Page 8 of This Vicious Hunger

He kept titles on medicine and surgical science, on sewing—for those deaths where the rites required a tidy corpse—and on art and painting.

He dabbled in poetry, in mathematics, in animal husbandry and, indeed, in phytology.

I read every single one of his books, often by candlelight, hiding under the desk in his study, one ear pricked for my mother’s slippered footsteps.

There were other titles I found, too, ones I do not think my father wanted me to see, which even now I try not to think of, a pamphlet hidden between pages of a phenomenally dry veterinary biography about how to determine manner of death—or the one about how to diagnose, or disguise, an accidental or non-accidental incident according to a family’s wishes…

In public my father gave me titles on flower arranging, and religious pamphlets on the importance of fasting, the science of Silence.

It is these, I am sure, Dr. Petaccia is referring to—the very border of respectability.

The titles Aurelio’s family would have just about considered appropriate for an undertaker’s daughter—before I became a LeVand by marriage, at which point they became entirely inappropriate .

“I can read and write as well as my husband could,” I say in answer. Petaccia nods, pleased. “I’m comfortable taking notes in both long- and shorthand and I write smoothly. I have a knowledge of plants from the Funereal Flora —”

“That will do nicely,” the doctor cuts me off. “The rest I can teach you.”

“I assure you, Doctor, I am committed to this life. I’m grateful for the opportunity to learn under a famed doctor such as yourself—”

Petaccia waves her hands. The vine is still coiling and I can’t stop staring.

It has little blister-like nubs all along its lengths, swelling to pustules the colour of sunspots in places, but its leaves are sharply green and it looks healthy enough.

I wonder what kind it is, whether it is something the doctor has somehow created herself.

I’ve read about botanists who do that, who aren’t content to merely study and must create , but rather than frighten me this sudden thought sends a thrill right through my core.

“Stop schmoozing,” Petaccia says languidly. “But please, do call me Florencia. My father was Doctor and I can’t stand it.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Look, I apologise for jumping to conclusions about you. It is hard for me to open up my sacred space to somebody, even the child of a friend. But really, it’s simple: work hard and you’ll do fine here.

It doesn’t matter to me whether you were a wife or a daughter, whether you are a widow or a nun.

I know this is not the life you were raised for, but it’s comfortable, and I can offer you a future many women might never dream of for themselves.

As I said to the LeVands, you’ll want for nothing—St. Elianto provides both our rooming and living costs so long as we are working—and you won’t have time to be lonely.

The university doesn’t have many ladies in its employ, it’s true, but we are not none.

Not any more.” That wide-toothed smile is back and I find myself echoing it, my face stretching uncomfortably.

“You will attend lectures as a scholar, learn with the little boys, and I won’t hear any complaints even if they are little boys, only here to further their political or societal agendas.

They may not be serious about botany, but you have a lot to catch up on and I expect you in the lectures with them. ”

“I will work hard,” I swear, clasping my hands together tightly. It doesn’t feel real, a dream of my father’s creation. “I want to learn.”

“Good. That is good.” She leans back and I think our meeting must nearly be over. After a rocky start I’m proud that I have shown my mettle, and I begin to gather my skirts.

“Oh, and Thora? One more thing.”

“Yes, Doctor? I mean, Florencia.”

“Out there in the halls and the libraries you are a scholar, just like all the others. I don’t care what you look or sound like, or what the boys think of it.

You are one of them. That being said, we must have a conversation about your wardrobe, as it’s really not safe for you to be stumbling about the lab in skirts. ”

“I understand—”

“No.” She shakes her head. I swallow hard.

Her narrow face is the gravest I have seen it, the hollows in her cheeks catching the light.

She brushes the vine from around the wrist of her glove and reaches across the desk to me, grabbing for my hand in my lap.

“Let me finish. Out there, you are just another scholar. But in here, in this room, you are my partner. Do you understand?”

“I… I’m not sure I do.”

“I am taking a risk by bringing you here, and I expect complete dedication.” She pauses, as if this will clarify.

I open and close my mouth like a fish. “Your father was a good man, a clever man. He assured me, long ago, that you were the same. I had given up hope I might meet you, let alone have the chance to bring you into my life’s work—but the Lord has his ways.

Together I have faith we can push the boundaries of botanical science.

I travel fairly often about the country, gathering specimens; I need somebody in the lab whom I can trust.” Petaccia squeezes my hand tighter, so tight now the claws of her nails—very sharp even through her gloves—dig into my soft flesh.

“So you see: out there, a scholar. My student. In here, my partner.”

Slowly the realisation sinks in. She is not asking me to be a good student, to study hard—or not only that.

Just as before she was not asking me only if my father taught me to read or write.

I notice once more the pustule-like nodules on the vine on the desk and think again of my father’s hidden pamphlets.

Petaccia, I remember, is interested in both botany and medicine.

There is more to the doctor than meets the eye.

“Yes,” she says, seeing my face and posture change. “This is cutting-edge research, Thora, and I trust that you will take it more seriously than most.”