Chapter 16
The sun cascaded over the greenhouse, pale light streaming through the shattered windows as I worked to salvage what little could be saved.
What plants had survived the destruction were replanted, their damaged roots trimmed, their broken stems treated with solutions Dr. Ambrose mixed without explanation. Each specimen was returned to its proper place, as though order could be imposed on chaos through sheer force of will.
Hawthorne still stood where Dr. Ambrose had positioned him—in a patch of weak sunlight near the eastern windows, his face turned toward it like any plant seeking sustenance. He had not moved or shifted, or given any indication of awareness beyond that instinctual orientation toward the sun.
Agnes had appeared some time ago, flustered and upset by the destruction, her usual composure shattered as thoroughly as the specimen jars. Dr. Ambrose had sent her away with firm instructions to focus on the mess in the entry hall, and to leave the greenhouse to us.
In the hours I had been working, he had not returned to the greenhouse. Instead, he remained in the study, sorting the disaster Hawthorne had left in his wake.
I watched him through the connecting door, moving about—picking up books, examining them for damage, replacing them on shelves with consideration of their proper order.
Now, as I worked, the question of why Hawthorne would do such a thing refused to leave me.
He had never seemed violent, had never shown agitation or distress or any hint of the capacity for destruction I had witnessed.
Without a brain to guide his emotions, without conscious awareness or any of the qualities that made a being capable of rage, how was it possible that he could become so upset about something?
Was it simply a reaction without thought? An instinct he had no control over, no way to moderate or resist?
Something caused by the strange vine within him?
I stared at him now, my hands stilling on the broom I had been using to sweep soil back into pots, and tried to understand what botanical function could possibly cause him to act like that.
There was none to my knowledge. Plants were peaceful creatures. Even toxic plants were gentle in their destruction, killing through accumulated exposure rather than violent outburst. They did not rage. Did not attack. Did not tear apart greenhouses in fits of inexplicable fury.
Moreover, what had Dr. Ambrose given him in that syringe? What mixture of chemicals soothed a creature made of vine and cadaver, calming whatever instinct had driven him to destroy years of important work?
I sighed, turning back to the task at hand. It was going to take days to repair the destruction. Perhaps weeks. The windows alone would require a glazier, and who knew how long it would take to source replacement glass for panels of this size.
It was time I did not have.
Cool air rushed in through the shattered windows, making my teeth chatter and raising goosebumps along my skin. I glanced down at my gloved hands, knowing the skin beneath had turned a deep shade of purple, my fingers numb and tingling.
I had changed out of my nightgown into the thickest wool dress I owned, but even that could not keep me warm now with the greenhouse exposed to the elements.
I finished sweeping the last pile of soil, returned the broom to its place, and removed my gloves with fingers that barely cooperated. Then I turned, watching Hawthorne from the corner of my eye as I exited the greenhouse.
Dr. Ambrose glanced up at me as I entered the study, his eyes tracking my movement from the stack of books he was organizing along the shelf behind his desk. Aside from a few volumes still piled on the floor and some scattered pages awaiting proper filing, the study was mostly restored to order.
“I have managed to save some of the plants,” I said, moving toward where he stood. “We will have to move them into one of the other greenhouses until the windows are mended.”
He nodded without looking directly at me.
“Thank you for helping.” He paused and looked at me then, his eyes falling to my hands.
I followed his gaze and noticed the discoloration now washed over my skin in waves of deep purple.
The necrosis had spread beyond my wrists, creeping beneath the sleeves of my dress and nearly blending in with the dark fabric.
I tucked them behind my back, hiding the evidence of my deteriorating condition.
“What did you give Hawthorne?” I asked, desperate to control the subject before he had a chance to comment on them. “In the syringe, I mean.”
Dr. Ambrose slipped another book into its place, then turned to give me a stern look. “Do not fret. I did not drug him, or poison him, or whatever else that imagination of yours can concoct.”
I winced at the insinuation, recalling with sharp clarity how I had accused him of killing his wife just hours ago.
I had screamed it at him in the cruelest, most vile way, convinced of his guilt, but now I was not certain whether I still believed it to be true.
His grief had seemed genuine. His shock at my accusation had appeared real, but the voice had insisted he was lying, and I did not know which one to trust anymore.
“It is an herbal sedative,” he said, his tone softening. “Derived from valerian root and passionflower, concentrated to a potency that would render a human unconscious for hours. For Hawthorne, it simply… quiets his internal system and slows its processes.”
“You created it?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.
“Yes.”
“So this has happened before?”
He stopped what he was doing, turning to face me fully. His expression shifted from exhaustion to resignation.
“Yes, occasionally, though it is not always this severe. Most of the time he simply wanders away from the house.”
He watched with a slow knowing smirk as realization settled over my features. The knowledge I had been holding back for so long betrayed my desperation for the truth.
“The night Agnes came to fetch you from the greenhouse, Hawthorne had escaped.”
“You are quite astute,” he said, staring into the fireplace momentarily, as though seeing a distant memory within the flames. “I should have known you would piece it together.”
I frowned, registering a meaning beneath those last words, but my mind refused to place it. I set it aside to examine later. “Does it have something to do with the vine you and your wife used to create him?”
His eyes narrowed slightly before one corner of his lips twitched. “Are you finally admitting that you read the journal?”
I hesitated, then nodded vaguely before he turned his attention back to his work, selecting another book from the pile.
“Hawthorne is little more than a plant living inside a human form. On occasion, the vine inside of him reacts to a need, just like any plant. He does not consciously decide to destroy things or wander. His vine was seeking a nutrient I had failed to provide.”
“And what nutrient is that?” I asked, tilting my head.
Dr. Ambrose leaned forward, pressing his palms flat against his desk, his amber eyes meeting mine. “That is the question, Miss Reed.”
“You do not know?”
He laughed, a short, humorless sound. “You read the journal. The research on the vine was incomplete before my wife insisted upon Hawthorne’s creation.
” He looked up at me then, and the pointedness felt almost purposeful.
“I told her we were not ready for such an experiment, but she refused to listen to me.”
The overwhelming urge to defend a woman I did not even know built heavy in my chest.
“You could have stopped it,” I replied, the burn of annoyance searing my tongue. “From what I gathered, you were complicit… enthusiastic even. You could have said no to her.”
He snorted, another cold laugh escaping him. When he spoke again, his tone dripped with the bitterness that sometimes accompanied grief. “I find it charming that you believe my wife ever listened to me. I assure you if she had, my life would be far less interesting.”
Before I even had time to consider a reply, Agnes swept into the room.
“The entry hall is clean,” she announced, then paused as she looked between us. Her gaze moved from my face to Dr. Ambrose’s and back again, clearly sensing the tension in the air. “Forgive me. I did not mean to interrupt your conversation.”
Dr. Ambrose waved a hand. “It is quite alright, Agnes. Miss Reed was just leaving.” He offered me a brief look, then turned his full attention back to the housekeeper. “Will you take Hawthorne to the conservatory? His vine will need somewhere warm now that the greenhouse windows are compromised.”
Agnes’s mouth fell open, her eyes going wide as she looked at me, then back at Dr. Ambrose with obvious alarm.
“Do not worry. Miss Reed knows all about Hawthorne,” he said, shooting me a pointed look.
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Agnes stared at him like he had announced something far more shocking than my knowledge of their botanical construct. Then she collected herself with visible effort.
“Of course. I’ll see to it immediately.” She disappeared into the greenhouse without another word, her footsteps far too hasty.
I returned my gaze back to Dr. Ambrose, my mouth already full of questions I simply could not let go of, but he cut me off before I even had the chance to voice them.
“You should rest and eat,” he said, his focus on the books.
Dismissed once again.
The pattern was becoming familiar—moments of startling honesty followed by sudden withdrawal.
I stood there for a moment longer, debating whether to insist upon the answers I deserved after everything I had witnessed and helped clean, but exhaustion won out over curiosity. My hands ached. My fingers still tingled with that painful numbness.
I spun on my heels and left the room without another word, my footsteps echoing down the corridor. Behind me, I heard the soft sound of books being shelved, of order being restored one volume at a time.
And I wondered how many other secrets this house held, kept as neatly as his journals, out of reach to anyone who tried to look too closely.
I was going to find out.