“Hemlock,” he replied, glancing briefly around the greenhouse.
I hid my smile behind my teacup, pulling information from what memory I still possessed. “Interesting choice. You should try grafting it withBacopa monnieri,” I suggested, as though I had only just thought of the idea. “It has been used in Ayurvedic medicine for memory enhancement for centuries.”
He looked at me with interest, then suspicion—he truly was irritatingly observant.
“You are familiar with Eastern medicinal plants?” he asked, tilting his head curiously.
“My father had correspondence with scholars in India and China and believed Western botanists were foolish to dismiss traditional medicine simply because it came from different cultures.” I wrapped my hands around my teacup again, forgetting to hide the discoloration in my enthusiasm.
“Remarkable.” He was watching me with a slight grin now. “And Bacopa—you’ve worked with it personally?”
“Only in preserved form. My father had samples, though I do not recall…” I trailed off, frustrated as I hit another wall in my memory. “I remember the plant itself, but not the specific research he was conducting.”
“A pity,” he said, his tone almost disappointed. “It is an intriguing theory, nevertheless.”
He sat forward then, tapping his finger over his lips, and I watched his brilliant mind working over the possible solution. I jumped at the opportunity, doubting I had much time before he would figure it out on his own.
“Bacopa enhances acetylcholine activity,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual. “Which is the mechanism the alkaloids disrupt. They might work in opposition, one clearing the pathway while the other strengthens it.”
He looked at me steadily for a moment, and I recognized the slight recalibration of how he was seeing me—the adjustment that happened when someone exceeded what you had anticipated.
"You have read Müller's work on cholinergic transmission," he said. It was not quite a question, but I nodded anyway.
“My father had the monograph. I read most of what he kept.” I hesitated. “I would like to read yours—your notes, I mean, your actual research documentation, if you would let me.” I kept my voice measured and matter-of-fact. “I could contribute more meaningfully if I understood the full scope of what you are attempting.”
He was quiet for a moment, then one corner of his mouth curved into a devilish smirk. He leaned forward, making the distance between us over the small table nearly obsolete.
“Miss Reed,” he said softly, his tone deep and rich. “If one did not know better, one might assume you are trying to seduce me with your brilliance into revealing all my secrets.”
I opened my mouth to deny the accusation, but words failed me when his eyes trailed to my lips, lingering there. His throat bobbed when he swallowed, and my gaze caught on his pulse. So much life gathered in one fragile column of flesh.
I reached up, touching the ribbon around my neck, feeling my own heartbeat beneath, moving in time with his. His expression faltered as he watched, the moment vanishing before I could fully process it. He stood abruptly and turned away from me.
“Finish the cataloging,” he said over his shoulder, moving toward his workstation. “I will consider your request.”
I remained at the table a moment longer, staring at his back—irritated, confused, and breathless—before returning to my workstation and forcing my attention onto the remaining seedlings.
Chapter 7
What little light the sky had offered was fading when Agnes appeared in the greenhouse doorway, wringing her hands in her apron with uncharacteristic agitation.
I looked up from the final seedling I had been cataloging—Veratrum album,white hellebore from the Austrian Alps. I had been thinking, as I documented it, about the strange tenderness with which poison presented itself—the plant was beautiful, its leaves broad and architectural, the sort of thing one might arrange in a vase without knowing what it was. Most of the dangerous things here were like that. They did not announce themselves. They simply waited, patient and lovely, for someone to make the wrong assumption.
Agnes’s expression drove the thought from my mind entirely.
Her gaze swept over me first—sharp and assessing—before she stalked toward Dr. Ambrose’s workbench, her usual grace replaced by jerky, anxious movements.
He was still absorbed in his extraction, measuring drops of liquid into a test tube, when she reached his side. She leaned close, speaking in a voice too low for me to hear, her words rapid and urgent.
Dr. Ambrose went very still.
The dropper hovered midair for a fraction too long before he set it down and turned to glance at me, before returning his attention to Agnes with a terse nod. She wrung her hands once more, cast the same worried frown in my direction, and hurried from the greenhouse with a haste I had never seen from her.
Dr. Ambrose was already at the door, shrugging into his jacket with movements that were controlled on the surface but carried an urgency beneath.
“Finish up, then you may go in for supper,” he said, without looking at me, already fastening the buttons.
I straightened from my work, frowning at the sudden tension radiating from him. “Where are you going? Is everything alright?”
