“Yes,” she whispered, her voice soft. “You did. And you have nothing to worry about where Edmund’s concerned.”
“I was never worried,” Andrew said lightly, though the fleeting shadow in his eyes betrayed the truth—he had worried, just a little; she could tell that much.
They lingered there for a heartbeat longer, warm amidst the damp, earthy scent of the greenhouse.
“Are you finished here? Would you like to go and get some cake?”
“I am definitely finished if cake is on offer. Let me grab my coat.”
Andrew laughed. “Allow me,” he said, brushing past her toward her small worktable, where she spent hours tending seedlings and repotting plants. Her coat lay draped over a stool nearby, just beside the table. As Andrew leaned to get her coat, she heard a strange noise.
Looking down, Isla saw that Andrew stood on a wooden hatch, blended into the floorboards. It gave access to the brickcistern beneath the greenhouse, once used to store rainwater for the plants.
Many of the raised timber-framed beds around them were built over drainage channels or old water reservoirs, designed to keep the soil moist. Isla’s eyes lingered on the hatch; something about its color was off. The wood looked weakened, rotting faster than it should, as if some unseen hand had tampered with it.
A low groan echoed from the floor beneath Andrew’s boots.
“Andrew, look out!” she cried.
Instinctively, Isla extended her hands, summoning the thick vines from a nearby pot. They twisted and writhed, reaching toward him, wrapping around his arms and torso just before the weakened floorboards gave way. He plunged downward, but his fall was jerked to a stop by the vines, his chest hitting the green house floor with a heavy thump, his chin scraping against the ground as he dropped a little, leaving a trickle of blood.
“Are you okay?” she called, racing forward.
“I’m fine,” he wheezed.
She knelt beside him, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Edmund appeared at her side, having heard the commotion. Together, with the vine supporting him, they managed to haul Andrew to his feet, and he dusted himself off as Isla released the vines that had just prevented his fall.
Peering over the edge, Isla’s stomach sank. Jagged shards of crystal jutted from the damp soil below, glinting dangerously in the light—sharp enough to have made a fall fatal. Whoever had tampered with the floor knew exactly where she spent a lot of her quiet time. She shivered. Andrew could have been seriously hurt—or worse.
She lifted her hand, letting her palm glow softly. The trickle of blood on his chin vanished, leaving his skin smooth once more.
He offered her a nod of thanks, as his hand curled around hers. The weight of it all pressed in again—the relentlessness of it, the constant danger. When, she wondered grimly, would it ever end?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
December 23rd
Work had grown quieter as term wound down, and many of the staff and students had left to spend the holidays with their families—though many would miss loved ones who were still at war.
Edmund had already made it clear he would remain, both to pursue the investigation and to keep watch over her, for which she was grateful. She desperately wanted to also spend the holidays with Andrew, but she refused to ask him. It was probably pride holding her back, but what if he wanted to go home to his family? She didn’t know what his plans were, and the thought of asking made her stomach tighten. She didn’t want to appear needy without family to claim her.
Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve, and the university had fallen silent, as had the attacks. She was sick of the lingering fear and in some ways just wanted to face it all head-on instead of constantly waiting.
The halls were emptying. For now, though, Isla was trying to be in the present. She tuned back in to the lively hum of Juliette’s kitchen. Their tradition had quietly grown over the years: Juliette baking, bustling about with sleeves rolled high, with Isla nearby pretending to be useful, though neither of them were great cooks.
In truth though, Juliette always made sure Isla had everything she might need for an abundant Christmas dinner—though it was only ever for one. Still, her kindness always touched her heart.
Every year, Juliette asked her to come along to her own family’s home, and every year Isla gently refused. She could never quite shake the worry of intruding on someone else’s family Christmas, of being the extra guest who didn’t belong. Juliette never pressed, but her fussing in the kitchen spoke louder than any words—small acts of care to soften the edges of her friend’s loneliness.
“Here, grate those carrots,” Juliette said, pushing a bowl toward her with mock sternness. “If you can’t have a proper Christmas pudding this year, we’ll make do with carrot cake.”
Isla laughed, taking up the grater. “You should write a cookbook:Wartime Delights on Half a Ration.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Juliette grinned, weighing out the flour with precision. “Now, keep grating. You’ll see—spices make all the difference. I was lucky to get them. A bit of cinnamon, a touch of nutmeg—it will be like a hug in cake form.”
There was no luck about her friend finding the ingredients. Juliette went out of her way every Christmas to get Isla the best she could despite the rationing making it extremely difficult.
A modest cut of goose sat in her fridge, which Juliette had bartered from a local farmer. It wasn’t turkey—a luxury for those with more coupons to spare—but with herbs, onions, and gravy, it would make a fine centerpiece.
