Page 15 of This Vicious Hunger
“I married late,” she goes on slowly. “Out of… well, some would say it was necessity, though I know that’s a dirty word. My husband was quite a bit older than me. He and my father had collaborated on a number of projects as young scholars, and his first wife died young. A curse that struck twice—I was widowed within just a few years. Or…”
Petaccia’s gaze becomes unfocused. I wait, but she doesn’t continue.
“Or?” I prompt eventually.
“I assume so anyway. Niccolò was halfway around the world collecting specimens—oh, such excitement, but then he always was very daring. I always preferred to remain in my labs, it’s where my skills are best used—and he simply… Well. He never came home.”
“I…” I stumble for the right words. Condolences for my own loss always feel so unwelcome that I haven’t the words to comfort anybody else. I never pictured Petaccia as a widow, though I suppose given her stature it makes sense that she was once married to another academic. I settle for “I’m sorry.”
“So you see,” Petaccia says, shaking herself. She redirects her gaze to me and gestures to the window ahead. “I think that you and I will be able to work together very nicely. We understand each other, I think. We’ve both seen loss firsthand, and know howthe mind appreciates a project. I’m hoping this could be the kind of project you will sink your teeth into.”
Across a bench in front of the window there are multiple low boxes of soil, seedlings of various sizes sprouting in shades of emerald and hunter and sage, white and a silvery sort of transparency that reminds me of moonlight. Underneath the bench there are more of the large troughs with much more established plants, and on the wall to the left of the window, where the bench stretches across, there are diagrams of various plants’ biology, and a crosscut image of a plant that looks similar to Petaccia’s precious vine only with great trumpet-shaped flowers and spotted leaves that curl inwards on themselves.
There is a microscope—I’ve never seen one in person before and it’s bigger than I thought it would be—and slivers of plant matter between sheets of glass. There are also small buckets filled with what looks like sand and reddish clods of dirt, plus a bucket of what looks like plain water. Beside them is an open book, the paper filled with the doctor’s spidery scribbles. Petaccia stands by the rows of seedlings, direct sunlight on her face, and looks at me expectantly as the cogs in my brain begin to whir.
“This is what you’re working on?”
“Yes.”
“I assume it all has something to do with Almerto’s work in the same area? His opinions about the loss of important plant families due to lack of environmental care are sincerely striking.”
“Almerto is a quack,” Petaccia says. I bristle at the phrase Leonardo disagrees with so vehemently, but I try to keep it to myself. “But yes, you’re right. It’s similar stuff. His focus is purely on medicinal plants—which are important, you understand. I know that better than most. But what I’m doing is more important.”
I wait for Petaccia to clarify, but she’s already lost in an inspection of the seedlings closest to her. Their leaves are curled and a little wilted. They’re not coping well with the heat. I move closer, attempting to get a better look. I’ve read pamphlets on proper plant growth, it’s what I started with really, and it’s pretty plain to me that the issue here is the heat and too much sunlight. I don’t know where these plants are from, or even what families they’re part of since it can be hard to tell at this stage, but they look like Elver clover, which grows in the mountainous regions to the north where it’s much cooler this time of year.
I say nothing. Eventually Petaccia looks at me. “Drought,” she says, as if that explains everything.
“Drought?”
“You said yourself, Almerto concerns himself with environmental care. He’s not wrong to worry. It’s true that a large portion of Isliano’s medicinal herbs have traditionally been imported from oceanic regions like Indonolsea and Farlospel since our coasts are so rocky, but it’s a system that’s been working well for centuries, so what’s the problem?”
“Drought…?” I suggest.
“Drought,” Petaccia agrees. Her dark eyes are shining now, taking on an excited sheen. “The summers are getting hotter, record temperatures here every June and July wiping out entire crops of spring and summer jewels. We’re lucky that we don’t need them, as we usually import, but isn’t it better to get ahead, and stay ahead, of the game?”
“So you’re investigating how different plants grow in our climate so we can grow them with less water?”
“No, my dear.” Petaccia grins, and it’s that same unsettlingly broad, stained grin. It sends a zinging feeling from my belly rightto my limbs. Suddenly I’m not so hot any more. “Better, in fact. I’m working on a genus that can survive without any water of its ownat all.”
My eyes widen as I finally understand. It sounds crazy. It sounds absolutelyinsane, actually. I turn back to the clover and peer closer, at the burnt bits on its baby leaves, and at the soil. I hadn’t noticed before, but it is completely devoid of any moisture. Not a single drop. The only liquid these plants are getting from Petaccia comes from the syrupy warmth and moisture in the air. They should be dead already—but they’re not.
“You’re trying to train them to draw moisture from the air.”
“Bingo.”
Petaccia’s smile is worth my exhaustion. With a thread of guilt in me I note how easily I’d allowed myself to forget why I’m here. This is everything I’ve ever dreamt of, and it’s my future.Mine.I grin back. Petaccia closes the notebook on the desk with a thump and hands it to me. We walk back over to the door together.
“Read that over the next few days,” she says, “and then I’ll give you the next one. Ask me aboutanythingyou don’t understand, clear? Even if you can’t read it for my handwriting. But read it fast. I’ve wasted enough time on this as it is, and I won’t have Almerto deciding he’s going to write up something similar. I’m sick of men always getting the credit, aren’t you?”
She doesn’t give me the chance to answer.
“I’m also going to have you doing more research for me; I’m better with the practical things, and you’ve got fresh eyes, so each week I’ll give you a reading list. The lectures are important, but this,thisis the real work, Thora.”
“I understand, ma’am.”
“I told you.Florencia.I’m nobody’s mother and I hate beingmade to sound like it. Oh, and I believe we discussed your wardrobe. It looks like you’re no closer to a solution, so I’ve taken the liberty of getting in touch with my tailor. I assume you’d like something like these”—she gestures at her outfit—“though I suppose just plain trousers wouldn’t hurt either—”
“I’d rather have trousers,” I blurt without thinking. Petaccia is stunned to silence and I swallow the brick in my throat. “That is… if I may.”
