I hurried to the study, my steps quick and quiet. The bookshelves loomed in the dim light, the gap on the shelf accusing me of some terrible crime.
I crossed to the shelf and replaced it in its proper place, pushing it flush with the others so no gap betrayed its absence. My fingers lingered on the spine for a moment, reluctant to leave it when I still had so many questions unanswered.
But I had no choice, not with Agnes waiting.
I turned toward the door, glancing back at the shelf full of journals documenting years of research I was only beginning to understand.
Later, I promised myself. Later, I would come back. I would find out what happened to M. and discover the truth.
“Is everything alright?” Agnes’s concerned voice was closer now.
I emerged from the room, forcing a calm I did not feel. “Yes, sorry. I was just… looking for a book to read this evening.”
Agnes’s expression softened. “Of course, dear. Well, come along. The stew will get cold.”
I followed her down the corridor toward the dining room, my mind still churning with everything I had read, everything I had seen.
Chapter 13
Istood at my bedchamber door, one hand flat against the wood, listening to the sounds of the house settling around me. Footsteps echoed down the hall, masculine and moving with purpose. I had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity for Dr. Ambrose to return home.
I wondered where exactly he had gone, but I did not have time to examine that curiosity now.
I opened my door just a crack, peering through the narrow gap, and watched as he reached his bedchamber. He paused at the threshold, hand resting on the handle for a long moment, his shoulders carrying the tension of exhaustion or grief or perhaps both.
He entered and closed the door behind him with a soft click.
I waited, counting the seconds in my head, giving him time to assume the household had retired for the night. When I reached sixty, I slipped out into the hallway with my candle, the flame guttering in the draft. I closed my door behind me, wincing at every tiny sound the mechanism made.
The corridor was dark save for my small circle of light. My bare feet made no sound against the wooden floors as I crept toward the stairs, my stomach twisting with the knowledge that what I was doing was wrong on every conceivable level.
But I needed to know. I needed to understand what had happened to M., what had transformed her into the vine-ridden ghost that haunted the halls.
The study was dark when I entered, the greenhouse beyond it barely visible through the connecting door. I set my candle down on the desk, the small flame dancing over the scattered papers and specimen jars.
The journals waited on the shelf like silent witnesses poised to judge me.
I began the immense task of pulling them down one by one, starting with the dates directly following the Hawthorne volume. My fingers trembled as I opened each one, scanning pages by candlelight, searching for any mention of M., any continuation of their collaborative work.
The first one—dated two months after Hawthorne’s creation—contained only botanical observations and standard research on various plant species, their properties and potential medical applications. All in Dr. Ambrose’s handwriting. No sign of M.’s flowing script.
I replaced it and pulled down the next one.
It was more of the same—dry documentation of experiments conducted for various universities and medical institutions, professional and ordinary.
There was no mention of Verdant Vespera, no reference to M., or any indication that something miraculous had ever occurred in these greenhouses.
I worked through journal after journal, my disappointment growing with each page. There was nothing. No further evidence they had continued to study the vine, no detail about an illness or accident his wife might have suffered. Merely standard research and botanical compounds and the usual work one might expect from a brilliant doctor.
It appeared that the entire line of research had simply stopped, and after November thirtieth, eighteen forty-five, when Hawthorne had first stood and walked with his empty eyes, both researchers had decided never to speak of it again.
But why?
The most recent ones focused almost entirely on memory restoration—formulas and theories from his early research into the hypothesis. I scanned through those slower just in case there was anything important I could learn for my own purposes.
But there was nothing of interest.
I replaced the final journal, my shoulders sagging with disappointment. I had found no answers to any of my questions.
