Agnes practically bustled me toward the dining room, the Bacopa clutched in her hands as though she thought I might reach for it at any moment. Dr. Ambrose disappeared down the corridor toward his study without a backward glance, his shoulders carrying a tension that had not been there moments before.
I found myself alone in the dining room, staring into the steam of my tea as I stirred it mindlessly.
Who would be visiting Dr. Ambrose? And why had Agnes been so determined to keep me away from whatever conversation was taking place behind that closed door?
The questions circled my mind with the persistence of birds, returning again and again to pick at the same territory, finding no satisfaction yet unable to abandon the search.
Perhaps it was someone who would disapprove of our arrangement—an unmarried woman living and working alone with a widower, no chaperone beyond an aging housekeeper and a peculiar servant who barely qualified as humancompany. Perhaps it was a family member who would object to my presence on moral grounds, who would demand Dr. Ambrose maintain propriety even in his own home.
Or perhaps it was simply personal business. A solicitor reviewing estate matters. A benefactor for his research who preferred discretion. A colleague from his university days come to discuss some private matter unrelated to botanical science.
Any of these explanations would be reasonable, logical even, sufficient to explain both the secrecy and Agnes's nervous energy.
And yet.
Secrets, secrets, secrets,the voice sing-songed.So many secrets.
I set down the spoon and rose from the table.
The rational part of my mind knew I should respect the obvious boundaries being drawn. I should finish my tea, retire to my room, and allow Dr. Ambrose his privacy for whatever business required it.
I was not going to do that, though.
I moved into the corridor, my footsteps light and quiet on the wooden floors. The house was silent—Agnes presumably occupied in the greenhouse, Hawthorne nowhere to be seen, no sounds of movement from the upper floors.
I paused, listening. Nothing but the groan of old wood and the gentle rattle of wind against windows.
The corridor stretched before me, empty and inviting in its desertion. I crept down the hall, a moth drawn to aflame, pulled forward by a compulsion I could not justify, yet could not resist.
My heart beat too fast in my chest, adrenaline sharpening my senses even as the voice in my mind hummed approval at the transgression.
Yes,it whispered.Find out what he hides.
I reached the study and pressed my ear against the wood, hardly daring to breathe.
Voices filtered through, muffled and indistinct, the thick oak doing its work too well. I listened to the cadence of conversation, the rise and fall of two male voices in discussion, but the actual words remained frustratingly out of reach. I strained to hear more, pressing closer, my hands braced against the doorframe for balance, willing the words to clarify.
"—she has a right to know—" A voice I did not recognize, though something about its timbre was distantly familiar. "—dangerous for both of you—"
I breathed slowly through my nose, trying to quiet my racing heart enough to hear properly. Dangerous? What was dangerous? Was this man referring to me?
My thoughts turned back to the conversation I had heard between Dr. Ambrose and Dr. Winthrop. Were the two conversations related? Was this about Dr. Ambrose’s memory research?
"I am aware of the risks." Dr. Ambrose's voice came clearer now, tight with controlled emotion. "But I have no other choice. If there is any chance—"
The rest dissolved into unintelligible murmurs, swallowed by wood and distance.
I leaned closer still, frustration mounting. What risks? What chance?
The door opened.
I had no time to step back, no opportunity to fabricate an excuse or manufacture a reason for my presence. It swung too quickly, suggesting someone had pulled it open knowing exactly what they might find on the other side. I stumbled forward into the study, my balance lost, my dignity abandoned somewhere behind me in the corridor.
Dr. Ambrose stared down at me, his expression cycling through surprise, then something that might have been grim amusement.
And beside him, wearing an equal measure of shock, poorly masked, stood Mr. Finch.
My father's solicitor.
