Page 36 of This Vicious Hunger

Chapter Twenty-Two

W hen I wake my bedroom is dim, threaded with golden pink strands of fading sunlight, the air still pleasure scented. My skin is slick with cool sweat, almost feverish, and my hair is soaking. I dreamt, I think, of the garden—but I don’t recall why.

My stomach pinches painfully. My limbs feel weak, as if I have run and run for days without rest or food.

I’m thirsty, too, my tongue parched and sticking to the roof of my mouth.

I lick my lips, tasting the faint crusting of blood from last night, and I think, again, of Olea.

Oh, the sharp pain behind the pleasure in our kiss.

Normally I would be getting ready to head to the garden with her now.

I’ve hardly made it past sunset the last few days.

I don’t like the disruption of our routine, though I can’t deny the sleep—and what came before it—was necessary.

I’m still tired, muzzy-headed, but at least it isn’t the same bone-wrenching exhaustion as when I finally collapsed against the pillows, my right hand and arm aching fiercely.

I flex the muscles now lazily and consider my food options.

The dining hall will be closed before I get there, and I have little to eat here except some stale bread and cheese I put in my pockets a few days ago for a snack.

Everything else I’ve systemically polished off.

The thought of food makes me want to cry; I’m not used to being governed by it like this. Why am I so famished?

I lie in the evening dimness for a while trying to gather the energy to move, and it is only the call of a fresh breeze that drags me from my bed to the study, where I throw open the shutters and let in the everlasting-flower-scented air.

I stuff the bread and sweaty cheese into my mouth in one go and make tea with some of the flowers mixed with peppermint and a small amount of vanilla, all crushed together with the tea leaves to create a fragrant stew.

Hunger pangs grip my belly, one after another, as I sink down at my desk and rest my chin on my hand.

For just one minute I allow myself to fantasise.

Not about Olea this time but about the feasts my mother cooked, once upon a time, whenever my father would return from performing the death rites.

It was a celebration of his work, of his patience, of his ability to keep us clothed and fed—but most importantly a celebration of his rites.

The gentle but unrelenting way he shepherded the dead and pushed the mourners through their grief.

My mother was a wonderful cook; the table would be laden with jellied meats, candied bacon, and tart apple stew, fresh bread folded in the moeror loaves, and seasonal vegetables or salads dressed in expensive, thick vinegars and honey.

My mouth waters at the thought, my bones hollow for the need of it.

Then I force myself to stop. There is no use thinking of the past. Tomorrow my work with Petaccia begins anew.

It would have been wiser for me to spend my afternoon studying so that I am prepared for whatever the doctor may ask of me, but it is too late for that now.

The demise of her precious vine still niggles at me; there is something about what happened that I can’t ignore, but my thoughts are jumbled, as if everything is coming through brackish water.

When did it become so hard to think? I don’t recall it being this way when I first arrived here.

I felt fresh then, ready to tackle the world.

It feels now more like I am swimming with my eyes open, fingers clawing for purchase on nothing but silky water.

I sip my tea and try to make it last, hoping that the mix of leaves and flowers will settle my stomach and soothe the dizziness in my eyes and my tired brain.

I must have overtired myself earlier. What was I thinking?

I attempt to shake my head, to clear my mind, but I only succeed in rattling myself badly enough that I think I might vomit.

There is something wrong with me. The thought comes so suddenly that it takes me by surprise.

I stop mid-sip, the cup of tea partway between my face and the desk.

My hands begin to tremble something awful, a rotten sensation unfurling from my core right out to my fingertips.

There is something wrong, and I don’t know what it is.

I think back. When did I last feel normal?

When was I last completely well? I’ve lost all track of my days and weeks, but I think it must be weeks now since I woke from a sleep without the painful, gnawing pit of hunger in my belly.

Weeks, too, since I could walk without some mild dizziness.

Leo has been complaining of my distractedness for longer than that—though of course I’ve mostly ignored him.

I’ve been too busy to worry. Should I worry?

My father was taken by some meandering, withering illness that started a few months before my marriage to Aurelio.

He complained of no dizziness or hunger but often said that his chest ached, though he—and I—brushed it off as nothing.

I lean forward and then backwards again. My chest feels fine. The inside of my mouth has the tangy iron taste of blood, but I’m almost certain that’s from the bruises on my lips—and I’d take Olea’s hungry grazing again despite the pain.

Olea. It is early yet for her gardening hours, and I know she’d hate the idea of me watching for her, but I lean out the window anyway, just in case I can spot her.

The hours stretch before me without the promise of the garden.

I want to see her. I want to talk to her and hold her.

And the plants, too, I realise. I miss them.

It feels as if I’ve been severed from them, although they’re so close I can almost smell them.

I wonder if this is what Leo was worried about when he warned me of the garden.

Did he suspect I would become addicted to it?

Does he know for sure that his Clara was there, at the gate, visiting with my Olea?

Does he think that’s why his wife abandoned him?

He drove her away with his desperation for her happiness, drove her right into Olea’s arms…

I haven’t seen him in two days—or is it three?

And I’ve barely thought of him either. I wonder if this is how his Clara was, captured, enraptured by Olea’s private Eden, haunted by the garden’s scent and dreams of Olea’s lips.

I wonder, with a laugh, if Leo is wrong, and if Clara isn’t still here on the campus, hiding somewhere, biding her time, waiting for Olea or to steal from her again.

The memory of Clara is bitter and my thoughts are jumbled and nonsensical. I don’t like that Olea lied to me about her. More than that, though, I don’t like that Clara claimed to be Olea’s friend before betraying her.

Olea is fragile, too gentle to be at the mercy of people like Leo’s wife.

A thief no less. I wonder if Leo has any idea what Clara was up to, if that explains the fervour of his mistrust more than just fear.

Perhaps he is frightened of Olea because Clara told him her plans to rob her; perhaps they were in on it together.

No, that’s a ridiculous notion. Leo is too kind to support even his wife in such an act.

Perhaps she told him and he disagreed, though?

That would be reason enough for Clara to abandon him.

If I was caught trying to steal something so precious—for there’s no denying that half of the specimens in Olea’s garden would be worth a small fortune in some academic circles—I’d want to disappear too.

I blink. The sun has nearly set and the light is that hazy in-between, blue and purple with shadows that stretch uncannily, but I could swear there’s somebody in the garden.

It isn’t Olea; the figure moves too fast and furtively, dressed in black or brown so they virtually blend in with the tangle of thorny plants that grow near the garden wall.

My stomach lurches. Olea has left the gate open.

She must have. Or I did when I left this morning.

How else could somebody gain access to her secret place?

Freezing panic drips down my spine. I want to shout, to wave my hands, or to run down and shoo the intruder away.

Yet something holds me in place. I remain, fixated, as I watch the figure hurry towards the boggart’s posy—or Mercurialis perennis —a patch of weeds that grow close to the wall with toothed leaves shaped like spears.

The weeds grow thick in places, but not there.

It’s impossible for me to tell whether the figure is male or female, only that they are tall and fast; they wear a hood over their head, some sort of travel cloak, and long dark sleeves that stretch down over their hands, maybe gloves too.

I angle closer to my window, careful to keep to one side.

I’m not sure what I am planning to do aside from watch, but if there is a thief targeting the garden, I’m determined to be able to tell Olea exactly what they came for.

But the figure doesn’t grab and run. If they’re familiar with the risk these plants pose, then they’re confident in the safety provided by their conservative clothes.

Once they’ve reached the shadow of the wall, the figure pauses, glancing around.

I catch a flash of pale skin, but then the hood is in the way again and they’re kneeling down amongst the weeds.

I narrow my eyes, waiting for the snap of stems. My mind flits between fear of arson and fear of some kind of poison that might kill the plants, but the figure bends lower over the earth and they seem to be digging ?

They brush the plants away with little tenderness, scooping aside handfuls of what I assume is dirt.