Page 14 of An Arcane Education
The door opens silently, and the humidity of the greenhouse envelops me as I pull the door back to its position of being open by only a few inches.
I inhale deeply, calmed by the scent of earth and greenery and overwhelmed at the incredible sight before me. The greenhouse, dark but visible beneath the soft, radiant moonlight, feels like something from a dream, a magical forest beneath glass.
Pathways of crushed stone wind between raised garden beds and large planters overflowing with a combination of healthy leaves and floral blooms. Ferns cascade from hanging baskets, and flowering vines climb the iron framework. The air practically vibrates with the collective presence of hundreds of thriving plants.
I almost forget that someone else is here until I hear a man’s deep voice resonate from somewhere deeper within the greenhouse.
“If you’re going to come in, you may as well come in all the way.”
Part of me considers leaving, hesitant to be alone with a stranger in the dark, but the other part of me argues that a man spending his nights in a greenhouse likely isn’ttoodangerous. Probably. I can’t even bring myself to feel nervous because of how soothing the environment is.
My feet move before my mind can make itself up, and stones crunch beneath my feet as I follow the winding pathdeeper into the greenhouse, following the subtle glow of the lantern reflecting off the glass ahead.
I pass an area that I recognize as tropical species, many of them exceedingly difficult to maintain. Orchids with elaborate blooms almost seem to glow in the dim light, and the bird of paradise plants are easy to identify with their distinctive orange and blue flowers. Everything is meticulously maintained from what I can see, though it doesn’t surprise me in the least.
The light source becomes visible around the next bend. A corner of the greenhouse has been sectioned off from the rest by two full walls with another door leading into the space. This one is fully open, displaying raised beds arranged in precise patterns and plant labels identifying each specimen in sharp letters. Just as it comes into view, the dull light of the lantern is replaced by the bright, white light of a work lamp.
And beneath that light, tending to one of the beds with careful precision, is a man.
He's bent over the garden bed, his dark hair falling across his forehead, completely absorbed in whatever he’s working on. Broad shoulders fill out an olive green corduroy jacket, paired with black pants and practical black boots. Circular glasses sit atop the bridge of his nose, though I can barely see them from the sidelong angle I’m watching him from.
I intentionally make noise as I take one small step closer, still standing in the doorway, but he doesn’t turn around.
He continues his work, but after a period ofuncomfortable silence, he asks, “Are you going to say hello, or simply stand there observing?”
My cheeks warm and I stammer, “Sorry. Hi. I’m Vivian. I’m new to campus, so I was just exploring.”
He stands, wiping the dirt from his hands on his pants before turning to me, and I’m struck by the sheer beauty of this man as he extends his hand in greeting.
To my credit, I keep my cool as I shake his hand and take in his features. Sharp cheekbones, dark, assessing eyes, and a distinctive jawline. His messy, dark hair falls across his forehead, and I realize that his glasses aren’t circular but hexagonal, with thin black wire frames. I’ve always been terrible at guessing people’s ages, but I would assume he’s a few years older than me. Clara from admissions did say they do selective doctoral programs here as well… I wonder if he’s in one of those, or if he’s simply a late bloomer like me.
He takes me in for a long moment, and I shift awkwardly under his intense gaze. “I’m Alaric,” he finally says, never taking his eyes off me.
“Nice to meet you.” Then, looking around, I ask, “Is the greenhouse open all the time, or do you just have special privileges?”
The corner of his lips lifts in a half-smile. “Special privileges. It’s usually locked, but I’ve managed to get a key to utilize the space for my research.”
“That’s really cool. I already miss my plants back home, as nerdy as that sounds. What kind of research are you doing?” I ask, already enthralled by the potential of researching magical plant properties. “Are you part of the master’s program? Or doctoral?”
Raising an eyebrow, he states, “Unfortunately, my research is rather sensitive, so I’m unable to talk about it at the present moment. But you’re welcome to take a look at my garden,” he says, gesturing back to the area he’d been working in. “I got special permission from the Dean of the Naturalism program to claim this space for myself.”
My attention slides past him toward the garden bed, and I immediately recognize one of the plants—the same plant depicted in the stained glass window of the castle.
“Is that belladonna?” I ask, moving closer to look at the purple bell-shaped flowers that give way to glossy black berries that contain enough tropane alkaloids to kill an adult human with just a handful.
He nods. “Yes.”
“And—” I crouch to survey tall stalks with tubular pink blooms “—foxglove? And hemlock?” I add, gesturing toward the white clusters of flowers.
“Indeed. Very good,” he muses, and my stomach swoops at his appreciative tone.
“What, so your special research is growing a death garden?” I joke.
He has moved closer to me now, and I can smell the faintest lingering scent of his woody cologne. “Something like that.”
“I know you said you can’t talk about your research, but… why choose research with such dangerous plants?”
I know I’m asking too many questions, but finding someone so knowledgeable on something I’ve been fascinated by my entire life is nothing short of exhilarating. Even then, my inquiry isn’t so much a genuine question asit is a way to gauge how he thinks about these sorts of things.
