Page 40 of Bane Bloom

The glasshouse’s plant beds had looked neat to me before, but I could see where Thomas had pulled weeds and unwanted propagations. Some of the floppier plants had been freshly staked, including a patch of bright red gladioli whose stalks had been encroaching—rather charmingly, to my thinking—on the cobbled path.

I went about my work much as I had the day before, only not taking the time to sketch, as the trip to town would cut things short this morning. I supposed, too, I was nervous after what had happened with the daphne. Today I hoped for a few productive hours with no strange disruptions.

Happily, I got my wish. When I was setting out the morning’s cuttings, Thomas came in and asked if I was ready to go. I ran up and slipped my letters into envelopes, addressed them, and stuck on Penny Reds, waving them back and forth a few moments before dropping them into a satchel with my drawing implements. Then I went out to join Thomas by the stable.

He’d hitched the pony, whom I heard him call Daisy, and he came to help me up to the seat. Though he’d done this before, it felt very different now. I was attentive to the warmth of his hand, the careful strength of his grip, and the way his eyes followed as I stepped up into the cart. He went around and climbed in beside me, and I held my breath as I wondered whether he’d sit close enough that we’d touch as he worked the reins.

Indeed, his arm brushed my shoulder as he clucked to Daisy and we got underway.

“You needn’t stay out of the glasshouse when I’m working,” he said, glancing down at me.

My cheeks heated, imagining that he’d noticed me lurking about the glasshouse door, and I swallowed thickly. “Well, I had some things I wanted to look up this morning. But I’ll keep that in mind. I wouldn’t want to be in your way.”

His eyes shifted to the road ahead. “You’ve a job to do, same as me.”

I stared, wondering whether the “fair folk” might have taken him in the night and left behind a changeling.

“You know,” I said, “one of the things I’ve found quite useful is the book your grandfather wrote, Plant Lore of Britain. I was reading this morning about bluebells.”

“Mmm.” Definitely Thomas.

“Have you read the book?”

“What makes you think I can read?”

My heart skipped; for a moment I feared I’d blundered. But then I frowned. “I’ve been to your hut. You have books.”

His eyes came to my face, and I forced myself not to look away. He knew I’d been inside his dwelling. Just not that I was in there a second time going through his things.

Then I caught a glint in his eye and realized he’d been baiting me. And now he’s very quietly laughing at me.

“Why do you do that?” I asked, unable to keep the irritation out of my tone.

“Do what?” His eyes went to the road again as we entered the woods.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, searching for the right words, “make comments that seem to assume I think I’m better than you. Is that what you really think of me?”

He sniffed and fussed with the reins. “It was just a bit of fun, lass.”

Lass again! Good heavens. He’d addressed me this way in the boat, but somehow now, safe on dry land again, it felt more deliberate. And more intimate.

I squirmed a little on the hard seat. “It’s possible I’m being too sensitive.”

As I thought this over, I realized that I had been looking down on him in a way—assuming he held superstitious beliefs, for example, and that it made him simpler than me. As if my more sophisticated London upbringing entitled me to feel I had a more accurate understanding of the world.

Daisy had brought us into the stretch of woods blanketed by bluebells. They were so thick here you couldn’t have walked under the trees without trampling them, but for a narrow footpath that led off from the road toward a rocky outcrop a short distance away. The sun had burned off the earlier clouds, and light dappled the ground beneath the birch trees, just as Arthur Bane had described.

Glancing at Thomas, I said, “Your grandfather recounted a story about a young woman from Buttermere who disappeared into the bluebells. She came back every May Day on a white horse. Do you know it?”

“Aye.”

My hands fidgeted in my lap as I worked up the courage for a harder question. “I want to ask you something that may sound patronizing, but it’s not meant that way. Can you take my word for that?”

His brows lifted. “I guess I won’t know for sure until I hear it.”

I took a deep breath. “I wasn’t raised to believe in fairies, or ghosts, or anything like that. And the truth is, I never have. But I get the sense that maybe you do. And I don’t judge you for that. I’d just like . . .” I tried to order my thoughts. What was it that I wanted from him? “I guess if you do,” I continued carefully, “I’d just like to understand why. Is it something you’ve seen? Or stories your mother told you? Or maybe—”

I stopped speaking as his eyes came to my face.