Page 17

Damiano

The yarrow isn’t growing right.

I’ve checked the soil pH three times, adjusted the water, moved it to a different part of the greenhouse, but something’s still off.

The stems are weak, the leaves pale. I could force it, add chemicals, but that defeats the whole point.

Medicinal plants need to be strong on their own, or they’re useless.

I should be more worried. Instead, I’m obsessing over yarrow because plants make sense. Plants don’t lie or hide bodies or organize search parties.

I check the text anyway .

VIKTOR ASKING ABOUT YOU SPECIFICALLY. STAY LOW.

Great. Just what I need.

I dump the struggling yarrow into my compost bin and grab my pruning shears. Might as well keep busy while waiting for this whole thing to explode in our faces. The herbs for tomorrow’s tinctures need harvesting anyway.

The greenhouse door creaks open behind me. I spin around, shears ready, before I realize it’s Briar. She’s standing in the doorway, backlit by the security lights that just came on outside, looking like she hasn’t slept in days.

“Sorry,” she says, stepping inside and closing the door. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

I set down the shears, trying to keep my face neutral. “You didn’t. I’m just jumpy.”

“Join the club.” She wraps her cardigan tighter around her thin frame. “Have you heard anything? Have you heard from Flint?”

“Yeah.” I move to the workbench, giving her space to come further inside if she wants. “It’s not good.”

She takes a few steps closer, glancing around like she’s not sure where to settle. She seems different here than she did at the party or even during the burial—less confident. The greenhouse has that effect on people. It’s my space. My rules.

“I couldn’t stay in the house anymore,” she says. “ Every noise, every shadow. I kept thinking someone was watching me.”

“They might be.” No point sugarcoating it. “Viktor’s got half the island looking for his brother.”

“I figured as much. That’s why I came through the back way. Used the path behind the hedge.”

Smart. I nod, feeling a weird sense of approval. “Good. Better if no one sees us together right now.”

She moves closer to my workbench, studying the herbs I’ve been sorting—lavender, valerian, chamomile. Sleep aids. The irony isn’t lost on me.

“Will these help?” She touches the lavender sprigs with careful fingers.

“With what?”

“Nightmares.”

I observe her face—the dark circles under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. “Some. Not enough.”

She nods like she expected that answer. “Worth a shot.”

“I can make you something stronger,” I hear myself offer. “Not a cure, but it’ll knock you out for a few hours. No dreams.”

“I’d like that,” she says, still trailing her fingers through the lavender. “I haven’t slept more than an hour at a time since...”

Since we buried a body. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

“Here,” I say, motioning her closer. “I’ll show you how to make it yourself. For next time. ”

She moves to my side, and I get a whiff of something clean and vaguely citrusy. Not perfume—soap, maybe shampoo. It’s distracting.

I pull out my mortar and pestle, then grab jars of dried herbs from the shelf behind me. “Pay attention,” I tell her, falling into teaching mode. “Valerian root is the base. Powerful sedative, tastes like shit.”

She almost smiles. “Noted.”

“Add passionflower for the anxiety. That’s this one with the purple bits. Then chamomile to smooth the edges.”

I measure each herb, dropping them into the mortar, then hand her the pestle. “You grind.”

She takes it, her fingers brushing mine. They’re cold as ice, as usual.

“Like this?” she asks, making tentative circles with the pestle.

“Harder,” I say. “You need to break down the cell walls to release the compounds. Put your weight into it.”

She tries again, pressing down with more force, her thin wrist flexing with the effort. It’s still not enough, but I don’t push. She’s trying.

“The secret’s in how you blend them,” I explain, measuring a dropper of alcohol tincture. “Too much valerian and you’ll be groggy all day tomorrow. Too little and it won’t touch the nightmares.”

“How did you learn all this?” she asks, still grinding. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing they teach you in gardening school.”

“There’s no gardening school.” It isn’t really an answer. “My father taught me the basics. The rest I figured out myself. Trial and error.”

“On who?”

“Mostly me.”

She stops grinding, looks up at me. “You have trouble sleeping, too?”

There’s something in her expression—not pity, more like recognition. I don’t like it.

“Sometimes.” I take the mortar from her, check the consistency. “This needs more work.”

I place my hand over hers on the pestle, guiding her movements. Her skin is cool against mine, but there’s warmth underneath. Blood still pumping despite everything her body throws at her. It’s impressive, in a way.

“Like this,” I say, pressing down with her, showing her the right motion. “Circular but with pressure on the downstroke.”

We work together for a minute, the crisp smell of herbs rising between us. I’m standing too close, and I can feel the slight heat from her body, see the pulse fluttering in her neck. I should step back, but I don’t.

When the herbs are properly ground, I remove my hand and reach for a small pot.

“Now we heat water,” I say, filling the pot from a jug. “Not boiling. Just hot enough to open the compounds. ”

I set the pot on my camp stove, turn on the flame. Briar watches, her arms wrapped around herself again.

“Cold?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Always.”

I grab an extra flannel shirt from the hook by my cot and hand it to her. “Here.”

She looks at it, then at me. “You don’t need to?—”

“I’ve got others. Take it.”

She puts it on over her cardigan. The sleeves hang past her fingertips. She pushes them up, revealing her bony wrists with their tracery of blue veins.

“Thanks.” For a second, she looks almost normal, merely a girl borrowing a guy’s shirt on a chilly evening. Not someone who killed a man last night.

The water’s heating, sending up wisps of steam. I add the herb mixture, stir it with a wooden spoon.

“So,” she says after a moment. “Viktor’s looking for you specifically?”

“According to Flint.”

“What will you do?”

I shrug. “Nothing. I’m the gardener. I work here. Nothing unusual about me being around. I’ll just avoid town for a bit.”

“And me?”

“You’re recovering from your illness. Staying out of sight makes sense.”

“And Flint?”

Something catches in my chest at the way she says his name. Like they’ve formed some connection I don’t fully understand.

“Flint can handle himself,” I say, more sharply than I intend to. “He always does.”

She studies me with those pale blue eyes. “You’re worried about him.”

“I’m worried about all of us.” I check the herb mixture, avoiding her gaze. “This is ready. Let it steep for five minutes, then drink it.”

I pour the mixture into a mug and hand it to her. She wraps her fingers around it, soaking up the warmth.

“Thanks,” she says. “For this and... everything else.”

“Don’t thank me for helping bury a body. It’s weird.”

That gets a real smile from her, small but genuine. It changes her whole face, makes her look younger. Reminds me she’s just a person caught in a fucked-up situation. Not some abstract concept of “the rich girl” I’ve built up in my head.

“Fair enough,” she says, “but I’m still grateful.” She sips the tea, grimaces. “You weren’t kidding about the taste.”

“Effective medicine usually tastes like shit.”

“Is that another bit of your father’s wisdom?”

“No, that’s all me.”

She laughs—a short, surprised sound that seems to catch her off guard. Her face goes serious again almost immediately. “Do you think Viktor will find anything? At the maze?”

I consider lying, then decide against it. “Maybe. Eventually. But by then decomposition will be advanced. Plants will have grown. Animals will have done their work. Even if they find something, connecting it to you will be nearly impossible.”

She nods but doesn’t look convinced. “Unless someone talks.”

“Who would talk? Only three people know, and we’re all equally guilty.”

“Are we?” She looks at me over the rim of her mug. “I’m the one who drove a stake through his throat.”

“And I buried him. And Flint helped. We’re accomplices at minimum. No one’s talking.”

The greenhouse is getting colder as the night deepens, the glass walls turning from transparent to reflective. Our distorted images are mirrored back—her small form, my larger one. Two people having a casual chat about murder and decomposition.

I switch on another lamp, casting everything in a warm yellow glow.

“You should drink all of that.” I nod at her half-empty mug. “It won’t work otherwise.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You just want me unconscious so you can get rid of me.”

“If I wanted to get rid of you, I’d have let Liam finish what he started.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Her face goes blank, shuttered.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “That was—I shouldn’t have said that. I was trying to be witty and sarcastic, and it came out— Fuck.”

She sets down the mug, her hands trembling slightly. “No, you’re right. You could have walked away. Both of you. Left me to deal with it alone.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” She looks straight at me, challenging now. “I’m the complication here. The outsider. You and Flint have a past. You understand each other. I’m just the sick rich girl who dragged you both into her mess.”

“That’s not how I see you.”

“No? How do you see me then?”

The question hangs between us. How do I see her? As a responsibility? A burden? Something else?

“I see someone who survived,” I say, after a beat. “Someone stronger than they look.”

She blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “I’m not strong. I’m just stubborn.”

“Same thing, most days.”

She picks up the mug, takes another sip. “This is really disgusting.”

“Told you.”