Finally, the university came into view—an impressive collection of dark stone buildings that seemed to tower over the landscape. Gardens spread between structures in neat arrangements that spoke of wealth and academic prestige.
The carriage slowed, then stopped before an entrance marked with a brass plaque identifying it as the Department of Botanical Sciences.
Dr. Ambrose exited first, then offered me his hand to help me down. I took it, trying to ignore the flutter of my pulse at the contact, and stepped onto the gravel drive.
“Shall we?” he asked, understanding passing through his expression as though he recognized the anxieties churningthrough my mind and found them both unnecessary and endearing.
“Yes,” I said, lifting my chin with more confidence than I felt.
He grinned, that dimpled softness that made him look younger, and offered me his arm.
I took it, a small frozen fragment of my heart splinteringin my chest.
Chapter 10
The Department of Botanical Sciences occupied one of the older buildings on campus, its stone facade darkened by decades of coal smoke and weather. Ivy climbed the walls in thick layers, framing arched windows that looked out over meticulously maintained gardens. The interior was cooler than the afternoon outside, all shiny mahogany paneling and high ceilings that made our footsteps echo as we walked.
Dr. Ambrose navigated the corridors with the ease of long familiarity, nodding to the occasional student or faculty member we passed. I followed at his side, aware of the curious glances directed our way—specifically at me, the only woman visible in a building that appeared to be the exclusive domain of men.
We climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor, then turned down a corridor lined with offices. Dr. Ambrose stopped before a door bearing a brass nameplate:Dr. James Winthrop, Professor of Botanical Sciences.
He knocked twice, a familiar rhythm that suggested this was not his first visit.
“Enter,” came a voice from within.
Dr. Ambrose opened the door and gestured for me to precede him. I stepped into an office that could only be described as chaotically magnificent. Books lined every available wall and were stacked in precarious towers on the desk and floor where the shelves had run out of space. Dried plant specimens hung from the ceiling, their labels dangling like toe tags on their withered corpses. The scent of old paper and preserved vegetation filled the air, underlaid with the mustiness that came from ancient texts.
Behind the desk sat a man perhaps a decade older than Dr. Ambrose, his dark hair showing the first threads of silver at the temples. He had the lean, angular build of someone who chose study over sustenance, and intelligent gray eyes that assessed me with frank interest from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
He rose as we entered, genuine warmth spreading across his features as his gaze landed on Dr. Ambrose.
“Nicholas,” he said, moving around the desk with his hand extended. “It has been far too long.”
“James.” Dr. Ambrose clasped his hand with obvious fondness. “I apologize for the delay. The past months have been… complicated.”
“I received your letters.” Dr. Winthrop’s expression sobered. “I am glad to see you looking well, all things considered.”
Wordless communication passed between them that spoke of shared history and understanding I was not privy to. Then Dr. Winthrop’s attention shifted to me, and surprise flickered across his features before being masked byprofessional courtesy. He stared at me for a fraction too long, his eyes widening before he caught himself. The pause was brief, but carried weight I had not missed.
“Forgive me,” he said, recovering smoothly. “You must be the assistant Nicholas mentioned in his correspondence. I confess, I had not expected—” He stopped himself, offering a genuine smile that reached his eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”
“Reed,” I supplied, accepting the hand he extended. His grip was warm and firm, his manner welcoming despite whatever had caused that initial moment of surprise. “Camellia Reed. The pleasure is mine, Dr. Winthrop. Dr. Ambrose speaks very highly of your work.”
“Does he?” Dr. Winthrop glanced at Dr. Ambrose with raised brows. “That is generous of him, considering he finds most of my methods hopelessly boring.”
“I said your methods were conventional,” Dr. Ambrose corrected, humor coloring his tone. “There is a difference.”
“A subtle one.” Dr. Winthrop gestured toward the chairs arranged before his desk. “Please, sit. I assume this visit concerns theBacopa monnieriyou mentioned in your letter?”
We settled into the offered seats. I arranged my skirts carefully, trying to project competence despite the anxiety fluttering in my chest. This was a renowned professor, a published expert in his field. What business did I have offering botanical theories to such a man?
Dr. Ambrose must have sensed my nervousness, because his hand found mine where it rested on the arm of the chair, giving it a brief, reassuring squeeze before releasing it. The gesture was so quick I might have imagined it, but the warmth lingered.
“Yes,” Dr. Ambrose said, his gaze returning to Dr. Winthrop. “I am working with hemlock extractions—attempting to isolate the compounds that affect memory and cognitive function. The preliminary results are promising, but the side effects are significant.”
Dr. Winthrop leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “I imagine so.Conium maculatumis not known for its gentle nature. What sort of side effects?”
“Primarily autonomic disruption. Irregular heartbeat, muscle weakness, and respiratory depression at higher doses. The therapeutic window is frustratingly narrow.”
