Page 22 of This Vicious Hunger
“Ah,” says the girl. “I understand. You’re one of us—the outsiders, I mean.” She pauses for a second and her eyes are on me with such fixation that I feel the urge to check to make sure my dress is buttoned properly. But it is, and despite the flutter of my pulse and the dampness of my palms, she retrains her gaze and the moment passes. A small gust of wind sends the flowers around her feet dancing, and my nose is assaulted by their floral perfume—so strong it makes me feel woozy. It’s bitter and warm and aromatic and sits on my tongue like anise, the same scent I’ve grown used to but so,somuch stronger—as if the girl has disturbed the flowers with her presence. “Are you really a scholar?” she asks.
“Yes. I mean—I’m pretty green but it’s what I’m here for.”
“Green.” The girl’s dark eyes sparkle with amusement. “I like it.” She’s thoughtful for a second and I half think she might walk away, but then she adds, “Pretty green if you don’t knowwhat these plants are, though. I thought you said you’re studying botany.”
“I am.” This time I don’t fight the urge to bristle; it simply happens. “And I’m good at it too. I can identify hundreds of plants by sight, I know their given and common names and their families and…” I trail off when I see that the girl’s smirk has grown to a grin. “You’re just baiting me, aren’t you. There’s no way I could know what most of these plants are. They’re not in any book I’ve read.”
She gives a little curtsy and her laugh reminds me, impossibly, of running water. “I’m sorry. You just looked so serious and it was fun to tease.”
“I get enough of that from the rest of them. I don’t need it from a woman as well.”
“No, you’re right,” she says, but her smile doesn’t disappear. Her whole expression mellows, though, less cheeky, and somehow it makes her more like a statue. “These plants are unusual. They’re from around the world; some are even endangered. Collecting them is a… It’s a hobby. A passion.” She looks me up and down once more and then she shifts, her posture changing. It’s only a minute change but I notice it the way you might notice an insect landing on your skin—an almost phantom sensation. And I realise that she’s decided something. “It’s getting late and I should go. I have a lot to do elsewhere. But before I go… My name is Olea,” she says. “What’s yours?”
“Thora.”
“Well then, Thora. Now we’re no longer strangers, does that make us friends?”
Her tone reminds me of the way Petaccia saidI only work with friendsand a chill skates up my spine. What, exactly, makes somebody a friend? And… what makes them something more?
“I suppose it might,” I say cautiously, “if we were to meet again.”
Olea’s smile is like none I have ever seen. The curve of her lips reminds me of a plump fruit, the flesh so dark it looks bruised. I want to touch it, to test the skin like I might press my fingertip to check the ripeness of a peach.
I want very badly to meet her again. To be her—friend.
“Come again tomorrow night,” she says. “I tend these plants by moonlight. They prefer it that way.”
“And you’ll let me inside?” I prompt. I wipe my clammy hands on my gown, ignoring the flutter in my belly. “I’d love to see what else you’re growing in here.”
“Midnight, please,” Olea says again.
And then she’s in the shadow of the wall and I can no longer see her. I wait for several minutes at the gate, palms still sweaty, heart still pounding, but she doesn’t return.
By the time I head back to my rooms, the garden is still and silent beneath my window.
Chapter Thirteen
The next night I dress carefully before heading to the gate, choosing one of the new pairs of trousers that Petaccia has had made for me and a shirt that reminds me of a man’s, except looser than most. It’s so warm outside that it feels like midafternoon, the air syrupy against my skin. We’ve had no rain for five or six days now, and the grass path is parched and crispy beneath my window.
I could hardly concentrate through my lectures today, and although Leo caught my eye, I managed to make sure I was long gone from the hall before it was time for his customary break-time cigarillo. I felt guilty about it, but not guilty enough that I stopped. My head is too muddled for him. I worry that if he asks me, I might tell him about Olea—and I want to keep her for myself, at least for now.
My father dominates my thoughts more than he has for weeks, and I know it is because of her. Because of the way speaking to her made my pulse flutter and my stomach flop; this is not a way I should feel, not about her, not about anybody but my husband when I was a new bride—only I didn’t feel it then.
Her name has been on my lips all day, every time I open my mouth, threatening to pour out like sweet, treacherous honey. Olea,Olea. It sounds like the plant oleander. Is this a coincidence? Like sweet poison. I spend my break pawing through one of my taxonomies.Nerium oleander.Rose laurel, dog bane, sweet sea rose. It’s evergreen, subtropical, hardy, and fragrant. Like many plants, it has a myth for its name, though this is one I don’t know by heart and I’ve yet found only references to it.
Olea.
Part of me is frightened by the feeling this girl has stirred within me. It’s as though I shouldn’t think of her, shouldn’t talk of her. As if she reallyisa ghost. I even consider not leaving my rooms tonight because the feeling has unnerved me so. I could sit and watch from my window and see if she waits for me—I’m half convinced her offering to meet me again is all part of some hoax—but in the end I can’t do that. If there’s any kind of caper at play, I’m old enough to deal with it.
I spend so long debating whether to go to the garden that by the time I leave my rooms it is already midnight and I have to run along the path to reach the gate. I arrive panting and completely out of breath. But I needn’t have worried—for there is Olea, just out of reach on the other side of the gate, her usual basket in her hand and her long hair swinging about her slender hips.
“You came,” she breathes, and the sound of her voice is like the first sensation of sinking into a warm bath in midwinter. I shiver. “I’m glad. I thought maybe you wouldn’t. I know it’s all a little bit strange, this midnight gardening.”
“It’s nice to have some nocturnal company,” I say truthfully. “I always seem out of time with the rest of the university. Nights are my favourite.”
I lean my shoulder against the wall while I catch my breath and watch Olea place another flower in her basket. She does it with such care; I want to touch the velvet petals, to feel what she feels as she lays it down.
“I didn’t ask you yesterday, but when you say you’re tending your plants—what are you doing? These flowers look happy enough, so I assume you’re not deadheading them.”
