Chapter 15 #2
He dropped his arms, stepping back as though I had struck him. He stared at me, his eyes widening with shock… or fear. His face had gone pale, his expression cracking open to reveal pain so devastating that my fingers twitched to soothe it away despite what I knew.
“Who told you that?” his voice was barely audible, all menace stripped away.
“I have seen her,” I seethed.
He shook his head, brows creasing. “That is not possible, Cam—”
A loud crash echoed from downstairs, cutting off whatever he had been about to say.
Our heads turned simultaneously toward the sound, and before I had time to process what had happened, Dr. Ambrose was moving.
He strode down the hall, then took the stairs two at a time, disappearing below with the speed of someone who knew exactly what that sound might mean.
I stood frozen against the wall for a moment, my heart still pounding, my body still shaking from our confrontation. My wrists ached where he had gripped them, and my face burned where his fingers had touched me.
Another crash sounded below. Then another.
I pushed away from the wall and ran to the stairs, gripping the banister as I peered down into the darkness.
I could see nothing except shadows and the glow of what might be lamplight from one of the lower rooms.
“Dr. Ambrose?” I called, my voice cracking nervously.
The only answer came in the form of another sound. Glass spilled in crystalline pieces across the entry hall, the shards catching in the dim light.
I stood at the top of the stairs, torn between staying where it was safe and following him down into whatever chaos waited below.
More glass careened to the floor, then a loud thud, and another.
I gathered my nightgown in both hands and ran down the stairs, my bare feet slapping against the wooden treads, all thought of safety abandoned.
I reached the bottom, my feet meeting the cold floor as I stepped around pieces of sharp glass glinting in the lamplight.
The sound of destruction had stopped, but its aftermath was evident in every direction I looked.
I followed the trail of debris toward Dr. Ambrose’s study, my breath coming in short gasps. I stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, taking in the devastation.
Books were strewn across the floor, their spines cracked, pages torn and crumpled.
Specimen jars lay shattered in pools of golden liquid that spread across the wooden boards, the preserved specimens within now exposed to air and suffocating on the oxygen.
Papers were ripped and discarded, scattered like snow across every surface.
It looked like a storm had torn through the room.
“Stay back, Camellia.”
Dr. Ambrose’s voice pulled my attention toward the greenhouse. The door stood open, and through it more wreckage continued. I approached the threshold cautiously, each step crunching on unavoidable debris. When I reached the doorway, I paused, my hand instinctively rising to cover my mouth.
The greenhouse was wrecked.
The plants—those perfectly cultivated specimens Dr. Ambrose had spent years collecting and nurturing—were destroyed.
Pots were overturned, soil scattered across the floor, stems snapped and leaves shredded.
Workbenches had been overturned, their contents spilled and broken.
The orderly rows of seedlings I had cataloged so thoroughly were trampled beyond recognition.
Little, if anything, looked salvageable.
My eyes found the grafting station where we had worked just hours ago. The Bacopa and hemlock chimeras we had created with such care were shredded into pieces, the graft unions torn apart with intentional violence rather than accident.
I held back the sting of tears blurring the edges of my vision.
I was so close to restoring my memory, and now that singular opportunity was gone.
All of Dr. Ambrose’s research was torn to shreds and scattered amongst broken clay and piles of dirt.
We could repeat the grafting, but there was no guarantee that combination would work, and what then?
Did Dr. Ambrose even remember what was written in that journal?
Would he be able to recall from memory alone all the different variations and formulas he had already tried?
Were there subsequent compounds he had planned if the hemlock failed?
Months of work, destroyed in minutes.
I breathed in a shaky breath, turning my attention to the windows. Nearly every glass panel was cracked or shattered, letting in the cold night air that made the hanging plants sway like pendulums marking time in a space that had lost all sense of order.
I turned, my gaze seeking Dr. Ambrose in the wreckage.
He stood near the center of the greenhouse, his hair thoroughly disheveled, his robe hanging askew on his frame.
One bare shoulder was exposed where the fabric had been pulled aside, revealing the golden skin beneath.
His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and in his hand he clutched an empty syringe.
Standing directly in front of him, motionless, was Hawthorne.
His large, lifeless eyes stared at nothing, and his hands—those hands that had tended plants with such gentle care—hung at his sides, fingers curled with the ghost of rage.
The silence stretched between the three of us. Dr. Ambrose’s gaze remained fixed on Hawthorne.