“Not surprised, I see,” he said, grinning.
He closed the distance between us with three measured steps, lifting one hand to tilt my face up—ensuring I could not look away even if I wanted to. “Admit it,” he said, his voice dropping intimately. “Admit that you took this journal, that you read it without permission, and I shall tell you everything you wish to know about Hawthorne.”
My mouth opened, the confession forming almost without conscious thought. I imagined pressing my lips to his, spilling the words onto his tongue, and tasting all his dark secrets in return.
But the words stuck there, refusing to emerge.
It might be a trap, a way to coerce the truth from me so he would have grounds to dismiss me from my position. I had already been caught in his bedchamber and eavesdropping with no logical explanation, my reputation hanging by the thinnest thread of his forbearance. I could not afford to lose this position before I had gained access to his memory research.
He was so close to finding a cure. Soon I would be able to bring back my stolen memories, to fill in all those gaps that plagued me. I needed that research more than my pride, more than my curiosity, more than anything else I might lose by staying silent.
I frowned, feigning innocence. “I fear I cannot admit to something I did not do, sir.”
It was not a lie entirely. I did not take the journal. Hawthorne had taken it, and I had simply read what was thrust upon me.
We stood there for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine until I felt transparent. It was as if he saw straight through my bitter lies to the guilt churning beneath. I held his gaze, unable to look away, my chin still cupped gently in his palm.
A small, knowing smile curved his lips, suggesting he understood exactly what game we were playing and had decided to let me win. At least for now.
“Do be careful.” His voice dipped, thick and velvety. “Curiosity killed the cat, is that not what they say?”
I smirked, despite the hammering of my pulse, finishing the quote. “But satisfaction brought it back.”
His smile faltered, the grief I had come to recognize in him returning. “Is that what you need, Camellia? Satisfaction?”
I stared at him, confusion evident on my face, but he did not offer any clarity. He released my chin and stepped back, the absence of his touch leaving my skin cold and my chest hollow.
“I suppose,” he said finally, moving toward his desk, his fingers gripping the edge as he let out a deep breath. “If you insist you know nothing about this journal’s mysterious journey, then we must leave the matter as an unsolved mystery.”
“Though I confess,” he added, “I find myself curious what you would have thought of its contents. Had you read it, of course.”
The words hung in the air. He was giving me one final opportunity to salvage this without making it an ultimatum.The overwhelming urge to admit to my crime, to wrench from him the truth about Hawthorne and his wife, was almost too much to let slip away so easily. But I did not dare cave. I wanted to know his secrets, but my own needs outweighed that desperate hunger.
“I am certain it would have been fascinating,” I replied, keeping my voice level. “Your research always is… from what little I have been privileged to observe.”
He inclined his head once. “Well then. You should go have breakfast. Meet me in the greenhouse once you have finished." He paused, crossing his arms over his chest. "The Bacopa is ready for grafting."
I turned and fled the study with as much dignity as I could manage, hoping my footsteps were measured and not as panicked as I felt.
Breakfast was a hurried affair. I forced down toast and tea under Agnes's concerned gaze, offering reassurances that I was simply eager to begin the day's work. She seemed satisfied with the explanation, chattering about the weather and the need to order more flour while I barely tasted anything I ate.
My mind kept retracing the encounter in the study. He had said the journal had gone missing the very night I had arrived at Ambrose house, which meant Hawthorne had taken it then, but why?
I could not help going over that small detail.
Hawthorne stood in the corner, gaze focused ahead without blinking. I stared at him, wondering if the mysterious M. had been correct. Was it possible that, even without abrain, Hawthorne had somehow managed to retain memories and think for himself? Was that why he had given me the journal? Did he want me to know about him? Did he want me to know about what Dr. Ambrose was capable of? Was there some correlation between Hawthorne’s creation and Dr. Ambrose’s wife’s death?
Had the vine that had created Hawthorne’s life also taken hers?
I shoved the neverending questions away. They would have to wait for now.
As soon as I could politely escape, I hurried back through the house toward the greenhouse. Dr. Ambrose was waiting when I entered, standing at his workbench. The afternoon light streaming through the glass panels overhead caught the gold in his amber eyes as he looked up at my approach.
His workstation was arranged neatly with scalpels laid out in order of size and strips of grafting tape coiled beside them. Two small pots sat in the center, one containing theBacopa monnieriwith its small succulent leaves, the other holding a young hemlock specimen, its feathery foliage distinctive even at this stage of growth.
A wooden grafting board had been positioned at the optimal angle, clean cloth spread beneath to catch any sap or debris. Glass vials of various solutions stood ready—rooting hormone, antiseptic wash, and a nutrient mixture I recognized from previous observations.
He smiled at me as I walked in, and despite the stolen journal and the lies and the ghost beckoning me through hallways, my heart fluttered traitorously in my chest.
