I was mourning, though I could not name the object to which the grief belonged. Perhaps I mourned myself, for those pieces that had slipped away—the history of a life I no longer remembered.
In the following weeks, the voice had emerged, settling into the darkest corners of my skull. It was faint at first, so much so that I had convinced myself it was simply my own misery turned inward, my grief finding a shape and a register I did not recognize as my own.
Over time, despite my better judgment, I grew accustomed to it. I became so well acquainted with this uninvited and slightly morbid companion that the odd things it whispered no longer shocked me. What had once unnerved me now passed with little more than acknowledgment, its presence woven so seamlessly into the edges of my thoughts that I no longer startled at its quiet intrusion.
Rationally, I knew this suggested there was something deeply wrong with me. A person of sound mind would be horrified to hear a voice residing in their head, but I could no longer say I occupied that category with any confidence.
I tried my best to ignore it, just as I ignored all the other gifts death had seen fit to return me with, but honesty forced me to admit the voice had become dangerously close to a friend. Perhaps my only friend.
At least it spoke to me. At least it acknowledged I existed.
In the months since my recovery, I had consulted several physicians regarding my symptoms. I attempted to explain what I was experiencing—the sense that something had broken inside me and would not mend. They listened with the sort of patience reserved for the fairer sex, their expressions betraying what they would not say aloud. Each consultation ended the same way—more rest, less stimulation, time and quiet, and the confident assertion that my feminine constitution simply needed opportunity to recover from the shock I had endured.
So I endured, because what else was there to do?
Perhaps the person I was now was simply what I had always been—a foul toxin with rotting flesh and terrible thoughts no one would notice until it was too late. The deadliest specimens rarely looked dangerous, after all. They bloomed prettily throughout polite society drawing rooms, admired by so many who had no idea they were leaning in close enough to kiss death as they bent to smell their sweet aroma.
I tried very hard not to dwell on such thoughts.
Hope had nearly abandoned me entirely, ground down by the relentless combination of grief and the void where my memories should have been, until Mr. Finch paid his visit.
He was my father's solicitor, a round-faced man with kind eyes and an unfortunate tendency toward fussing. He had come to discuss estate matters, though I suspected he had noticed my deteriorating condition and decided intervention was required. The conversation about property and signatures was mercifully brief. What followed was less expected.
He produced a newspaper from his coat, already folded to display a circled advertisement, and placed it before me with an expression of reserved pity.
"I thought this might interest you," he said simply. "There is a doctor seeking a botanical assistant, and given your expertise and your current circumstances, it seemed worth bringing to your attention."
I stared at the circled text.
Seeking a botanical assistant for research in dementia. Experience with rare and toxic specimens preferred. Live-in position. Privacy and confidentiality required.
Dr. Nicholas Ambrose
My chest squeezed uncomfortably as I read it, though I could not have said why the man’s name stirred such an odd sensation.
"His methods are controversial, by all accounts,” Mr. Finch continued, “but his work is considered brilliant. I thought the position might provide you with meaningful occupation and..." He hesitated delicately. "Access to research that might prove relevant to your own situation."
He had not saidcure, but I heard the word anyway, hanging in the space between us, a tempting lure placed neatly in front of a starving animal.
After he left, I remained in my father's study, reading and rereading those few lines until the words blurred together. Hope took root, then grew sharp and insistent, pressing against my ribs with an urgency that bordered on desperation.
Over the following days, I devoured every paper Dr. Ambrose had published—every documented experiment, every theoretical framework he had proposed. His work was decades ahead of conventional thinking, suggesting that memory might be preserved, perhaps even restored, through application of specific botanical compounds. His peers dismissed him variously as unorthodox and dangerous, but even his harshest critics could not deny his brilliance.
In truth, I cared nothing for his reputation. I cared only whether he might be right. Regaining the stolen pieces of a life I no longer remembered was all that mattered to me.
I did not mention this hope in my application letter. Instead, I presented myself as qualified, competent, and useful—and omitted, conspicuously, any mention of being a woman in the slow process of dying.
Dr. Ambrose's response arrived the very next day. It was a simple note accepting my request for an interview, the handwriting economical, though the closing line seemed to falter, as if the hand that wrote it had hesitated before finishing.
Which brought me here—late, freezing, and desperately attempting to conceal the postmortem lividity creeping up my hands.
The iron gates materialized through the curtain of falling rain, tall and ornate, flanked by stone pillars bearing intricate carvings. Even through the onslaught of the storm, I could make out the pattern etched into the metalwork. Vines curled with botanical perfection, each tendril and leaf rendered with an attention to detail that spoke of genuine knowledge rather than mere decoration.
I forced my attention beyond the gates, to the house itself.
Dark stone rose against the gray sky, ancient and imposing, suffocated in a tangle of impenetrable vines, indifferent to the weather assaulting it. Long, dew-covered windows reflected nothing but clouds and falling rain. Chimneys exhaled thin threads of smoke that the wind greedily tore apart. The architecture was all sharp angles and peaked gables, giving the structure the impression of something unearthed rather than constructed.
The sight made my pulse stutter before resuming its erratic pattern. The manor was disturbingly familiar, though I knew with absolute certainty I had never been here before.
