He turned, extending it toward me. "Open it anywhere and tell me what you see."
I opened it to a page in the middle.
A flowering plant had been rendered in extraordinary detail, each petal and vein captured with the accuracy that only came from direct observation and considerable skill. Notes filled the margins. A diagram of the root system spiraled outward alongside chemical formulas I did not recognize—all interwoven with observations regarding neurological responses in test subjects.
The plant itself was both beautiful and deadly, its flowers a shade of deep purple the black ink could only suggest.
"This isAtropa belladonna," I said, the identification automatic, lodged in whatever part of me that still knew things. "More commonly known as deadly nightshade.”
"Go on."
I traced the formula lightly with my gloved fingers, following the logic of his notes.
"You are researching alkaloid compounds. Scopolamine, in particular, has been used to induce temporary amnesia by blocking the formation of new memories during certain medical procedures."
I paused, studying the experimental observations more closely.
"But in controlled doses, combined with other compounds…” I turned the journal to follow his handwriting as it curved around the corner of the page. “It appears you are attempting to reverse the effect, to use the plant that steals memory to preserve it instead."
I looked up to find him watching me with fascination, and a curious little crease in the corners of his eyes.
"Impressive," he said, though his tone suggested he had expected nothing less, that perhaps he had already known what I was capable of before I had ever set foot in his study.
"My father worked extensively with toxic plants," I explained.
"And you are not fearful? Many people would find working with such specimens unsettling."
"Of poisonous plants?" I almost smiled at the notion. "With proper handling and a clear understanding of their properties, they are no more dangerous than any other botanical specimen."
"Some would disagree," he replied. "Deadly nightshade can kill with a handful of berries."
"Water can kill you if you drink enough of it," I deadpanned, closing the journal and handing it back to him. "Danger is a matter of knowledge, which I assure you I have.”
He nodded thoughtfully, neither approval nor satisfaction evident in the gesture, though I hoped it might be consideration.
"The position is live-in," he said. "Room and board are provided, of course. Privacy and confidentiality are absolute requirements. You will not discuss my research with anyone outside this house."
"I understand."
He paused, considering the shape of his next question.
"Do you have family who would object to such an arrangement?”
"No." I held his gaze steadily. "My father was my only family."
"What about friends or attachments that might complicate your discretion?"
He searched my face as he asked, looking for an answer I could not identify.
"None."
The word emerged hollow, carrying a weight I had not intended. If he found it sad, and perhaps he should have, nothing in his expression acknowledged it. He simply nodded, filing the information away.
"The work would begin tomorrow, if you are available."
My heart stuttered. "Tomorrow?"
"Is that a problem?"
