No. That could not be right.
Agnes set down the watering can and retrieved what looked like small gardening shears from her apron pocket.
I started down the stairs, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. The wood creaked beneath my feet, and she turned, spotting me on the landing, her eyes widening before she arranged her features into innocence. The shears disappeared back into her pocket with a motion she tried to make casual and very nearly managed.
“Good morning, dear,” she said cheerfully. “You’re up early. I hope the room was comfortable.”
“Very comfortable, thank you.”
I descended the rest of the stairs, unable to stop staring at Hawthorne. His hands were still damp, water glistening on them like morning dew on blades of grass. “What were you—”
“Oh… Hawthorne had a bit of dirt on his hands from the greenhouse,” Agnes said quickly, already moving toward the kitchen. “I was just helping him wash before he mucked up the good china.”
“I see,” I said, though I was certain that was not what I had seen at all.
“Why don’t you come help me finish breakfast preparations? Dr. Ambrose will be down shortly, and he gets quite cross if his tea isn’t ready.” Her tone was pleasant but firm—the same tone she had used the day before when shutting down my questions.
She disappeared down the corridor, clearly expecting me to follow. I looked at Hawthorne. He had moved back to the window, standing motionless in the rectangle of morning light, his palms still turned upward waiting for more, or absorbing what he had already been given.
I stared at him, at the dark veins branching beneath his flesh. I wondered whether he would bleed if I cut him open, or if his skin would split to reveal sap spilling from the wound.
You know what would happen, the voice replied, but I ignored it. I did not know and what I suspected was not logically possible.
I met Hawthorne’s hollow gaze and frowned.
Was it possible?
The question had been nagging at me since the first time I had seen him, though I was no closer to figuring it out. I suspected Agnes and Dr. Ambrose both possessed that answer and had quietly agreed not to share it.
I turned and followed Agnes into the dining room, my mind repeating the same ridiculous conclusion.
I dismissed the thought thoroughly.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Dr. Ambrose arrived shortly after Agnes had set out fresh bread, butter, jam, soft-boiled eggs, and kippers. He looked less haggard than the day before, though the shadows beneath his eyes suggested he had slept just as poorly as I had. His dark hair was still slightly damp—evidence that he had perhaps overslept, forcing him to wash and dress in haste.
His eyes met mine briefly as he took the seat across from me. “Good morning, Miss Reed. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well, thank you.”
He frowned—a small, considering expression that suggested he did not believe me and had decided, for now,not to say so. He reached for the teapot and poured for both of us without asking.
I focused on my food, suddenly ravenous. The bread was still warm, the butter melting perfectly into its soft interior, and I ate with more enthusiasm than grace, trying to balance the ordinariness of breakfast against the less comfortable awareness of his presence across the table.
The silence stretched until I could bear it no longer. I took it as my opportunity to mention my eagerness to assist in the actual research. Somewhere in that brilliant mind of his was the answer to my memory loss, and that was the only thing that mattered to me.
“What will we be doing today?” I asked, setting down my teacup as I shot him an expression I hoped was sweet.
Dr. Ambrose looked up, one eyebrow raising as an almost teasing grin curved his lips. “We?”
“Yes. We. Me—your assistant—and you.” I pointed between us. “What research will we be conducting?”
He set down his fork, and I caught the hint of that amusement glimmering in his eyes. “You will be continuing to catalog the remaining seedlings, and I will be extracting compounds. Same as yesterday.”
Frustration flared hot in my chest. I took a steadying breath, forcing it down before it showed on my face. “You have no intention of allowing me to assist you with actual research, do you?”
“And what makes you think that?”
“Because you have relegated me to basic cataloging when you know that I am capable of more.” I leaned forward,no longer caring that my tone had sharpened into something approaching confrontation. “I did not accept this position to merely label plants, Dr. Ambrose. I came here to learn and contribute something of value.”
