He grinned, recognizing his own words thrown back at him, but his guard remained raised despite the gesture. “What else would there be?”
I returned his smile. “Touché.”
I turned away, examining one of the smaller specimens more closely, using the action to hide the trembling in my hands. “Perhaps,” I said, forcing the words out though they wanted to lodge in my throat, “your reason has something to do with your wife?”
The silence that followed was so complete that I almost wondered if he had heard the question at all. He shifted his weight, the quietest exhale of breath passing through the space. The greenhouse glass rattled in a breeze, stretching its tired bones, then settled around us like a living thing adjusting to new pressure.
I lifted the plant I had been examining and turned to face him, needing to see if his face might betray his silence.
He stepped closer, taking the pot from my hands, but his expression was completely unreadable. If the question had upset him or taken him aback in any way, he certainly did not show it.
When our eyes met, he shook his head, and I was not entirely sure if he was answering the question or simply refusing an answer. The ambiguity felt deliberate, a calculated response without providing any actual information.
His gaze drifted to the green ribbon around my throat, his pupils dilating with some thought or emotion pressing behind them, begging him for release. His fingers tightened around the clay pot until I thought it might crack beneath the pressure. Then he stepped back, retreating behind the impenetrable wall he had built around himself.
“We should return,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, the emotion he refused to release catching like a stone in his throat. “I will need to transplant the specimen.”
I opened my mouth to stop him, to plead for a true answer, to demand he tell me what Dr. Winthrop had been referring to, but he was already moving toward the greenhouse exit.
I followed, and tried to ignore the frustration flaring in my chest. If he would not tell me what we were truly working toward, if he would not explain what success might mean, then I was left with only my imagination to fill that void. Guided by my companion’s dark suggestions and the memory of a ghost with vines spilling from her mouth, my imagination would paint possibilities far more disturbing than the truth might have been.
The carriage ride back to the estate passed in charged silence, neither of us willing to address what had not quitebeen said in that greenhouse, both of us painfully aware of it nonetheless.
I stared out the window, watching the landscape pass in blurs of green and gray, and wondered whether I should be grateful or terrified that Dr. Ambrose had not answered my question. I wondered if ignorance was protection or simply a blindfold that kept me from seeing the precipice I was walking toward until the moment I stepped off theedge and fell.
Chapter 11
We arrived back at the manor as afternoon light began its slow decline toward evening, illuminating everything in that strange way which made it appear golden and dying at once.
The carriage wheels crunched over gravel, each rotation marking time I found myself oddly reluctant to surrender.
Agnes met us at the door before we had fully descended from the carriage, her hands already twisting in her apron with that telltale gesture of nervousness I had come to recognize. Her smile was bright, but it wavered like a candle in a breeze as her eyes darted between Dr. Ambrose and myself.
"Welcome back," she said, her voice an octave too high. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"We did, thank you Agnes." He handed her his coat, his movements unhurried. "The specimen is perfect for our purposes."
"Wonderful, wonderful." Agnes nodded with unwarranted repetitive enthusiasm, her gaze sliding to hisface wearily. "Dr. Ambrose, you have a guest waiting in your study. He arrived about an hour ago."
A weighted look passed between them, one I could not exactly interpret, though it pressed against my awareness. Dr. Ambrose's jaw clenched, then smoothed at once.
"I see," he said quietly, the words containing volumes I was not permitted to read. "Thank you for accommodating him, Agnes."
"Of course." Agnes turned to me with renewed vigor. "Miss Reed, why don't you let me take that lovely plant to the greenhouse for you? You must be famished after your journey. I've set out tea and cake in the dining room."
I glanced down at the Bacopa I still held, its leaves soft against my chest, its presence in my hands a tangible reminder that I was possibly one step closer to regaining my memories. The offer was kind, but her eagerness to separate me from both Dr. Ambrose and the specimen felt deliberate.
"I do not mind taking it myself," I said, watching her face closely. "It would only take a moment—"
"Nonsense!" Agnes reached for the pot with such insistence that I had to surrender it or risk an undignified struggle. "You've been traveling all day. Go, rest and drink something warm. Dr. Ambrose has business to attend to anyway."
I looked at Dr. Ambrose, my brows furrowing.
He met my gaze with an expression that managed to be both apologetic and firm. "Agnes is right. I have no intention of attempting the grafting today. The specimen needs time to acclimate to its new environment before webegin extraction. You may take the rest of the day to yourself. You have earned it."
The words were gentle but unmistakably manufactured, wrapped in praise that did nothing to soften the reality that I was being dismissed. Whatever business awaited him in his study, I was not to be part of it, and was obviously being prevented from proximity to it through the combined efforts of the pair of them working in unspoken coordination once again.
"Very well," I said, though curiosity already burned in my chest.
