“Hence the Bacopa.” Dr. Winthrop’s eyes sharpened with interest. “You are looking for something to counteract the negative effects while preserving the cognitive benefits?”
“Not exactly.” Dr. Ambrose glanced at me, and I realized with a start that he was inviting me to explain. “Miss Reed proposed an alternative approach. Perhaps you would share your theory?”
My mouth went dry. Dr. Winthrop’s full attention fixed on me, his expression one of polite curiosity, and I found myself silently cursing how inadequate my knowledge might prove when examined by an expert.
Dr. Ambrose flashed me a reassuring grin when I glanced at him.
I straightened in my chair, gathering what confidence I possessed. “Bacopa monnierihas well-documented effects on memory formation and cognitive enhancement through entirely different mechanisms than hemlock. Rather than attempting to counteract the hemlock’s negative effects, I wondered if combining the two compounds might create a synergistic effect—the hemlock suppressing whatever mechanisms prevent memory retrieval, while the Bacopa strengthens the neural pathways that allow new memories to form and old ones to resurface.”
Dr. Winthrop’s eyebrows rose. He leaned forward, his entire demeanor shifting from polite intrigue to genuine fascination. “That is actually quite clever. The two compounds work on different neurological systems—combining them could theoretically provide benefits from both without the negative interactions you might see from compounds affecting the same pathways.” He looked at Dr. Ambrose with something like approval. “Your assistant is quite brilliant.”
“That she is,” Dr. Ambrose said, and there was warmth mixed with a deeper emotion I could not name that made my cheeks heat. “Miss Reed’s understanding of plant properties is exceptional, especially given the limitations of formal education available to women.”
“Clearly.” Dr. Winthrop returned his attention to me. “Have you had any formal training, Miss Reed? Or is this entirely self-taught?”
“My father was a botanist,” I admitted. “I have read extensively on the subject. His library contained several botanical texts that I studied when I was younger.”
That much was true, even if I could not remember the specific texts or the process of learning from them. The knowledge remained, even if its origins had been stolen by whatever had happened to me.
Dr. Winthrop nodded thoughtfully. “Well, your theory is sound enough to warrant investigation. I have several Bacopa specimens in the research greenhouse, and you are welcome to take whatever you need for your experiments.”
He stood, and we rose with him. But as Dr. Ambrose moved toward the door, Dr. Winthrop caught his arm, holding him back with a gentle but insistent grip.
“Nicholas,” he said quietly, his eyes flicking to me then back to his friend. “A word, if I may?”
A look weighted with meaning I was unable to decipher passed between them. Dr. Ambrose’s jaw tightened before he nodded.
“Miss Reed, would you mind waiting in the corridor for a moment?” he asked, his tone light despite the tension in his expression.
“Of course,” I said, though curiosity burned through me.
I stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me but not quite latching it. The wood was old, slightly warped, and a narrow gap remained where the door failed to meet the frame properly.
I should not eavesdrop. It was inappropriate and invasive, exactly the sort of boundary violation that might have cost me my position after the incident in Dr. Ambrose’s bedchamber.
I pressed my ear to the gap anyway, their words ebbing and flowing through the door until I could just make out pieces of the conversation.
“Nicholas, what are you doing?” Dr. Winthrop’s voice carried clearly, hushed but urgent.
“I know how it appears, James.” Dr. Ambrose’s response was tighter, defensive. “But it is not what you think.”
“Is it not? Because from where I stand, it looks like you are…” His voice hushed, the ending trailing off.
“I know what I am doing.” The words were clipped, final.
“For how long? Nicholas, this cannot possibly end well. You do not truly believe—”
“I am not having this discussion with you.” Dr. Ambrose’s voice dropped to a register I had never heard from him before—cold and unyielding, carrying a warning that brooked no argument. “I appreciate your concern, James, but my choices are not subject to your approval.”
There was a long pause, a few more muffled words that were inaudible, then Dr. Winthrop sighed, the sound carrying a world of reluctant resignation.
“Does she know what you are working toward? What it might mean if you succeed?”
“No, not yet.”
The rest of the conversation fell too quiet to hear, even as I held my breath.
Footsteps approached the door. I stepped back quickly, arranging my expression into one of polite patience as Dr. Ambrose emerged, Dr. Winthrop following close behind.
