Page 28 of This Vicious Hunger

I can’t do this. I can’t be here. Not with him—or her. I can’t talk about the garden, or picture Clara in it. Hysteria builds inside me, a mixture of horror and alarm that rings like a bell.

“I told you, you shouldn’t compare me to your wife, Leo,” I say, forcing ice into my tone to hide the panic.

He’s lying about the smell—he has to be.

Otherwise why is he only mentioning it now ?

He’s trying to distract me. Or worse, he thinks deflecting his own feelings with flirtation is the way forward.

“If you’re noticing the way I smell, sir, frankly, that is nobody’s problem but your own. ”

“I’m only saying there’s something—”

“I know what you’re saying,” I cut him off.

“You’re obviously trying to make me feel sorry for you.

You need a new wife to hide behind, and you think this is how you get one?

There’s no other explanation for this ridiculousness.

Maybe you should admit what you’re doing to yourself and talk to me like an adult.

Maybe then I’d feel differently about a conversation about my goddamn perfume . ”

I shove my plate away and get to my feet, my appetite suddenly gone.

Instead I feel a wave of dizziness, the kind of nausea that comes with having your feet on unsteady ground and a long drop below.

I swallow hard, bile burning the back of my throat.

If all I am to Leo is a marriage prospect so he can hide how he truly feels, or some way to forget about Clara—and if he thinks scaring me is the way to woo me—then he has another think coming.

“Thora,” Leo argues. “Come on. You know I’m not trying to—”

“No, Leo. I think it’s high time I remind you that we are friends .

You are not my husband, nor is it in any way appropriate for you to act like you are.

We have dinner together here because I’m willing to push the boundaries more than most, but if you can’t behave yourself, then maybe we shouldn’t. ”

“Thora,” he says again. I hold my hand up and he stops.

“I’m going to leave now,” I say as calmly as I can muster, still fighting against the dizziness that threatens to capsize me. I hold on to the edge of the table with one hand and hope Leo doesn’t notice. “I trust that by tomorrow night you’ll be back to minding your own damn business.”

Midnight crawls around like the slow, inevitable march of a snail.

I watch the clock in my study with such ferocity that I grow faint and dizzy again, resorting to locking my fingers in place with my nails in the polished wood of my desk.

I know I should be more concerned about falling out with Leo, but the thought is distant, the toll of a bell two villages over, something for me to think of later—probably in those dim dawn hours when I cannot sleep.

When I grow so faint I worry I might fall off my chair, I drag myself to the stove and make tea peppered with the fresh, shrubby strawflower, otherwise named “immortelle” or “everlasting” flowers— Helichrysum —which grow in the boxes beneath my window, wild and untamed but still good, and which Almerto’s lectures assure me are treatments for both sickness and mild digestive discomfort.

If I’m no better tomorrow I might make the trek back to the village for something stronger. Perhaps it is just excitement. Or fear.

I stare at the flower from Olea’s garden with fascination; its leaves and petals are still dewy and fresh as the day she picked it.

Its scent has faded, though, and I miss its riverbed tang.

It might only be in my mind, but before the scent faded I almost imagined that the flower’s mere presence on my desk was like a bracer of sorts, keeping me afloat.

I’m at the gate early despite the dizziness.

The fresh air helps. We’ve still had no rain, but as I walk I hear the distant rumble of thunder and a slash of lightning splits the sky.

It isn’t long before the first specks of rain begin to fall—and I hardly care, because there already at the gate is Olea.

She has combed her shining dark hair for the occasion, pulling it into a tight braid. Her dress, too, is clean and more structured than her usual fare, a bodice drawing her in at the waist and ruffles at the sleeves. She beckons me close with a silent wave of her hand.

The gate does not creak when she opens it.

It is as silent as she is. The scent of the garden envelops me, so strong I have to pause to take a breath—damp and verdant and bitter.

I ignore Leo’s comments, push them to the farthest corners in the maze of my mind.

Is it the garden he can smell—on my skin, in my hair, on my clothes—or is it Olea? And if he can smell it, can others?

But now isn’t the time for such questions. The garden awaits, thrumming with greenery, beckoning me the way a dream lulls you deeper and deeper into sleep, the real world slipping away with every heartbeat, every breath.

I slip through the gate.

And suddenly everything is different. The walls and the gate, I soon realise, have done the space a disservice.

The view from my rooms is little better.

From up there everything looks tangled and overgrown, the spikes atop the wall blocking the best views, and from the gate I’d become convinced that Olea had perhaps fifteen or twenty different plants growing in this immediate area.

Quickly it becomes clear how wrong I was.

To the left the garden beds ramble along the wall as far as the eye can see, and behind the tower I can see from my window there are trees and trees and trees.

Some are tall and straight; others grow in great crooked waves, leaves and branches and hanging fruits in all directions.

The plants directly in front of me—which I feel I’ve grown to know a little—are well tended, groomed so they grow along narrow, winding dirt paths.

Most are tagged with little wooden signs where somebody—Olea—has scored their names.

“Olea…” I breathe. “It’s magnificent.”

“You haven’t seen it yet,” she says, but her smile is broad.

She still stands her careful few feet away, but I can barely bring myself to notice much less care.

This is what I’ve dreamt of since I saw the garden from my study on that first day here.

It matters less that these are plants I have never seen before, and more that they are now right here—right at my fingertips.

“Can I touch them?” I ask.

Olea shakes her head fast. “I wouldn’t. Not yet. Follow me and I’ll show you more.”

“There’s more?”

Olea chuckles. “This is… perhaps a tenth of what there is to see.”

“Olea!” I exclaim. “Why didn’t you tell me it was so big?”

“You never asked.” She shrugs. “And besides, these plants are my… not my favourites; I don’t have favourites. But they’re the most fascinating to me. They hold the most potential. It’s why I tend to them so often and why they hold a dear place in my catalogue.”

I begin to move forward, but Olea lets out a little bleat of dismay.

I freeze. My hand hovers beside one of the small trees I don’t know the name of yet.

Its narrow, dark green leaves look similar to those of common oleander, and its sprays of starry white flowers smell sweet as jasmine.

Hidden beneath its flowers, however, I spot small, round, fleshy-looking fruits, and something in me—something primal—stills.

Understanding the likely reason for Olea’s panic, I lift my hand away and then step back slowly.

“ Cerbera odollam ,” she hisses. “Those fruits are dangerous. Even the juices… Please, please be careful. Don’t touch anything until we’re beyond these trees where I can keep an eye on you. I need time to—assess. They won’t mean to hurt you, but they might.”

Logically I know I should be afraid. By the sounds of it, most of these plants could make me marvellously unwell with just a single touch, and the rest might even kill me, but this garden at night, gentle rainfall pattering amongst the blooms releasing bursts of bittersweet aroma, is the most peaceful place in the world.

Besides, I’m not planning to put anything in my mouth.

It is near silent here. And I feel fine—better than fine, in fact.

The everlasting flowers must have helped because I’m no longer dizzy or nauseous.

I feel the best I’ve felt in days. In weeks , maybe.

Even my tiredness seems to have abated. I run a hand through my hair, casting off raindrops and listening to the smattering sound they make amongst the petals and leaves.

I don’t struggle to follow Olea as she guides me along the twisting path.

It must be the open air, the rain making leaves and stems and hidden roots glitter in the moonlight, but I can see just fine.

I step between rows of plants—their size growing the farther we walk—with ease, and soon we are within the trees.

Rain falls in fat droplets now and the air hums with the scent of wet soil and crushed leaves.

Everything is hazy, even Olea, who I’d swear is surrounded by a silver halo of light, her gown reflecting moonlight like a mirror.

These trees provide the tower with some privacy, though as we reach the other side it becomes clear that the privacy isn’t needed.

The garden spreads farther, fewer “specimens” now with their hand-carved tags and more wild abundance of hedges and saplings, flowering plants and weeds and twisting vines.

And there are signs of old human life too; whatever this place was before it was Olea’s garden, the people left behind the crumbling remains of fountains and statues, a winding maze of low stone walls and benches amongst the poppies and lilies, all growing good and strong and vibrant even in the moonlight.

There are trees and cacti and vines here I’ve only read about in books, and more I’ve never seen even in illustration.

I spot what might be a mousetrap tree—something like Uncarina grandidieri —with its three-inch-long yellow flowers and fruit laden with vicious spines, and a weedy-looking thing, four feet tall with white flower clusters that I’m convinced at first sight is white snakeroot.

Everywhere I look there is something else that can maim or poison or kill.

I listen. There is no birdsong at this time of night, but I can’t hear the rub of crickets either. There is only my heavy breathing and the faint trickle of water. It is nothing like the Silences I am used to; this is peace, not pain.

Olea gestures to the right, and through two curving tree boughs I see the banks of a narrow river, still rich with water despite the recent lack of rain. It must come from the mountains. I want to rush to it, to put my hands in the freezing trickle and drink until I am made whole again.

I stop myself, hesitating, but Olea nods and the motion is so joyous and encouraging that I begin to run.

Olea follows and our laughter is bright and buoyant.

I drop to my knees at the river’s edge and thrust my hands into the water; it is just as cold and refreshing as I thought it would be.

The rain falls around us, warm compared to this, and I lower my arms into the river up to the elbows.

Slowly the excitement fades. I sit back on my heels and look at Olea, who is smiling at me from her spot between the boughs of the trees. It is dimmer here, in the shadow of the trees, and her skin is ghostly pale. She is an angel in chiaroscuro.

“Welcome to my silent little world,” she says.