Page 35

He studied me a moment before answering. Perhaps he felt it too, the weight of adding another secret to our deck of questionable encounters. I worried he would suddenly decide I wasn’t worth it. Despite the chill that pervaded the home, sweat began to trickle down my back. Finally, he nodded and stood. “Of course. Come this way.”

By the light of a lantern, he led me through the lavender. Crickets chirped around us and the stalks whispered about our feet, but otherwise the night was silent. It was a funny feeling—several times I’d crouched among the flowers as a thief, but now I was there with permission, at the side of Nikola Klarin himself. I couldn’t help but toss a smirk over my shoulder at the house watching behind.

He brought me first to a large stone building that contained the still he spoke of. It is a massive, hulking thing made of copper. It radiated warmth throughout the space, remnants from the work earlier in the day. He explained how it was used:

First, they pile lavender into the mouth of the still and seal the lid tightly. Underneath, a wood fire burns, heating a reservoir of water at the base. As steam rises through the lavender, it extracts the essential oils from the plant, transforming them into a vapor. This vapor moves into a condenser, where cool water transforms it back into liquid. Since the oil is lighter than the water, it floats on top and is then collected.

It is a very interesting procedure—a little complicated, but Nikola spoke quite clearly and slowly, taking care to ask if I understood each step. He came more alive than I’d ever seen him—he is clearly an expert in the process, and he seemed quite pleased with the amount of oil it had produced for them that day. His enthusiasm was infectious, and I couldn’t help but feel pleased for him too.

Next he led me to another building beside it. A workshop, where they bottled and stored the oil. There were countless glass vials lining a row of shelves, along with several books. There was also a long table down the center, with smaller contraptions on top, which he described as stills as well, only smaller. Dried lavender hung from the ceiling over the table. There were several lanterns set at each corner, giving the space an enchanting glow. They gave me the impression he went there often at night.

As I marveled at the space, he picked up a stalk of lavender from a bundle lying on the table. Holding it beside a light, he pinched a bud between his fingers, releasing a burst of its calming aroma into the air. He explained how the oil is contained in the glands of the tiny flowers, how the steam during the distillation process opens them up, allowing it to rise and be captured.

“I didn’t realize you knew so much about lavender,” I told him. It was a stupid thing to say in hindsight.

“Is that surprising?” he asked. A shimmer in his eye told me he was amused.

“Well,” I began. I didn’t know how to say that I was so used to women fawning over how handsome he was that I forgot there might be some brains behind his pretty blue eyes. “No, I suppose not.” I felt flustered beneath his stare, and so I picked up a bottle on the table that looked different from the rest and asked him what it was. “Rosemary?” I guessed, inhaling the scent of its contents.

“That’s right,” he answered. “With immortelle. I thought it might be time to try something new.”

He began to explain how immortelle is called the everlasting flower because it retains its bright yellow color even after it dries, but I cut him off, telling him I already knew this. I quickly realized that this may have been rude of me, that I should have let him educate me, or appear to do so, but he only smiled. “I should’ve known. Do you use immortelle as well?” he asked.

I told him yes, explaining its rejuvenating properties in skincare, how it helped with inflammation and scars. He seemed impressed with the extent of my knowledge and probed me with more questions. I began to relax a little more, explaining this plant and that, but when I realized I might be talking too much, I asked him, “Will you be selling your new oil soon? With the rosemary and immortelle?”

“Depends,” he answered. “I’m not sure the fragrance is any good yet. It is hard to find the right balance.” He held it up, examining the bottle in the light. “Perhaps I can get your opinion?”

“Sure,” I told him. “Though I’m not any expert in perfume,” I added.

“You have a nose. That is all that matters.”

I extended my arm, expecting him to hand over the bottle. Instead, he gently took my hand, turning it so my wrist faced upward. With care, he pushed my sleeve back, revealing more skin. A shiver ran up my arm as he pressed the bottle’s head against me, slowly massaging the oil in. My traitorous thoughts darted instantly to the image of him shirtless in the field, swinging his scythe with the same hand. Despite the calluses on his palm, his touch was unexpectedly tender, as though my wrist were as fragile as a flower’s stem. I didn’t want him to stop.

But he did, of course. “There,” he said, clearing his throat and stepping back. “What do you think?”

It took me a moment to come to my senses. I lifted my wrist to my nose and inhaled deeply. The aroma was pleasant, crisp and sweet and a little woodsy. I told him it was nice. I couldn’t conjure a better response, for I was still fixated on the feel of his hand.

“Only nice?” he asked. He seemed a bit disappointed in my response.

“It’s wonderful,” I amended. “A good balance, I think.”

He thought about this a moment, then asked me if I could walk outside.

“Why?” I asked. I feared I had offended him in some way with my lackluster response.

“I want to test the sillage,” he replied.

I was confused at the foreign word. “What is . . . sillage?” I asked.

“Sillage,” he explained, “is a French term used in the art of perfumery. It is the trail of fragrance you smell when someone walks by, similar to the wake of a ship. It is good for perfumes to have a balanced sillage—you want people to remember you, but you don’t want it to be overpowering either, or else the scent becomes sort of . . . monstrous and choking. You want just enough so the person lingers in your mind.”

“Alright.” I still felt perplexed by the term, but I obeyed and walked across the room, back outside. I stood there for a moment, wondering what I was supposed to do next. I leaned back through the door, asking, “Well? Did it . . . Did I . . . linger?”

There was silence as the scent of immortelle wafted up from my hand. And then his lips perked up slowly on one side, almost in a mischievous way.

He told me, “Yes. Yes, you do.”

Interlude