Page 10 of This Vicious Hunger

Chapter Six

S trange dreams haunt me again—Aurelio’s fingers around my wrists morph into vicious weed-like creatures, ugly pustules on their knuckles that remind me of Petaccia’s pet vine.

Flames lick at my back and a wall of thorns scratches my skin as I force myself away from the blaze and into the dark unknown.

I toss and turn, my bed damp with sweat, my ears full of the rustling sounds of pages turning in a breeze.

I wake to find somebody has pushed a piece of paper underneath my bedroom door.

The doctor must keep strange hours because it definitely wasn’t there when I went to sleep, but I’ve no doubt that it’s her handiwork; it is a clean, crisp sheet, folded on a knife edge, and spindly black ink crawls like skittering spiders into what resembles the most intense two-week schedule I could imagine.

If it wasn’t clear before that Petaccia wasn’t joking about the seriousness of my studies, then it is now: every day from eight until three I am in back-to-back lectures with only a half hour for lunch. Not one of these lectures is with her.

The class names are wildly variable. I recognise some words from my father’s books and pamphlets, but there are many more I’ve never seen before.

A wave of panic overtakes me as my eyes scan the page, taking in lecture titles like “Medicinal Beginnings: From Athyner to Romeras” and others that have been asterisked, like “Folklore, a Historian’s Introduction.

” There are recurring titles hosted by the English faculty—both poetry and drama—and in philosophy and medicine; two lectures pop up more than once this week with a professor whose name Petaccia has underlined: “The Philosophy of Death and Mourning from a Preacher” and “A Study in True Grit: The Survivors of the Landler’s Ship Disaster, Fact or Clever Journalism?

” There are a handful of simpler botanical science lectures, which I understand better, taxonomy classes or those with grandiose titles like “Plant Medicine, Alchemy or Science?” and “The Alarming Underpopulation of the Isliano Rose,” which echo the titles, or central arguments, of the books I read undercover in my father’s study.

From three until six daily I have private study, and, once a week, she has scrawled tutorial in thick black ink, starting in two weeks.

My stomach flips, a mixture of excitement and dread, as I realise that I shall spend this time alone with her in her laboratory—maybe even with that strange, diseased-looking vine.

I sit back and rub my knuckles, gently prodding the dread in my belly like one might tongue the gum around a missing tooth. I realise there is a sharp disappointment beneath the dread. Only once a week? After all her talk of partnership?

A horrid thought makes me stop short. The sheaf of paper trembles in my grasp.

Is this Petaccia’s way of telling me that she doesn’t think I can do this?

That I’m not ready, or that I don’t belong here?

There is no way for me to attend so many scattered lectures and actually absorb any of the information, is there? Surely this isn’t a normal schedule.

I glance out the window, where the rosy pink dawn is painting the top of the empty, overgrown garden in shades of mauve.

A mosquito buzzes somewhere close by and its electric hum sets my teeth on edge.

I push away from the desk and march to the stove, where I set a pot of water on to boil.

I throw in a scoop from the pot of tea leaves I stole from the dining hall last night at dinner and inhale the slightly bitter aroma.

No , I tell myself. Petaccia doesn’t seem the cowardly sort. If she was certain I wasn’t suited to this life, then I’m sure she would have told me yesterday.

She wants me to prove myself.

I roll my shoulders and smooth the paper out across the desk again, studying Petaccia’s scrawl with more care.

The first class is this morning, a lecture on the enduring medicinal plants from Isliano’s Dark Ages.

If a two-week test of resolve is all that stands between me and this future I’ve dreamt of my whole life, then I won’t let a thing as small as mental exhaustion stand in my way.

I dress just as carefully today, pawing through my trunks for the least cumbersome of my gowns.

I settle on one made of a soft green silk; it flows like water as I slide it over my head and arms. Aurelio hadn’t been as much of a fan of this one, though his eyes did soften the first time I wore it to lunch with his family. You remind me of lily pads , he’d said.

I chuckle to myself now. Lily pads. It’s entirely the wrong shade of green. Coyotillo flowers maybe. I’d have given him that. Not that he’d ever have even heard of them. Natural wonders, especially natural wonders with a penchant for harm like the coyotillo berries, never were Aurelio’s speciality.

With the stolen dining hall tea to fortify me, I skip breakfast in favour of exploration, determined to find the locations of all the lectures ahead of me today.

Three are within a stone’s throw of one another, but the fourth will require some creativity if I’m to attend on time.

The campus is a hive of activity this morning; men of all ages wearing all manner of robes move with purpose, zigzagging between benches and lampposts decorated with colourful blooms; I find it hard to keep up the pace, my legs tangling in my skirts, my notebooks shifting my centre of gravity something rotten.

Now I understand Petaccia’s comments on my wardrobe—forget the lab, St. Elianto itself is dangerous if one wields only a skirt as armour.

The lecture halls are bigger than my father’s sepulchre, though lighter thanks to the many windows.

Colourful beams shimmer through stained-glass scenes in the natural sciences hall—fields of glass grass below olive trees and twisting strikes of lightning catch the sun as it moves overhead.

In the halls the seats and desks are slanted upwards, so it feels as though learning comes from the sky itself; the speakers stand on raised podiums at the centre of the room, like preachers on a giant anthill, and the feeling of the learner—at least this learner—is one of smallness.

I’m in rooms crowded with people and I’ve never felt more alone.

Three lectures out of four before lunch I’m left with a seat at the hall’s bottom edge, craning my neck to see and my ears to hear.

I leave each one with a mess of spindly notes and a spreading pain in my neck, my bewilderment growing.

Petaccia said she wanted a partner. I assumed she wanted me to have a rounded knowledge so I could help her with her own research—but all I feel now is confused and stupid.

You want me to be stupid , I’d said to Aurelio.

I replay his response over and over: You’re already stupid .

I’ve never felt more of a fool than I do today, surrounded by scholars who have been preparing for this environment their whole lives.

They have each been fed a steady diet of learning from the cradle, where all I have is my father’s books.

Shame prickles in the sweat beneath my arms as I fight to keep up.

I gather my notebooks after a lecture on medicinal beginnings, where I learned only that Professor Almerto does not speak loudly enough for a low-row seat, and stumble out of the hall.

The corridor is swarming with lively scholars, cheerily elbowing one another, clapping backs, and ruffling hair.

It is a far cry from the solemn silence in the philosophy hall.

At the edge of one of the groups is a man I think I recognise from more than one of my lectures—he is tall and thin, with broad shoulders and arms that narrow like the branches of trees to delicate, slender hands.

His dark hair is oiled but unruly, curling across his forehead and over his spectacles, and the front of his sandy-coloured shirt is creased beneath his open scholar’s robe.

“Almerto is a quack,” one of the scholars says, loudly enough to elicit sniggers from his nearest fellows.

“All this nonsense about mint and garlic, as though we don’t all eat it every day.

If any of this were true, Alec’s dear, well-fed grandmother would still be alive.

” One of the men bristles but laughs gamely; the others show no such hesitation.

“He’s no proof but stories—and what good are those?

What do you think, lady?” He turns to me, a smirk on his face, and I realise it’s the man from yesterday who laughed when the cyclist pushed me.

“Must all be for fun if they’re inviting the village girls in to listen.

I’m curious what perspective you bring.” The bespectacled man catches my gaze, brief alarm flashing across his features. It’s sweet that he’s worried about me.

I match the other man’s smirk. “I doubt that,” I say. “But shall I confirm it with Dr. Petaccia in my tutorial later? I’m sure the doctor would be very grateful to know if a single colleague is ruining the department’s reputation for you fellows.”

It feels like a risk to mention Petaccia in front of these men—I don’t know if half of them even know who she is, but from their reaction it’s clear the risk has paid off and her reputation does in fact precede her.

The mouthy one goes instantly quiet and his two closest companions shift uncomfortably.

“I thought so. Now, if you’d kindly move out of my way? I have only a half hour for lunch, and I don’t intend to waste it talking to you.”

I push out into the heat of the sun, blinded momentarily by its fierceness.

My heart pounds but the blood rushing in my ears feels like triumph.

Perhaps making enemies isn’t something I should be doing this early in my career—here’s hoping it’s even a career—but it felt like the right thing to do.

I need to channel Petaccia’s energy; I’m not some sideshow to be laughed at.

I wander to the edge of the lecture hall and find a spot in the shade to rest my back against. My heart beats so fast I might be sick, but I breathe slow and steady, deep in my belly, until I’m calm again.

“That was something back there.”

I spin, ready to scramble for a witty comeback, but it’s only the floppy-haired scholar with glasses. I relax, feeling the roughness of the stone through my dress.

“They needed to be put in their place,” I say fiercely.

“Clearly.” The scholar’s lips quirk in a small smile and pride rushes through me. I roll my shoulders back and ready a shrug, but he’s already looking away, patting through his pockets and coming out with a cigarillo and a book of matches. He hesitates before lighting the match. “Do you mind…?”

I laugh. “No. I’m fine, my husband used to smoke. Besides, these breaks are short enough, you might as well enjoy them.”

“Oh, you too?” He raises an eyebrow but I don’t miss the way his eyes dart to my wedding ring and I wonder if he’s not just talking about the length of the break.

I can’t see his left hand. “Some schools really do overfill the schedules. What department are you in? You mentioned Petaccia. I was very impressed.”

“I wasn’t lying.” I bristle, holding my books tight to my chest. I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me. “I really do have a tutorial with the doctor, it’s just in a couple of weeks.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” He takes a hurried drag on his cigarillo and then heaves a sigh.

“Sorry. I’m not very good at any of this.

Can we start over? Let me introduce myself.

” He wipes his hand on the cream slacks under his robes and then extends it to me with a smile.

“I’m Leonardo Vanksy. Billionth-generation scholar at St. Ellie, though a huge disappointment to my father for deciding to become a phytologist.”

“Ah,” I say, understanding. Now that I think about it, he looks exactly like the kind of man who might make a career studying plants. “Are you one of Petaccia’s as well?”

“No,” Leonardo says regretfully. “I’m with Almerto.

You should ignore what those imbeciles said about him; he’s really very clever.

His undergraduate lectures are dull because he’s preaching to the unconverted, but he’s done a lot of work to open up the field.

There’s a lot of snobbery that goes on. Petaccia is very, very highly regarded by most—not that I need to tell you that—but she never takes on students, especially not undergraduates.

” His eyes follow the bob of my throat as I shift uncomfortably.

“Am I the only one who didn’t know the doctor was…” I struggle to find a word that doesn’t feel as though I’m reducing her achievements to biology.

Leonardo has no such qualms. “A woman?” he asks, then laughs kindly.

“No, I think it’s just not widely discussed.

The ‘serious scholars’”—he intones this in an imitation baritone—“are probably embarrassed, and I’m sure it suits her just fine.

She’s done more for the university’s status than anybody, woman or not. ”

“That’s probably why she took me on.” I’m not sure why I say it—it’s not the first time I’ve thought it, but it feels like a betrayal of myself to even utter it aloud.

There’s just something very gentle about Leonardo.

He doesn’t seem like the other scholars I’ve met.

Perhaps, I think wryly, because he’s a botanist.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Leonardo takes another long drag on his cigarillo but doesn’t follow that up with anything.

The area we’re standing in is shaded by tall cypress trees and the air is cool beneath them—but it isn’t private.

All of a sudden I’m intensely aware of how close we’re standing.

Leonardo is leaning casually against the building as he smokes, dangling his cigarillo lazily between puffs.

There’s nothing to it, but I can feel the eyes of other scholars on us as another lecture hall lets out and a swarm of them passes.

My wedding ring only affords me a certain kind of invisibility, and not from this distance.

“I have to go,” I say abruptly, pushing away from the wall. “I have another lecture.”

Leonardo’s eyes widen, but I’m not sure whether it’s surprise or disappointment there. He doesn’t follow me, though, and for that I’m grateful. My next lecture is in the building next to the library, and I’m not ready for more stares if he wants to walk with me.

He waits until I’ve reached the dusty path, a slight breeze stirring my cropped hair, before calling, “You didn’t tell me your name. I can’t call you Botany Lady, that sounds crass.”

“It’s Thora,” I say, rewarding him with a small smile. “Thora Grieve. See you around, Phytology Man.”