Chapter 17
The following afternoon brought with it an onslaught of spring storms, leaving the world painted in grim, dark colors.
Hawthorne moved at his usual carefree pace ahead of me on the garden path as we carried several potted plants to the secondary greenhouse.
It emerged before us through the misty air, smaller than the main structure connected to the manor, but no less beautiful in its construction. Glass panels shimmered from the rain, transforming the building into something that glowed softly against the gray afternoon.
Hawthorne pushed through the door without pause, and I followed, grateful for the warmth that enveloped me upon crossing the threshold. The moment my feet touched the greenhouse floor, my little companion surged forward. My vision sharpened to painful clarity as it pressed against my eyes, searching and cataloging every new plant visible in the space. It guided my gaze from specimen to specimen—ferns and mosses, climbing vines and flowering plants, rows of seedlings still too young to identify, mature specimens in various stages of bloom and decay.
Where is it?The thought was not mine, burning through my consciousness with the heat of obsession.
My head turned of its own accord, scanning the greenhouse systematically, taking inventory of everything present, but whatever it sought was not here. The voice retreated, withdrawing with such abruptness it left an ache behind my eyes and a hollowness in my chest that felt like disappointment and mourning.
I stood very still for a moment, my hands gripping the edge of a worktable, steadying myself as the world returned to its normal proportions and my vision belonged to me again.
The flower.
The knowledge passed through my mind, my companion flashing the image behind my eyes, and finally revealing what it had been looking for all this time. It was searching for the flower the ghost had held—that small, luminescent bloom that had pulsed with yellow-green light in her spectral hands.
But why? What was that flower? What did it mean to me—or whatever lived inside me.
I had no answers, only the lingering sense of frustrated longing that coated my thoughts like residue, making it difficult to think clearly about anything else.
Hawthorne set his burden down and departed without acknowledgment, leaving me alone with the salvaged plants. I began the work of arranging them in their new home, giving each specimen adequate space and light according to its needs.
The door opened behind me some time later and Dr. Ambrose entered carrying another armload of pots.
I kept my attention fixed on the fern before me, tucking its roots more firmly into fresh soil, though every nerve in my body had become aware of his presence the moment he crossed the threshold. The tension between us was palpable, thick enough to feel against my skin like humidity before a storm. We had not spoken since the day before in his study, and he had, as always, left the prior evening and had not returned until some time in the early morning hours.
I still had no idea where he went each night, but I soon meant to find out.
I sensed him watching me as he set the plants down. I adjusted a fern’s position and silently cursed my body’s betrayal as my cheeks heated.
I forced myself to focus on the plants before me, but my mind kept circling back to him—to his shoulders moving beneath his shirt as he worked, to the angle of his jaw when he tilted his head in concentration, to the memory of his fingers tangled in my hair and the heat of his breath against my ear.
To the question of whether those same hands had killed his wife.
I glanced at him from beneath my lashes, watching as he arranged a climbing rose with movements that spoke of genuine care. His expression was focused, peaceful even, absorbed in the work, making him appear harmless, but I knew better than to trust appearances.
My thoughts turned as I studied him, my mind working through the logistics of what he must have done.
Had he killed her before the procedure? Administered some compound that would stop her heart while keeping her tissues fresh and receptive? Had it been an accident and he had tried to use the vine to revive her? Or had he attempted the grafting while she still lived, hoping it would take hold and transform her into something that was neither fully alive nor properly dead?
Had she died during the procedure itself? Had he watched her convulse as the tendrils spread through her system—as the woman he claimed to love bled out before him?
Why hadn’t it worked?
Hawthorne existed, after all. The vine had successfully animated dead tissue and created something that functioned despite having no heartbeat, no breath, no true life. The research had succeeded, so what had gone wrong with her?
I realized I was staring at Dr. Ambrose, my hands still and forgotten on the plant before me, my mind so consumed with these dark calculations that I had lost all awareness of my surroundings.
He looked up at that exact moment, his eyes meeting mine across the greenhouse. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The air between us was charged with everything unspoken—attraction and suspicion and secrets too dangerous to voice aloud.
Then the temperature dropped.
The change was instantaneous, the warm air transforming into something that pulled the heat from my skin. My breath fogged before my face in small, dissipating clouds.
Dr. Ambrose’s brow furrowed, his gaze breaking from mine to scan the greenhouse. “The heating system—”
