“Miss Everleigh,” came Aster’s sharp voice from the darkness above those hands.
Saffron couldn’t help it—she shivered. It was downright spooky in there. It didn’t help that the windows were covered by thick draperies.
Ferrand tutted softly as he pulled them open. Saffron winced at the cool light. Ferrand gently took her test-tube rack with her cuttings out of her hand. She’d rather forgotten she’d been carrying it.
Aster sat at his desk on the opposite side of the room, a sour expression pinching his wrinkled face. He was an old man, but not the jolly old sort like Dr. Maxwell. There was no softness to him, from his precisely parted white hair to his gray eyes glimmering like melting snow over metal.
He nodded, and she sat in the chair before him.
“I trust the rest of your travels were sufficient,” he said without preamble.
Her fingers linked together in her lap. The reason she’d extended her stay on the Continent had been among the worst experiences of her life—and she’d recently been held at gunpoint, poisoned, and abducted. Traveling to Ypres and Flanders had been a mistake but one she would never admit to Aster. “Yes, sir. I appreciate greatly your flexibility.”
“Have you changed your mind about the case study paper?”
“No, sir.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “I see.” Curiously, Saffron was sure that this was what Aster had been expecting. “What are your plans for ensuring your position within the department and your spot in the master’s program?”
This was the question for which she’d rehearsed her answer, and so she said what she’d been planning, even if it stuck a bit in her throat considering what she’d just discovered in the greenhouses. “My initial analysis for the pigmentation study is on track to meet your first deadline. I will be more than capable of carrying out the study when classes for second term begin in January.”
She held her breath as Aster watched her. Determination warred with fear. Shewasmore than capable of carrying out a study while earning her master’s degree. But should Aster not be willing to keep her on as a researcher, should she be sacked, finding another position after being dismissed from a university …
“Very well,” he said.
Saffron didn’t allow her shoulders to droop in relief. “Thank you, Dr. Aster.”
Ferrand was not at his desk when she retrieved her cuttings, but she didn’t slow to feel relieved that Aster gave her a reprieve. She had plants to find.
She directed brief, polite nods to the other staff members in the hall, who either nodded back or ignored her. News of her choice to keep her name off the paper would be known by the end of the day, and she had no doubt any acknowledgment would further dwindle. No one in the department, or likely the entire scientific community, would understand her reluctance to participate in government research. Even if their fathers, brothers, sons, and friends had been killed in the same manner her father had, at the hands of new and violent technology, she doubted any of them would be willing to put aside a potentially enriching opportunity out of principle. None of them was likely that idealistic—or that stupid.
She’d just started down the stairs to the ground level, lost in thought about where exactly one might stash her specimens, when a hand landed on her elbow. “Saffron.”
Her hands fumbled, sending her test-tube rack flying. “No!”
She dove for it, but it was unnecessary. Alexander caught the rack easily, handing it back to her. She swallowed, hugging her cuttings close. “Thank you.”
“Sorry,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been calling your name.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “I was lost in thought. My Brazilian samples have gone missing—”
“I have them.”
Her mouth fell open. “You took my samples?”
“They’re in my office.”
She didn’t bother asking why, she wanted to see her plants.
She followed Alexander to the second floor and around the corner to his office. It was so clean and sparsely furnished as to be sterile, but near his window stood an unfamiliar cart.
A trio of massive glass jars sat overturned on the cart. Next to them stood a lamp, shining directly on them. Condensation obscured what she hoped was beneath. She held her breath as Alexander moved aside the lamp and lifted the first jar.
Twelve tiny pots stood in two concentric circles. Bending, her face inches away from the dark soil, Saffron’s heart swelled. Tiny green specks were just visible through the dirt. TheStrychnos toxiferaseeds she’d planted just before departing—the only plant that hadn’t survived the journey from Brazil, and the only sample she was growing from seed—were alive and well.
She reached for the next jar. Alexander obliged her, lifting the other jars in turn so she could examine each plant. She counted her samples, mentally ticking off each specimen.Brugmansia sanguinea, now a thick stalk with a fringe of leaves, would someday grow into a tree with massive, trumpet-shaped flowers. The vines of herChondrodendron tomentosumcutting were already budding with new leaves.
They were all there, all accounted for and apparently thriving in this rather unorthodox setup.
