"The greenhouse. Are there gardening tools somewhere? And—is there a nursery nearby? Somewhere that could deliver supplies?"
Mrs. Novak pauses, a coffee pot in her hand. "You're serious about restoring it."
"I need something to do. Something productive." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "And it seems wrong to let it stay dead, when there's still life trying to push through."
She studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nods.
"There's a shed behind the greenhouse—tools, pots, soil. Most of it is old, but some should still be usable. As for a nursery..." She sets a plate in front of me—toast, eggs, fruit. "I can make inquiries. Deliveries to this address require... special arrangements. But it can be done."
"Thank you."
She pours coffee, the rich smell filling the kitchen. "That greenhouse was Mrs. Kashkin's sanctuary. No one has touched it since she died. Not even Mr. Misha, though I know he walks past it sometimes. Stands at the door but never goes in."
I think about Misha yesterday, taking the journal from my hands, his composure cracking for just a moment before he pulled it back together. The way his voice sounded when he thanked me—rough, scraped raw.
"Maybe it's time someone did," I say.
Mrs. Novak's eyes meet mine. Something passes between us—understanding, maybe. Recognition.
"Maybe it is," she agrees.
***
The sunshine holds as I make my way to the greenhouse.
The estate looks different in the light—less gothic horror, more faded grandeur. The stone walls are softer, the gargoyles less menacing. Even the guards seem more relaxed, their postures easier as they patrol the perimeter.
I find the shed Mrs. Novak mentioned, hidden behind a tangle of overgrown hedges. The door sticks, swollen with moisture, and I have to put my shoulder into it to force it open. Inside, dust motes dance in the shafts of light that pierce the grimy windows.
Tools line the walls—rakes and shovels and trowels, their handles worn smooth with use. Bags of soil are stacked in the corner, some split and spilling their contents onto the floor. Clay pots in various sizes crowd the shelves, a few cracked but most intact.
I gather what I need—gloves, a trowel, pruning shears, a bucket—and carry it all to the greenhouse.
The space feels different in the sunlight. Less like a mausoleum, more like a patient waiting for treatment. The grimy glass filters the light into something soft and diffused,casting everything in a golden glow. I can see the potential now—the bones of something beautiful beneath the decay.
I start with the debris, clearing dead leaves and broken pots from the aisles. The work is physical, satisfying in a way that studying never was. My muscles warm, my breath comes faster, and for whole stretches of time I don't think about anything except the task in front of me.
The fern I saved yesterday is still alive, its fronds reaching toward the light. I check its soil, add a little water, murmur encouragement that would make my professors question my sanity. But it feels right, talking to growing things. His mother did the same, apparently—Maria Kashkin, in this very greenhouse, seventeen years ago.
I wonder if she ever felt as lost as I do. If she ever stood among her plants and tried to make sense of a world that made no sense at all.
I'm elbow-deep in a pot of dead hydrangeas when I hear footsteps on the gravel outside.
I know it's him before I look up. Something about the rhythm of his walk, the weight of his presence. My body recognizes Misha before my mind does, a primal awareness that raises the hair on my arms.
He appears in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun, his features cast in shadow. He's wearing dark clothes as always—black pants, a charcoal sweater that stretches across his shoulders. His hair is slightly disheveled, as if he's been running his hands through it.
He doesn't enter. Just stands there, one hand on the door frame, watching me.
"You're back," he says.
"I told you I needed something to do." I sit back on my heels, pushing a loose strand of hair from my face with the back of my wrist. "Mrs. Novak found me some tools."
"I see that."
Silence stretches between us. But it's different than before—less charged with anger, more weighted with something I can't name. He looks tired, I notice. Shadows under his eyes, a tension in his jaw that suggests he didn't sleep much.
The journal. He must have read it last night, after I gave it to him. Must have spent hours with his mother's words, her thoughts, her fears.
