"Just in time," he said, gesturing for me to join him at the bench.
I crossed the greenhouse, forcing my gaze to the table and away from his handsome face.
He reached for one of the scalpels, testing its edge with gentle pressure against his thumb. Sunlight gleamed on the blade, catching the steel at just the right angle to throw the reflection directly into my eyes.
Bright white light burst behind my retinas, and the glowing flower the ghost had cradled in her hand bloomed in my vision as another image forced its way through—
Taking the scalpel from his hand, feeling the weight of it settle into my palm, the handle still warm from his grip. I could bring the blade to my forearm and press down with just enough pressure to part the skin cleanly, and watch the flesh split open in a thin red line, the layers separating to reveal muscle and fascia beneath.
Then I would take the flower and press it into the wet tissue, tuck it between muscle fibers, and let it take root. I could picture them spreading through my arm with pale, questing tendrils, seeking nourishment in blood and marrow, weaving themselves through the architecture of bone and vein until flower and flesh became indistinguishable from one another.
The voice sighed with deep contentment, a feeling of rightness and completion so profound it made my chest ache.
“Miss Reed?”
Dr. Ambrose’s voice cut through the vision. I blinked, my eyes refocusing on his face creased with concern, on the scalpel still clutched in his hand—not mine.
“Apologies,” I said, steadying my voice with effort. “I was lost in thought for a moment.”
"I will need your assistance,” he said, still frowning as he searched my eyes. “When I make the cut, you will need to hold the Bacopa stem steady. The cambium layers must align exactly or the graft will fail."
"Of course," I said, moving to stand beside him at the bench.
He handed me a pair of fine tweezers and a set of thick gloves. “Put these on so the hemlock sap does not touch your skin.”
I nodded, following his instructions.
"Ready?" he asked.
“Yes, ready."
He made the first cut with swift confidence, the blade slicing through the hemlock stem at a diagonal angle. The cut was clean, exposing the pale green interior tissue.
"Now the Bacopa," he said. "Hold it steady."
I positioned the tweezers, gripping the delicate stem just below where he needed to cut.
His scalpel slid with precision, creating a matching incision that would allow the two plants to join seamlessly.
"Excellent," he said, reaching for a vial filled with the nutrient mixture. He placed several drops onto each specimen where he had cut them, then nodded up at me.
"Now bring them together slowly."
I guided the Bacopa stem toward the hemlock rootstock, my entire focus narrowing to the point where the plant tissue would meet. His hands worked in tandem with mine, one holding the rootstock steady, the other ready with grafting tape.
We were so close now that his breath fanned against my temple, warm and steady, his concentration absolute.
The stems touched, aligning perfectly.
"Hold it," he breathed. "Just like that. Do not move."
His fingers worked carefully, wrapping the grafting tape around the union point several times, securing the joined plants until it was stable enough to heal on its own.
"There," he said finally, stepping back to examine our work.
I released my grip on the tweezers slowly, not wanting to disturb the delicate graft we had just completed. We stood there for a moment, both of us studying the joined plants, and I found myself suddenly aware of how little space remained between us—of how his shoulder still pressed against mine, of how easy it would be to turn my head and find his face mere inches away.
It was dangerous, this attraction that pulled at me whenever he came close. He had entered my thoughts with the ease of a toxin absorbed through the skin—no moment ofingestion required, only proximity and time until the poison had already spread too far to extract.
