Did he intend to try again? Had he not been deterred by whatever had happened to his wife, determined to perfect the process regardless of cost?
Moreover, who was he planning to use the vine on?
You,my companion answered.
My pulse prickled beneath my skin at the realization.
What if it was right?
I was living in his house, working in his greenhouses, deteriorating steadily from some illness no physician coulddiagnose or treat. A woman with botanical knowledge, isolated from family, showing symptoms that seemed to interest rather than concern him.
A woman whose face matched his dead wife’s with an unsettling resemblance.
He chose you,the voice said with disturbing certainty.
I pressed my hand against the headstone base, steadying myself against the wave of nausea that accompanied the knowledge. The pieces fit too well to dismiss as coincidence—the specific requirements in his advertisement, his lack of surprise at my symptoms, how he had examined my hands that first day, his wife, whose ghost haunted the halls, whose eyes matched mine, whose face I wore like a mask borrowed from the dead.
My heart pounded behind my ribs uncomfortably, the sound of it beating against my brain.
Dr. Ambrose turned to leave.
I ducked lower behind the headstone, pressing myself against it, my breath held until my lungs burned. His footsteps squelched through mud dangerously close to where I crouched, close enough that I heard his breathing, rough and uneven with emotion held barely in check.
I waited until his form had disappeared into the darkness before allowing myself to breathe properly. My legs had gone numb from crouching in the cold and wet, my fingers stiff inside gloves that had long since soaked through. Water dripped from my hair and ran down my back.
He’s going to do to you what he did to her,the voice said, its tone carrying satisfaction rather than warning.He’sgoing to cut you open and plant the vine inside you and watch what grows.
I needed to leave. I needed to return to the house before he discovered my absence, before he realized I had followed him, before he guessed that I knew what he was planning.
I stood, my stiff joints protesting, and turned to retrace my steps toward the gates.
My boot caught on something hidden in the mud—a root perhaps, or a piece of broken monument buried beneath accumulated earth. My foot slid sideways, finding no purchase on the slick ground. My ankle twisted with a sickening wrench that sent lightning bolts of pain shooting up my leg.
A sound escaped me before I was able to force it back—high and sharp, a squeal of surprise and agony that cut through the rain’s constant patter.
I fell hard, landing in cold mud that immediately soaked through my cloak and skirt, finding skin with a shocking cold. Pain pulsed from my ankle in waves that made my vision blur and my stomach lurch.
Footsteps approached rapidly, splashing through standing water.
I looked up through the rain streaming down my face and found Dr. Ambrose standing above me. Moonlight broke through the clouds, illuminating his features with cruel clarity. His expression was unreadable through the rain.
“Miss Reed,” he said, his voice carrying no inflection at all. “What an unexpected place to encounter you.”
Chapter 19
For a moment, I considered running, but my body would not cooperate. When I tried to lever myself up, my ankle gave way with a fresh bolt of agony that made spots dance across my vision. I collapsed back into the mud with a gasp that was half-sob, my hands sinking into cold earth up to the wrists.
I was trapped. Caught. Completely at his mercy in a place where no one would hear me scream, where bodies were already buried and one more would hardly be noticed.
Perfect, some hysterical part of my mind muttered. You followed a man you suspect of murder into a cemetery at night, and now you cannot even run when caught. Brilliant strategy.
Dr. Ambrose took a step closer, rain streaming down his face as he knelt beside me. “Are you hurt?”
“I can manage,” I said, though we both knew it was a lie. My voice came out breathless from the pain.
“Clearly.” He let out an exasperated breath, running a hand through his soaked hair. “Why did you follow me?”
“I was not following you,” I said firmly, because admitting the truth meant surrendering ground I could not afford to lose.
