His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the fine linen already marked with soil and smears of yellow-green stains. For a time, I lingered, observing the economy of his movements. Every gesture was purposeful, almost hypnotic. His entire body oriented toward the specimen before him, as though the rest of the world had been assessed, found less urgent, and forgotten.
It occurred to me that there was something indecent in how beautifully he handled deadly things—his touch so gentle and loving that I wondered if the caress might convince the plants to spare his life.
Afternoon light caught in his dark hair, and I noticed the breadth of his shoulders beneath the linen shirt, the strength in his forearms where old scars traced pale lines through his skin. Scars from thorns, perhaps, or chemical burns—the marks of a man who had worked with dangerous things for so long he had ceased to fear them.
Or perhaps he had ceased to care whether they hurt him.
He straightened and turned.
The accuracy with which he found me suggested he had been aware of my presence far longer than he had let on.
The devastating ache rose in my chest, sudden and cruel, constricting my ribs until drawing breath became a chore. I gripped the doorframe to steady myself, fighting the urge to close the distance between us and ease the overwhelming sense of loss.
I swallowed around the lump forming in my throat and offered him what I hoped was an effortless smile.
His brows lifted a fraction, then his expression smoothed before I could identify what had moved through it.
“Miss Reed. I see you found your way.” His voice was soft and controlled. It made my hand itch to cover his mouth just to feel the words die against my palm.
“I hope I am not intruding,” I said, my tone far too breathless.
The voice snickered somewhere behind my left ear, obviously enjoying my discomfort.
“Not at all.” He gestured me forward, one hand still holding a glass dropper suspended over a beaker. “Come in and close the door behind you. We need to maintain the temperature.”
I did as instructed, pulling the door shut before approaching the bench where he stood.
Various glass instruments were arranged neatly—beakers, flasks, a small burner, and a distillationapparatus. The specimens on his table were lovely in that particularly lethal sort of way. Deep violet flowers sat among deceptively vibrant leaves, and clusters of black berries hung from delicate stems, glossy beneath the sunlight, each one round as a pupil widened in fear.
Atropa belladonna.
“What are you working on?” I asked, moving to stand beside him.
He continued making notes. “Extracting the alkaloid compounds from this cutting. If I can understand the mechanism by which scopolamine blocks memory formation, I believe I might be able to synthesize a compound that strengthens those same pathways instead of weakening…”
He trailed off, frowning at his notes, clearly dissatisfied with whatever result he had observed.
“Hand me that dropper, please. There, to your left.”
I reached for the glass instrument beside me. As I handed it to him, our fingers brushed for the briefest instant—just barely, but enough that I felt it like a struck match.
His hand was warm, mine was not.
He took the dropper, then paused. After setting it down carefully, he turned toward me properly. His gaze dropped to my hands before lifting to my face again.
“Are you cold?” he asked, his full lips pressing into a frown.
“No, I am fine,” I stammered, inwardly cursing myself for forgetting my gloves. I had left them in my room,never expecting to need them in the warmth of the greenhouse.
“Your hands are like ice.”
“It is just the cool air,” I said, tucking my hands behind my back. Out of sight, out of mind—I had hoped anyway. “I decided to walk here instead of hiring a cart.”
It was not a lie. I simply omitted the fact that I had arrived nearly an hour before, and a normal person would have been thoroughly warmed by then.
“You walked here?” He replied, his tone casual, though his lashes lowered in obvious annoyance.
At my nod, he let out an exasperated breath.
