Chapter 9
I woke with sunlight streaming through my window and the sinking certainty that I would be dismissed before the day was through.
The memory of the previous night returned in mortifying detail—me, standing uninvited in Dr. Ambrose’s bedchamber, offering increasingly ridiculous explanations for my presence there, and allowing him to corner me against the wall while I entertained thoughts that would scandalize any proper lady.
I had overstepped every possible boundary, had violated his privacy in the most flagrant manner. Any sensible employer would send me packing.
I dressed with care, hoping proper presentation might somehow mitigate the disaster of my behavior. My hands fumbled as I fastened the buttons of my dress, and I had to restart the process of pinning my hair twice before achieving anything resembling respectability.
The green velvet ribbon rested against my throat as always, though my fingers lingered on it longer than usual.
I still felt the weight of Dr. Ambrose’s gaze on it, how his expression had shifted when he looked at the fabric.
It unnerved me, the way he stared at it as if it might reach out and drag him into a pit of despair.
He knows what you try to hide, the voice murmured. Your little secrets wrapped so prettily in a bow.
I pushed the thought away with force, my throat tightening at the prospect. There was no way he could know. No one knew.
I turned my attention to the mirror, pinching color into my pale cheeks, my mind turning to the ghost of Dr. Ambrose’s wife, to the vines sliding from her mouth and coiling around her throat.
I shook my head, sighing. I had likely imagined the entire encounter—a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and the progressive deterioration of whatever illness consumed me. There was no ghost. There was only my own failing mind constructing phantoms.
The voice made a small sound of disagreement, then fell silent.
I made my way downstairs with the measured steps of someone approaching an execution they had inadvertently scheduled for themselves. Each creak of the floorboards sounded like a countdown, each turn of the corridor bringing me closer to the gallows.
Perhaps I could apologize before he dismissed me. Perhaps I could explain that I had been unwell, that I had been overly exhausted, that I took full responsibility for my inappropriate behavior and would beg on my knees if that is what he required to allow me to stay on as his assistant.
My companion purred at the idea, making my skin burn with embarrassment—and desire.
I stopped in the doorway of the dining room, stilling my nerves and banishing the thought.
Dr. Ambrose sat at the table, reading what appeared to be a medical journal, a cup of tea steaming gently at his elbow. He looked relaxed, absorbed in whatever he was reading, showing no signs of the tension I had expected.
Agnes moved about the room droning that same tuneless melody she always hummed, setting out breakfast dishes with a cheerful energy that suggested she, at least, had slept well.
It grated at my nerves like a file against metal and made my companion grow restless in my mind.
The sound burrowed into my skull, making my teeth clench and my breath release with something hot and uncomfortable.
It occurred to me that the sound would be much the same if her throat were full of her own blood.
I forced my attention away to the corner of the room.
Standing with his characteristic stillness, was Hawthorne.
He was whole and well. Whatever terrible thing I had imagined happened to him was proved incorrect.
I had been wrong. Foolishly, ridiculously wrong.
Agnes had likely been telling the truth.
Hawthorne had been resting in the servants’ quarters, and Dr. Ambrose had not gone out into the raging storm to chase down a wayward servant as I had assumed.
“Good morning, Miss Reed,” Dr. Ambrose said without looking up from his journal.
His tone was unexpectedly pleasant. There was not even a single thread of annoyance from the previous night, as though it had never occurred—and he had not cornered me against a wall and touched my face with devastating tenderness before turning away.
“Good morning,” I managed, moving cautiously toward the table.
He finally looked up, and the grin that spread across his lips sent sparks of heat through my veins. “Please, sit. I have a proposition for you.”
A proposition. He did not plan to dismiss me, then? I stared at him, expecting a lecture about appropriate behavior for young women in his employ at the very least, but it did not come.
I sat, accepting the tea Agnes poured, her cheeks rosy from the heat of the kitchen. The tension in my shoulders began to ease as Dr. Ambrose returned his attention to his journal, apparently content to let me settle myself before whatever conversation he intended to have.
We ate in silence for several minutes, and I found I was able to appreciate the quality of Agnes’s cooking without the distraction of wondering whether each bite would be my last in this house.
Finally, Dr. Ambrose set down his fork and fixed me with his full attention. “I am planning a visit to the university this morning to procure a specimen. I was wondering if you might like to accompany me?”
I nearly choked on my tea.
“You wish for me to come with you?” The question emerged with more surprise than I had intended.
He shrugged, the gesture casual and somehow more meaningful for it. “It was your idea after all—suggesting the Bacopa monnieri as a potential compound to work alongside the hemlock extractions. It only seems fair that you should be part of the process of acquiring it.”
Hope flared in my chest. He was going to let me participate in his research, and actually allow me to contribute to the experiments, to the work that might hold some answer to my memory loss.
“I would be honored,” I said, trying to keep the eagerness from my voice and failing spectacularly.
“Wonderful.” He smiled, and the warmth of it made my stomach flutter. “We will leave within the hour. Dr. Winthrop is expecting us. He is a colleague of mine at the university and has access to the botanical gardens where the Bacopa should be growing.”
“Dr. Winthrop,” I repeated, committing the name to memory. “Is he a botanist?”
“A professor of botanical sciences, among other things. He focuses primarily on the medicinal applications of plant compounds. His work is far more conventional than mine, but no less valuable for it.” Dr. Ambrose paused, something complicated passing across his features.
“He is a good friend. One of the few who has remained so despite… well. Despite everything.”
There was weight in those last words, grief perhaps from his wife’s death, or some vague suggestion that not many other people respected his research. I did not press for clarification.
We finished breakfast with pleasant conversation about the properties of Bacopa and its historical uses. Dr. Ambrose seemed genuinely interested in my thoughts on the matter, asking questions and valuing my opinion as one would an equal.
The carriage ride to the university was both eternal and far too brief.
Dr. Ambrose sat across from me in the enclosed space, our knees occasionally brushing when the vehicle hit rougher patches of road. Each accidental contact sent awareness flooding through me that I struggled to suppress.
I kept my hands folded in my lap, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery beyond the window, and tried very hard not to think about how his fingers had felt against my cheek the previous night.
I failed miserably at that.
The memory returned with shocking vividness—his body caging mine against the wall, his thumb brushing across my lower lip, the heat in his eyes. The way I had ached to discover whether his mouth would taste as intoxicating as his touch.
I shifted in my seat, attempting to redirect my thoughts toward more appropriate topics.
“Tell me more about Dr. Winthrop,” I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded. “What should I expect when meeting him?”
Dr. Ambrose’s expression softened with genuine affection.
“James is one of the most brilliant men I have ever had the privilege of knowing. His understanding of plant chemistry is exceptional, and his ability to identify potential medicinal applications borders on genius. He has published extensively on the subject.”
“He sounds formidable,” I said, the first flutter of nervousness beating around my stomach. What would such a man think of me—a woman with massive gaps in her education, hired as an assistant based on fragmentary knowledge?
“He can be intimidating upon first meeting,” Dr. Ambrose admitted. “But he is kind beneath the academic exterior, and he has always been…” He paused, choosing his words with care. “He has always been supportive of my more unconventional choices.”
I wondered what constituted an unconventional choice in Dr. Ambrose’s estimation. Hiring a female assistant, perhaps? Working with toxic plants with intentions of giving patients poisons that might cure them as long as they did not kill them first?
“Will he think it strange that you have hired a woman?” I asked, voicing the concern that had been building since the invitation was extended.
“Strange? No.” He grinned. “James has long advocated for broader inclusion in the sciences. He believes that limiting participation based on arbitrary characteristics rather than capability squanders what the sciences might otherwise gain. He will be far more interested in your botanical knowledge than your gender.”
The reassurance helped, though anxiety still coiled in my chest. “And if my knowledge proves insufficient?”
“I doubt that will be the case.” Dr. Ambrose leaned forward slightly. “Besides, I would never allow anyone to speak down to you, James included. Even if you arrive speaking complete nonsense about botanical matters, he will treat you with courtesy and respect.”
I stared at him, noting the seriousness in his eyes that countered the lightness of his tone. I had no doubt he meant every word, and the realization sent a flood of warmth through me.
The carriage hit a rougher section of road, and I lurched forward. Dr. Ambrose’s hands shot out to steady me, catching around my waist before I fell. For a moment we were very close, his face mere inches from mine, his grip firm and scorching through the fabric of my dress.
The memory of the night before rose in my mind again, how his thumb had felt brushing across my lower lip, how his breath had felt against my neck when he leaned close to speak.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and the air between us pulsed—charged with the same tension that had filled his bedchamber the previous night, weighted with possibilities.
I ached to press my cold flesh against his warmth, grafting to him like two incompatible specimens forced into union—my putrefied roots spreading through his golden heat, drawing sustenance from his blood until there was nothing left of him but withered husk and brittle bone.
I would consume him, drain him, and leave him hollow and discarded, all his vitality transferred into the rotting garden of my body.
I blinked, my lungs refusing to accept the oxygen offered as I sucked in a breath.
His hands tightened on my waist, fingers digging into the flesh beneath my dress.
“Camellia,” he said, my name arriving from somewhere deep in his chest, breath caressing my lips. “It appears you have a habit of getting caught in my arms, and while I confess I rather enjoy it, I must also warn you that I am not immune to the feel of your body pressed to mine.”
Heat rose through my skin, seeping into my cheeks. Before I could even consider a reply, my companion announced itself, pressing another image against my vision. The ruthlessness from which it came was so brutal that I winced.
The ghost. Her bloodied mouth opening impossibly wide. Vines spilling from her throat in a terribly beautiful profusion, wrapping around her neck, claiming her from the inside out.
His wife. His wife, whose husband I was mere inches from tasting. His wife who he still mourned.
Or murdered, the voice whispered.
I jerked back, the spell broken, and Dr. Ambrose released me immediately, his composure returning to its place with ease as he leaned back against the seat.
I returned my attention to the window, to anything that might distract me from his proximity—from the urge to break open his bones and bury myself within the marrow.
I stared out at the landscape as it passed, watching as the scenery twisted into the shape of a lifeless face with hollow, angry eyes that stared back at me accusingly.
The ghost had not been real. I had imagined her.
I had imagined her.
There was no reason for the voice to keep insisting otherwise, no purpose in dwelling on hallucinations that meant nothing.
There was no credit in what my companion continued to sow within my mind.
Dr. Ambrose had not killed his wife. I had seen the hurt—the pain in his eyes—at the mention of her. Grief was not so easily faked.
He had loved her. He still loved her.
Are you sure? The voice replied, querying me hungrily, but I did not dare acknowledge it.
The silence in the carriage stretched, the tension thick and laden with things neither of us would say.
Finally, the university came into view—an impressive collection of dark stone buildings that seemed to tower over the landscape. Gardens spread between structures in neat arrangements that spoke of wealth and academic prestige.
The carriage slowed, then stopped before an entrance marked with a brass plaque identifying it as the Department of Botanical Sciences.
Dr. Ambrose exited first, then offered me his hand to help me down. I took it, trying to ignore the flutter of my pulse at the contact, and stepped onto the gravel drive.
“Shall we?” he asked, understanding passing through his expression as though he recognized the anxieties churning through my mind and found them both unnecessary and endearing.
“Yes,” I said, lifting my chin with more confidence than I felt.
He grinned, that dimpled softness that made him look younger, and offered me his arm.
I took it, a small frozen fragment of my heart splintering in my chest.