Chapter 6
I hardly slept.
The room, for all its simple comfort, felt both familiar and foreign throughout the long night.
Each time I closed my eyes, fragments of half-remembered things slipped through my dreams. Faces appeared and vanished before I saw them clearly.
Voices whispered things I was certain I needed to know, only to dissolve before I could listen.
The ghost of my past hovered just beyond reach, teasing and torturing until slipping from my grasp.
I had given up on sleep sometime around the fourth hour and lay watching the ceiling instead, turning over the same questions and frustrations that had plagued me for months.
What had I lost?
How much of myself had vanished the day I died?
Thoughts of Dr. Ambrose disturbed my sleep further. Amber eyes haunted me each time I drifted toward unconsciousness, along with questions about a dead wife, and a servant no one seemed willing to explain.
By dawn I was dressed, my face washed in the basin Agnes had left, and my gray work dress already on. I examined my hands in the early light, the discoloration present but faded. The purple had retreated back beneath my nails for now, but I had learned not to trust these small improvements.
The house was quiet as I made my way downstairs. The scent of bread baking and something savory made my stomach clench with sudden hunger. I was halfway down the staircase when I heard Agnes’s voice coming from somewhere below, soft and soothing enough that I paused mid-step.
“There we are, that’s good. Just a bit more now.”
I reached the landing and glanced down into the entrance hall. Agnes stood near one of the tall windows, morning sunlight streaming over her shoulder in long, golden rays. She held a small watering can in one hand, tilted toward—
Toward Hawthorne.
I stared, confused and uncertain of my own rationality, as she poured water over his outstretched hands. The liquid appeared to absorb into his skin rather than run off, and I could have sworn the greenish undertone of his flesh brightened, becoming richer and more alive.
Was she… watering him?
No. That could not be right.
Agnes set down the watering can and retrieved what looked like small gardening shears from her apron pocket.
I started down the stairs, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.
The wood creaked beneath my feet, and she turned, spotting me on the landing, her eyes widening before she arranged her features into innocence.
The shears disappeared back into her pocket with a motion she tried to make casual and very nearly managed.
“Good morning, dear,” she said cheerfully. “You’re up early. I hope the room was comfortable.”
“Very comfortable, thank you.”
I descended the rest of the stairs, unable to stop staring at Hawthorne. His hands were still damp, water glistening on them like morning dew on blades of grass. “What were you—”
“Oh… Hawthorne had a bit of dirt on his hands from the greenhouse,” Agnes said quickly, already moving toward the kitchen. “I was just helping him wash before he mucked up the good china.”
“I see,” I said, though I was certain that was not what I had seen at all.
“Why don’t you come help me finish breakfast preparations? Dr. Ambrose will be down shortly, and he gets quite cross if his tea isn’t ready.” Her tone was pleasant but firm—the same tone she had used the day before when shutting down my questions.
She disappeared down the corridor, clearly expecting me to follow. I looked at Hawthorne. He had moved back to the window, standing motionless in the rectangle of morning light, his palms still turned upward waiting for more, or absorbing what he had already been given.
I stared at him, at the dark veins branching beneath his flesh. I wondered whether he would bleed if I cut him open, or if his skin would split to reveal sap spilling from the wound.
You know what would happen, the voice replied, but I ignored it. I did not know and what I suspected was not logically possible.
I met Hawthorne’s hollow gaze and frowned.
Was it possible?
The question had been nagging at me since the first time I had seen him, though I was no closer to figuring it out. I suspected Agnes and Dr. Ambrose both possessed that answer and had quietly agreed not to share it.
I turned and followed Agnes into the dining room, my mind repeating the same ridiculous conclusion.
I dismissed the thought thoroughly.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Dr. Ambrose arrived shortly after Agnes had set out fresh bread, butter, jam, soft-boiled eggs, and kippers.
He looked less haggard than the day before, though the shadows beneath his eyes suggested he had slept just as poorly as I had.
His dark hair was still slightly damp—evidence that he had perhaps overslept, forcing him to wash and dress in haste.
His eyes met mine briefly as he took the seat across from me. “Good morning, Miss Reed. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well, thank you.”
He frowned—a small, considering expression that suggested he did not believe me and had decided, for now, not to say so. He reached for the teapot and poured for both of us without asking.
I focused on my food, suddenly ravenous. The bread was still warm, the butter melting perfectly into its soft interior, and I ate with more enthusiasm than grace, trying to balance the ordinariness of breakfast against the less comfortable awareness of his presence across the table.
The silence stretched until I could bear it no longer. I took it as my opportunity to mention my eagerness to assist in the actual research. Somewhere in that brilliant mind of his was the answer to my memory loss, and that was the only thing that mattered to me.
“What will we be doing today?” I asked, setting down my teacup as I shot him an expression I hoped was sweet.
Dr. Ambrose looked up, one eyebrow raising as an almost teasing grin curved his lips. “We?”
“Yes. We. Me—your assistant—and you.” I pointed between us. “What research will we be conducting?”
He set down his fork, and I caught the hint of that amusement glimmering in his eyes. “You will be continuing to catalog the remaining seedlings, and I will be extracting compounds. Same as yesterday.”
Frustration flared hot in my chest. I took a steadying breath, forcing it down before it showed on my face. “You have no intention of allowing me to assist you with actual research, do you?”
“And what makes you think that?”
“Because you have relegated me to basic cataloging when you know that I am capable of more.” I leaned forward, no longer caring that my tone had sharpened into something approaching confrontation.
“I did not accept this position to merely label plants, Dr. Ambrose. I came here to learn and contribute something of value.”
“You are contributing. Accurate cataloging is essential to my research.” He picked up his teacup with infuriating casualness.
My gaze fell to his hands. I imagined, for a moment, what it might feel like to have those elegant fingers wrapped around my throat.
I wondered how long it would take, how many seconds of pressure before consciousness fled—whether he would watch my face, as my life slipped away.
Would he catalog each stage of my death with the detached interest of a scientist observing an experiment, noting the exact moment my heart stopped beneath his touch?
I wondered too, if that was what he had done to his wife.
My little companion hummed with approval, raising the vivid image in my mind. I could almost feel the touch of his fingers. I could envision the slight furrow of concentration between his brows as he squeezed harder and harder until no breath remained in my lungs.
The vision dissolved, leaving only the reality of Dr. Ambrose sipping his tea, oblivious to the grotesque images that had played out behind my eyes.
The voice’s laughter echoed through my skull as it slithered back into the darkness.
“How long?” I asked, keeping my tone measured by force of will.
“How long what?”
“How long must I prove my basic competence before you will allow me to assist you directly?”
He studied me over the rim of his teacup, considering the question thoroughly, then he smirked. “That depends entirely on you, Miss Reed.”
I fought the narrowing of my eyes, but failed. “Very well,” I said, forcing my voice to remain calm. “I shall endeavor to impress you.”
He inclined his head, that damnable smile still playing on his lips as he returned to his breakfast.
We finished in silence, the earlier tension easing. When Agnes returned to clear our empty plates, she looked between us with obvious satisfaction, and smiled at me with such genuine goodness that I nearly recoiled.
Delicate things should not be allowed to trust so openly, I thought, they never knew how easily they could be broken and ruined.
“Shall we?” Dr. Ambrose asked as he stood.
I stood as well, smoothing my skirts. “Of course.”
We made our way through the house together, morning light growing stronger through the windows as Dr. Ambrose led me into his study, then to the greenhouse door beyond. Warm, humid air rushed out, carrying that familiar scent I still could not place.
“After you,” he said, holding the door.
I stepped into the greenhouse, breathing the scent in deeply, and tried not to think about how many more days of tedious cataloging I would have to endure before he deemed me worthy of real work.
The day was as mundane as I expected.
I stood at my workstation surrounded by dozens of small pots, each requiring examination and documentation. Cicuta maculata from the American colonies. Conium maculatum from Greece. Page after page of Latin names, origins, and condition assessments.
Within the first hour, my back ached and my fingers cramped from writing.
By early-afternoon, the discoloration had crept farther up my wrists, though I kept my hands positioned carefully enough that it would not be obvious.
I was determined not to give Dr. Ambrose any reason to question my capability.