Page 20 of This Vicious Hunger

Chapter Twelve

I t is over a month before I see the girl in the garden again.

I check the window habitually as I study at night, or as I walk past the garden’s gates—which I do more evenings than not—but it has been still and dark, and Leo’s warning has never felt more asinine.

Tonight is no different. The library would be quiet at this time if I chose to read there instead—I’d even likely get a carrel to study in, which is necessary as a woman studying after dark—but I’ve come to associate nights with the garden—and the girl.

Deep down, I knew there was a chance I’d see her again, and I didn’t want to risk missing her.

It turns out I was right.

This second time, a night just as warm as the first, I spot her right as I finish making tea.

The moon is a sickle, a silver seedling amidst a velvet blue.

The air smells of jasmine and lemons and the fresh honeyed scent of the echinacea in my tea.

This time I refuse to just sit and watch idly, but I am as entranced as before and it takes a moment before I can breathe.

She drifts amongst the blooms again, trailing her hands, thanking some unseen deity for each specimen she snips and adds to her basket—just like before.

When she bends close to take each cut, it looks like she is whispering to the flowers and my hair prickles on my arms and neck.

My pulse crashes in my ears like ocean waves.

I feel hungry and thirsty and dizzy all at once, desire wicking away all sense.

I watch long enough to be sure she is definitely there—not some wistful trick of my tired brain—then ram my feet into my shoes so hard my toes protest, before dousing the candle and hurrying to the door.

I close it quietly even though there’s nobody around, just in case it spooks her.

It’s a ridiculous notion, but what about my behaviour, or hers, is normal?

As I stumble down the stairs and out into the cool balm of the night, I can’t help but think of Leonardo’s warnings about the garden.

I haven’t had time to give it much thought, between classes and another tutorial with Dr. Petaccia—the mystery eyeball plant still locked away in its own private room—and reading and more classes.

I sleep with Latin plant names swirling in my brain, their given names heavy on my tongue.

Until this exact second I’d managed to convince myself that Leonardo truly was concerned only for my safety—but a feeling unfurls in my belly as I hurry towards my goal.

I’ve been stupid to assume it’s that simple.

After all, if Leonardo knew about the garden, how likely is it that he didn’t know about the girl?

I’ve been here only a couple of months and I’ve seen her twice now.

Neither time was I particularly looking for her—though obviously it’s not as if I don’t look either.

Part of me wants to think that she is all mine, she appears here, and only I see her—both times have been in the middle of the night with only the moon to witness.

But the other part of me thinks of the way Leo looked when I mentioned the garden, that flash of his eyes that reminded me of Aurelio, and a seed of doubt starts to grow.

I push onwards, ignoring the thoughts, distracted now by the fresh rush of blood as my limbs pump.

What if she’s gone before I get there? I’m practically running, feet pounding the scrubby path with zero dignity, dressed only in my thinnest evening dress and satin slippers, when I skid to a halt outside the gate.

From here I can see even less than I could from my rooms. I’ve lost my bird’s-eye advantage, the joy of gazing down unseen. I peer through, heart still pounding, into the darkness. The garden is cast in silver shadows. There’s no sign of the girl or her basket of flowers, but the walls are high.

I curse myself inwardly. I was too slow. I allowed myself to get flustered and missed my chance. What if she doesn’t come into the garden again? I might never learn any more about its contents and why it remains locked while she is allowed inside.

Maybe she heard me leave my rooms and decided to flee; it’s not far from here to my window, close enough that the scatter of my pencils or the slam of a notebook closed too hard might alert her if she was close to the wall.

No , I tell myself firmly. Don’t be foolish. She’s not on your schedule. And what’s so important about her anyway? It doesn’t matter if she’s here or not if all you want is the chance to get a closer look at those flowers. Admit it, it’s not just about the garden, is it?

But that’s a thought I refuse to acknowledge and I bury it immediately. My father would be ashamed. I should be ashamed.

“Hello?” I call. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I saw you and wanted to ask about the garden. I’d come back another time, during the day of course, but I’ve never seen you here then, so I had to grab the chance…”

Nothing.

“Hello? Please, I’m not trying to be a nuisance. I’m a scholar. I study botany—and I’d love to talk to you about some of the specimens you have. Apparently you’re not affiliated with the institution, and I understand that perhaps I’m being very rude, but I’d really love to talk.”

Still nothing. It’s useless. When I left my rooms the girl was close to the wall, her basket in hand and her attention turned towards the tower.

From here I can hardly even see the tower, only the edge of the sloping mound where it sits.

There’s no sign of her, or her pale dress, or her bundle of flowers.

I don’t know how far the walls even stretch, only that at some point they diverge from the campus. This gate probably isn’t even used.

I begin to turn away, but a rustling stops me in my tracks. My heart stumbles. And then, near enough to make me jump but just out of sight, comes a husky voice.

“You shouldn’t stand so close.”

“Excuse me?” Despite the warning I step closer, my hands going to the rusted gate. The cold metal sends a zinging sensation right up my arms, and it’s… delicious. I tighten my grip.

“I said you shouldn’t stand so close to the wall. Some of these plants are dangerous. That’s why there’s a gate.”

“Where are you?” I ask. Then: “I’ve studied plants for half my life. Maybe I don’t recognise some of them, but surely they’re mildly toxic at best. This one closest to my feet looks a little like some kind of mistletoe—is that right? I’m not going to get contact burns from anything I can reach.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that?”

At that the girl steps into the light, her high cheekbones and full lips limned with silver.

Up close I am even less sure of her age; her skin is dewy and perfectly smooth, her eyebrows thick and dark over full-lashed eyes that are darker still.

Like liquid pools staring back. My throat thickens at the curve of her plump lips.

“I… Well. Isn’t that a safety issue, then?” I demand, bristling. “Anybody could walk by and touch them. You can’t just assume some rusty old gate is going to keep people out. There are hundreds of scholars here and any one of them could walk by and get hurt. It’s a hazard.”

The girl laughs and it’s a throaty sound that ripples through me. She is empty-handed now and raises her arms in a kind of surrender. “Relax,” she says. “You’re right about the ones closest to the gate at least. They won’t hurt you much.”

“So why the warning? That’s hardly a polite way to talk to somebody you don’t know. Another scholar might report you for incitation—”

“A polite way to talk…” The girl barks another laugh and my heart responds by hammering a staccato beat. “From the person who’s just interrupted me going about my private business by screeching through a locked gate like a drowning cat?”

I start to bristle again, but the girl is smirking and the expression on her face is so…

so damn captivating that I can’t help but back down.

She’s right, after all. I’m the rude one in this situation.

For all Aurelio’s family tried to make a society woman of me, I suppose they could never truly eradicate the effects of an isolated childhood.

My affiliation with Leo has shown me that.

“You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t mean to shout. I just… I saw you from my window and I wanted to talk to you—about your garden. It is yours, isn’t it?”

“Oh, that was you,” she says, ignoring my question.

The way her eyes shine makes my knees weak.

She licks her lips before continuing. “I’ve seen the light and I did wonder.

They so rarely use those rooms any more.

It’s why—since you ask—I never have to worry about the scholars touching my plants. They don’t bother me here.”

“I’m the only one living in the building.

” I shrug, trying to hide the tremor in my hands.

She’s haughty and beautiful and—I stop myself.

“As far as I know they’ve stopped using these rooms entirely.

I’d have to walk all the way back to campus for a cup of tea if I hadn’t stolen leaves from the dining hall. ”

“What did you do to deserve that?” The girl’s smirk doesn’t change, but her eyes narrow as if she’s trying to solve a complex puzzle. Her chest rises and falls with surprising rapidity, reminding me of a small bird, fragile and hollow boned.

The question is so absurd, and the answer so big, that all I can manage is a laugh of my own.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Ah,” says the girl. “I understand. You’re one of us—the outsiders, I mean.

” She pauses for a second and her eyes are on me with such fixation that I feel the urge to check to make sure my dress is buttoned properly.

But it is, and despite the flutter of my pulse and the dampness of my palms, she retrains her gaze and the moment passes.

A small gust of wind sends the flowers around her feet dancing, and my nose is assaulted by their floral perfume—so strong it makes me feel woozy.

It’s bitter and warm and aromatic and sits on my tongue like anise, the same scent I’ve grown used to but so, so much stronger—as if the girl has disturbed the flowers with her presence. “Are you really a scholar?” she asks.

“Yes. I mean—I’m pretty green but it’s what I’m here for.”

“Green.” The girl’s dark eyes sparkle with amusement. “I like it.” She’s thoughtful for a second and I half think she might walk away, but then she adds, “Pretty green if you don’t know what these plants are, though. I thought you said you’re studying botany.”

“I am.” This time I don’t fight the urge to bristle; it simply happens.

“And I’m good at it too. I can identify hundreds of plants by sight, I know their given and common names and their families and…

” I trail off when I see that the girl’s smirk has grown to a grin.

“You’re just baiting me, aren’t you. There’s no way I could know what most of these plants are. They’re not in any book I’ve read.”

She gives a little curtsy and her laugh reminds me, impossibly, of running water. “I’m sorry. You just looked so serious and it was fun to tease.”

“I get enough of that from the rest of them. I don’t need it from a woman as well.”

“No, you’re right,” she says, but her smile doesn’t disappear.

Her whole expression mellows, though, less cheeky, and somehow it makes her more like a statue.

“These plants are unusual. They’re from around the world; some are even endangered.

Collecting them is a… It’s a hobby. A passion.

” She looks me up and down once more and then she shifts, her posture changing.

It’s only a minute change but I notice it the way you might notice an insect landing on your skin—an almost phantom sensation.

And I realise that she’s decided something.

“It’s getting late and I should go. I have a lot to do elsewhere.

But before I go… My name is Olea,” she says. “What’s yours?”

“Thora.”

“Well then, Thora. Now we’re no longer strangers, does that make us friends?”

Her tone reminds me of the way Petaccia said I only work with friends and a chill skates up my spine. What, exactly, makes somebody a friend? And… what makes them something more?

“I suppose it might,” I say cautiously, “if we were to meet again.”

Olea’s smile is like none I have ever seen. The curve of her lips reminds me of a plump fruit, the flesh so dark it looks bruised. I want to touch it, to test the skin like I might press my fingertip to check the ripeness of a peach.

I want very badly to meet her again. To be her— friend .

“Come again tomorrow night,” she says. “I tend these plants by moonlight. They prefer it that way.”

“And you’ll let me inside?” I prompt. I wipe my clammy hands on my gown, ignoring the flutter in my belly. “I’d love to see what else you’re growing in here.”

“Midnight, please,” Olea says again.

And then she’s in the shadow of the wall and I can no longer see her. I wait for several minutes at the gate, palms still sweaty, heart still pounding, but she doesn’t return.

By the time I head back to my rooms, the garden is still and silent beneath my window.