Page 15 of Bane Bloom

Odd, too, was Thomas’s sudden change in manner. To offer his assistance in the glasshouse, and even to manage my supper. Might he have begun to worry that word of his surliness would get back to the apothecaries?

Speaking of supper, I didn’t know what hour to expect it, but perhaps it would be best to go down and spend more time exploring the house until Thomas reappeared, so that he wouldn’t have to fetch me. I rose from the bed, frame creaking, and went to the looking glass beside the door.

My dress was rumpled, and wisps of dark hair had freed themselves from my bun. Though I imagined supper would be a casual affair, I thought I ought to at least tidy up and change out of my traveling clothes.

I went to the dresser and splashed my face with cool water from the basin. Then I changed into a gown with a lower neckline, though with a layer of lace-trimmed black tulle for modesty. Like most of my finer things, it was secondhand and somewhat dated, but the alterations and repairs had been skillfully managed by Nancy’s sister, who was a seamstress.

I also took down my hair, brushed it, and pinned it back up, then wet my fingers and smoothed my fringe down over my forehead. Finally I pinched color into my cheeks.

Whom, exactly, am I doing this for? Whom, indeed. I missed Papa, and Nancy, too, who’d been with us for most of my life. I had the sense it would be better for me to keep up with my routines. That going on as if nothing had changed might ward off sinking spirits.

And just maybe I don’t like the idea of Thomas seeing me unkempt.

Descending the stairs, I felt a chill, so when I reached the dining room, I walked around the table and moved one of the chairs to face the hearth. I sat down and held out my hands, watching the flames, enjoying their bright warmth. After a few moments, I spotted something on the flagstones in front of the grate—a small strip of paper that looked to have escaped the hearth. I bent and picked it up and was about to toss it back in when I noticed writing.

Uncurling the paper’s blackened edges, I read:

the Bane Bloom will be of great interest to my superi

I frowned, reading the line several times. Bane was Thomas’s family name. What might “the Bane Bloom” refer to? And the incomplete word at the end—I thought it could only be “superiors.”

Who had written this? It didn’t seem like something Thomas himself would have written. His grandfather was more likely. But in that case, why would Thomas burn it after so many years?

It might simply have been among old papers put aside for tinder.

Yet something about this theory bothered me. I had gotten the sense from Annie that Arthur Bane had been esteemed by the Society. They had financed the glasshouse so he could continue his work. Would he refer to these colleagues as “superiors”?

With a twist in my belly, another possibility occurred to me.

My predecessor.

Mr. Carroll, sent to Pine Cottage to catalog the glasshouse garden, just as I had been, could certainly have written this. Any papers related to his work here would surely have been wanted by the Society. Would have been the property of the Society. Thomas had no business burning them.

With a prickling shiver, I recalled that Thomas had been the last to see Mr. Carroll.

I heard a door open at the back of the house. My heart jumped as boots sounded against a planked floor, and I bent down and pushed the slip of paper into my shoe.

I stood up just as Thomas came through the door that led from the kitchen.

He seemed startled to find me in the dining room—or maybe I had looked startled, and he paused to note it. His eyes made a quick pass over me.

“Has someone died, Miss Gray?”

Mr. Carroll still in my thoughts, I stared at him. Then I realized the question must have referred to my dress.

Looking down, I smoothed my damp palms over my skirt. I swallowed, though my mouth had gone dry. Unsure whether the blunt question was genuine or mocking, I answered simply, “I always wear black.”

His brows lifted, but he only continued to stare. It unsettled me, and I went on, “I have for many years. Since the day I lost my mother.” I began smoothing my skirt again and forced myself to stop.

“When did she die?”

I took a breath, then let it out in a quiet sigh. “I don’t know that she has. She left my father and me when I was an infant. I began wearing black after my father explained this to me.”

I let my gaze drift to the window. With the fog and onset of evening, shapes outside were indistinct. Only the boat hut was still a solid object, yellow lamplight glowing in the window. “I was a child then,” I said. “But later I saw no reason to overcome the habit. In a strange way, I find it freeing.” I looked at him. “Have I now satisfied your curiosity?”

When at last he spoke, it was in a way that seemed to take no notice of the fact I’d just revealed an intensely personal piece of my history. “I’ve brought you some supper,” he said. “I’ll fetch it from the kitchen.”

I rubbed my lips together, feeling foolish. “All right.”