what I hoped was a suitably curious expression. "What else would there be?"
One corner of his mouth curved, and I had the profoundly unsettling sense that he saw straight through my mask of composure.
"Most people who seek positions in private research have personal motivations—a family member suffering from dementia or their own fears of aging.” He paused, observing me closely. “Or perhaps an interest in prolonging life beyond its natural limits."
“I am not seeking immortality, Dr. Ambrose,” I replied earnestly.
I did not want to live forever. I only wanted to live, properly and wholly, with the parts of myself that had gone missing reattached. I wanted to know who I had been before death had stolen my life from me.
His eyes trailed to my throat again, to the ribbon that concealed evidence of how close I had already come to those natural limits he spoke of. The weight of his attention landed there with such pressure that I felt it as distinctly as if he had reached out and touched the fabric himself.
My hand rose before I could stop it, fingers brushing the ribbon in an involuntary gesture of protection.
He noticed.
His mouth opened, some question forming there before he closed it again. He glanced down briefly, fingers flexing at his side before he turned toward his desk.
"I keep detailed records of all my specimens," he said, retrieving a thick leather-bound journal from beneath the chaotic pile of notes on his desk. "Acquisition dates, growing conditions, observed effects, and experimental results."
He turned, extending it toward me. "Open it anywhere and tell me what you see."
I opened it to a page in the middle.
A flowering plant had been rendered in extraordinary detail, each petal and vein captured with the accuracy that only came from direct observation and considerable skill.
Notes filled the margins. A diagram of the root system spiraled outward alongside chemical formulas I did not recognize—all interwoven with observations regarding neurological responses in test subjects.
The plant itself was both beautiful and deadly, its flowers a shade of deep purple the black ink could only suggest.
"This is Atropa belladonna," I said, the identification automatic, lodged in whatever part of me that still knew things. "More commonly known as deadly nightshade.”
"Go on."
I traced the formula lightly with my gloved fingers, following the logic of his notes.
"You are researching alkaloid compounds. Scopolamine, in particular, has been used to induce temporary amnesia by blocking the formation of new memories during certain medical procedures."
I paused, studying the experimental observations more closely.
"But in controlled doses, combined with other compounds…” I turned the journal to follow his handwriting as it curved around the corner of the page. “It appears you are attempting to reverse the effect, to use the plant that steals memory to preserve it instead."
I looked up to find him watching me with fascination, and a curious little crease in the corners of his eyes.
"Impressive," he said, though his tone suggested he had expected nothing less, that perhaps he had already known what I was capable of before I had ever set foot in his study.
"My father worked extensively with toxic plants," I explained.
"And you are not fearful? Many people would find working with such specimens unsettling."
"Of poisonous plants?" I almost smiled at the notion. "With proper handling and a clear understanding of their properties, they are no more dangerous than any other botanical specimen."
"Some would disagree," he replied. "Deadly nightshade can kill with a handful of berries."
"Water can kill you if you drink enough of it," I deadpanned, closing the journal and handing it back to him. "Danger is a matter of knowledge, which I assure you I have.”
He nodded thoughtfully, neither approval nor satisfaction evident in the gesture, though I hoped it might be consideration.
"The position is live-in," he said. "Room and board are provided, of course. Privacy and confidentiality are absolute requirements. You will not discuss my research with anyone outside this house."
"I understand."