Chapter 4
I found my way back to the study easily enough, retracing the path Dr. Ambrose had taken me the previous afternoon.
I ran my fingers along the spines of countless volumes as I followed the line of bookshelves around the room. The door Agnes had mentioned was partially hidden behind a shelf, just as she had described.
I tilted my head at it, wondering how I had missed it the day before.
If I was honest with myself, I supposed I had been too overwhelmed by everything else—the pull of the house, the strange familiarity of its rooms, the man who had descended the stairs toward me and seemed to drag half my forgotten past in his wake.
Through the glass, a sea of green nearly burst from the confines of the structure, lit by golden rays of sun.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside, struck at once by the sheer magnitude of flora covering every available inch of the space.
Warmth enveloped me, humid and thick, pressing against my cool skin.
The structure was enormous, stretching back deeper than I had expected, its glass ceiling arching overhead like the nave of a verdant cathedral.
Long wooden tables lined the space, crowded with pots and specimens in various stages of growth.
The air carried the rich scent of petrichor and flower-sweetness, threaded through with a medicinal note that tugged at the locked places in my memory.
I breathed in deeply, trying to place it, but the hollow spaces in my mind refused to yield their secrets—releasing just enough to torment, never enough to illuminate.
At the far end of the greenhouse, Dr. Ambrose stood with his back to me.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the fine linen already marked with soil and smears of yellow-green stains.
For a time, I lingered, observing the economy of his movements.
Every gesture was purposeful, almost hypnotic.
His entire body oriented toward the specimen before him, as though the rest of the world had been assessed, found less urgent, and forgotten.
It occurred to me that there was something indecent in how beautifully he handled deadly things—his touch so gentle and loving that I wondered if the caress might convince the plants to spare his life.
Afternoon light caught in his dark hair, and I noticed the breadth of his shoulders beneath the linen shirt, the strength in his forearms where old scars traced pale lines through his skin.
Scars from thorns, perhaps, or chemical burns—the marks of a man who had worked with dangerous things for so long he had ceased to fear them.
Or perhaps he had ceased to care whether they hurt him.
He straightened and turned.
The accuracy with which he found me suggested he had been aware of my presence far longer than he had let on.
The devastating ache rose in my chest, sudden and cruel, constricting my ribs until drawing breath became a chore. I gripped the doorframe to steady myself, fighting the urge to close the distance between us and ease the overwhelming sense of loss.
I swallowed around the lump forming in my throat and offered him what I hoped was an effortless smile.
His brows lifted a fraction, then his expression smoothed before I could identify what had moved through it.
“Miss Reed. I see you found your way.” His voice was soft and controlled. It made my hand itch to cover his mouth just to feel the words die against my palm.
“I hope I am not intruding,” I said, my tone far too breathless.
The voice snickered somewhere behind my left ear, obviously enjoying my discomfort.
“Not at all.” He gestured me forward, one hand still holding a glass dropper suspended over a beaker. “Come in and close the door behind you. We need to maintain the temperature.”
I did as instructed, pulling the door shut before approaching the bench where he stood.
Various glass instruments were arranged neatly—beakers, flasks, a small burner, and a distillation apparatus.
The specimens on his table were lovely in that particularly lethal sort of way.
Deep violet flowers sat among deceptively vibrant leaves, and clusters of black berries hung from delicate stems, glossy beneath the sunlight, each one round as a pupil widened in fear.
Atropa belladonna.
“What are you working on?” I asked, moving to stand beside him.
He continued making notes. “Extracting the alkaloid compounds from this cutting. If I can understand the mechanism by which scopolamine blocks memory formation, I believe I might be able to synthesize a compound that strengthens those same pathways instead of weakening…”
He trailed off, frowning at his notes, clearly dissatisfied with whatever result he had observed.
“Hand me that dropper, please. There, to your left.”
I reached for the glass instrument beside me. As I handed it to him, our fingers brushed for the briefest instant—just barely, but enough that I felt it like a struck match.
His hand was warm, mine was not.
He took the dropper, then paused. After setting it down carefully, he turned toward me properly. His gaze dropped to my hands before lifting to my face again.
“Are you cold?” he asked, his full lips pressing into a frown.
“No, I am fine,” I stammered, inwardly cursing myself for forgetting my gloves. I had left them in my room, never expecting to need them in the warmth of the greenhouse.
“Your hands are like ice.”
“It is just the cool air,” I said, tucking my hands behind my back. Out of sight, out of mind—I had hoped anyway. “I decided to walk here instead of hiring a cart.”
It was not a lie. I simply omitted the fact that I had arrived nearly an hour before, and a normal person would have been thoroughly warmed by then.
“You walked here?” He replied, his tone casual, though his lashes lowered in obvious annoyance.
At my nod, he let out an exasperated breath.
“Go stand in the sun for a while, Miss Reed.” He gestured to a patch of bright sunlight streaming through the glass panels a few feet away, creating a pool of gold on the stone floor.
“I would rather help,” I protested. “I can—”
“Miss Reed.”
He met my eyes with a depth that made my breath catch, and grinned, the gesture spreading slowly over his lips, transforming his entire face.
It did something profoundly immoral to my pulse.
“I believe as your employer, I have your best interest in mind. You cannot work if you cannot feel your fingers. Now please, indulge me.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to insist I was perfectly capable and did not need managing or accommodating, but the truth was, I was cold—a sort of bone-deep chill that had not left me since my accident.
“As you wish,” I conceded, and crossed to the area he had indicated.
The effect was instantaneous and glorious. The ambient heat of the greenhouse combined with direct sunlight penetrated my skin, seeping into muscles and bones that had forgotten what true warmth felt like. It was like drinking something hot after hours in the cold, thawing from the inside out.
I closed my eyes, tilting my face upward toward the sun, and my body responded. The constant ache in my joints eased. My erratic pulse steadied. The sensation was almost pleasant enough to be alarming, deep and spreading.
Photosynthesis, I thought. That was exactly what it was like.
The absurdity of the observation made my eyes fly open.
Dr. Ambrose had returned to his work, though I caught him glancing at me from the corner of his eye more than once over the next hour, each look brief and assessing, studying me like an experiment in progress.
Silence gathered over the greenhouse, broken only by the soft clink of glass instruments and the drip of water from the irrigation system overhead.
I stood in my patch of sun and observed him.
He moved with the certainty of someone who had repeated the same process so often that his hands knew the sequence before thought was required—adding drops of liquid, heating solutions, and recording observations in his neat hand.
Everything he did was controlled, yet passion lived beneath that restraint.
It lived in his eyes as they narrowed in concentration, and in the way he leaned close as though proximity might yield information that distance withheld.
What would it feel like to be the subject of that passion—to be unearthed and dissected while he studied each of my broken pieces?
I turned away, directing my focus to the sky beyond the glass panels.
For a while, I was content to bask in the sunlight while he worked, but eventually my attention drifted elsewhere around the greenhouse.
Well—it was not my attention exactly. It was guided, the movement of my gaze not one of idle curiosity, but steered by a hidden hand searching for an object it refused to name.
“How are you feeling now, Miss Reed?” he asked without looking up from his task.
My focus snapped back to Dr. Ambrose. My companion startled, then retreated with a disappointment so distinct it moved through my mind until I felt thoroughly dissatisfied for reasons I could not understand.
I shoved it somewhere deep within me, shifting and focusing on the apricity streaming through the glass panels overhead.
“The sun helps,” I said, surprised at the steadiness. “I feel… better.”
He set down his notes and motioned me forward. “Come here. Please.”
I crossed to him, uncertain of his intention.
He gestured to one of the worktables, clearly built for standing while working. “Sit.”
I assessed the height of it, then considered my own stature. “I am not sure I can—”
His hands were at my waist before I had finished the thought, warm and entirely sure of themselves. “May I?”
I managed a nod, words deserting me entirely.
He lifted me without effort and set me on the edge of the table, the casual display of capability undoing my cool composure. His hands lingered at my waist a single moment too long before he cleared his throat and took a step back, restoring the illusion of professional distance.