Shea busies herself by taking a too large sip of tea. The heat of it scalds the roof of her mouth and she coughs, sputtering.
“No one of importance,” says Asher.
Egor narrows his eyes in Asher’s direction. “I have to confess—I find your instinct to protect him perplexing. And perhaps misplaced. Oliver is a ticking bomb. When he detonates—and he will—the damage will be astronomical.”
Silence swells. The morning sun shines directly on the glass, turning the room to an oven. Under her myriad layers, Shea begins to sweat. Wedged as she is between Poppy and Asher, there’s no space for her to shed her flannel. She sets down her teacup and tugs at her collar, resolving herself to her fate.
“Is there a bathroom I could use?” asks Poppy suddenly. Every head in the room turns to face her, and she smiles, rising to her feet. “Sorry, it’s just that we’ve been on the road for days. I’d really love to clean up.”
“Me too,” says Shea. “I could use a shower.”
An ice-cold one. She feels like she’s catching fire. The temperature in the room is slowly creeping toward unbearable. Sweat trickles in a line down her back.
“Yes, yes, of course,” says Egor. “I’m sure you’re eager to get the dust off.” A smile appears on his face, wan and nervy. “You’ll find a bathroom at the top of the stairs. Please feel free to use anything you need. Perhaps we can come back to this conversation a little later.”
Asher bristles. “Unlikely—Oof. ”
“Thanks,” says Poppy, who has trod right on Asher’s toe. “That’s very generous.”
Asher rises after her with a scowl, and Shea follows. The moment she stands, the room tips on its axis. She catches herself on a narrow console table lined in string-of-pearls, sending its leaves fluttering toward the floor in verdant helixes.
“Hey,” says Asher, stabilizing her by the elbow. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just tired, I think.”
“Shea,” calls Egor as she reaches the door. “It’s Shea, right? Would you mind staying back just a minute? I’d like to speak with you. It won’t take long.”
Poppy is already upstairs. Asher hesitates on the bottom step, his brow raised in a question.
“I’ll be right up,” she says. “You can go ahead.”
“You’re sure?”
“Go. I’ll be fine.”
She watches him leave before turning back toward the living room. Everything feels slow and diluted, like she’s moving underwater. She catches her shoulder against the doorframe in a lopsided lean, wicking sweat from her brow. In his chair, Egor looks on edge. His eyes dart from her to the hall. His teacup rattles against the saucer.
“I was a young man when the Rot first appeared,” he says, speaking like he’s rushing to get something out. “New to my career and already jaded. Everyone likes to say it all happened so quickly, but that simply isn’t true. Men like me—scholars, botanists, scientists—we’d been sounding the alarm for years.
“As a phytologist, I published several peer-reviewed articles on the melting Arctic, the rising temperatures. We had good reason to believe that certain ancient microbes were trapped in pockets of gas, miles beneath the ice. That soon, they’d escape. They’d get into the groundwater. They’d wreak havoc on our modern ecosystem. We were discredited for our writings, my colleagues and I. Even now that the worst has come true, people still feign ignorance.”
The temperature in the room is stifling. Tea-water hot.
“Why are you telling me this?” asks Shea.
“You are important to Oliver,” says Egor simply. “That makes you important to me. I’d like it if you knew who I was. What kind of man I am. It might make this visit a little easier.”
Shea considers him through the blinding swell of a sun flare. “Back home, Father Isaac says the Rot came from hell. He says the world ripped itself open to punish us for our sins.”
Egor’s eyes twinkle behind his glasses. “And is that what you believe?”
“I don’t go to church.”
Egor smiles around another swallow of tea. “I see why he likes you. You’re very similar, you and he. You both carry so much anger. I only wonder—if you strike two flint stones one against the other long enough, eventually they catch fire.”
The sound of his voice winnows out. She catches herself on the back of the couch, dizzy. Sweat pours down her face. When she swipes the back of her hand across her eyes, her focus snags on the dregs of her tea. The bottom of the cup is rimed in a flat blue paste. Petals ground down to powder. Tasteless. Toxic.
“Scutellaria,”says Egor, when he notices her looking. “Although you likely know it by its more common name.”
