Page 41 of This Vicious Hunger
In this garden, tonight, I have been made anew.
Chapter Twenty-One
Olea rouses me just as the sun is beginning to creep over the horizon, painting the garden in shades of dusty green and gold. The grass is damp around us and there’s a delicious chill in my bones, welcome after the days and days of endless heat.
I yawn and stretch. The skin on my lips blisters and cracks, an iron tang leaching into my mouth. Olea is crouching a little distance away, her nightgown pulled down over her knees and a smattering of crushed leaves in her lap.
“You’d better get back,” she says, brushing her hands clean. There is a shyness in her that wasn’t there last night. She peers up at me over thick lashes. She looks soft and relaxed and gentle. “You’ll miss breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say. And I actually mean it. I can’t remember the last time I woke without that gnawing hunger in my belly, the desire to gorge and gorge until my whole body feels leaden with food.
“You still might be yet. You missed dinner too.”
Olea’s crouch deepens and she reminds me of one of those wild children the newspapers love to sensationalise; her curls aredew-damp and loose, her feet bare and dirty. I resist the urge to check my fingernails for the same dark stain as hers. In the end, what does it matter if mine are black too?
“You’re avoiding things,” Olea goes on. “I can tell.”
My chest hollows. “Am I?” I think she means last night. The kissing. My lips tingle at the thought. I don’t want to avoid anything—
“I know it’s uncomfortable, but I’m certain it will be better for Florencia to hear it from you, rather than arriving back to the lab and finding it—gone.”
Gone.Dead, in fact. The guilt swoops through me. Yes. I should be thinking about the doctor’s vine, her ruined experiment, and my failure of responsibility. Instead all I can think of is the doctor’s ward, the heavenly way she tastes and how badly I want to kiss her again. I clear my throat and clamber awkwardly to my feet.
“You’re right,” I say briskly. “But…” I pause, a sudden thought coming to me. “Olea. Do you think I should tell the doctor I’ve been in here, in the garden?”
Olea blinks, her face otherwise entirely still. “Why should you do that?”
“I… I don’t know. You asked about—if I took something out of the garden. What if something, some pollen or thorn or dust, like from that awful tree, what if it got on my skin or my clothes and I took it to the laboratory by mistake?”
“You didn’t, though.”
“How do you know? You asked the question. I’m just saying…” I lick my lips. “Why is it such a secret that I come in here to see you? I’m sure the doctor would approve of our—of, of…” I don’t know what this is—or what we are.
Olea clenches her fists against her knees. “No,” she says darkly. “No. I’m not allowed visitors.”
“Why? I’m not just a random visitor,” I argue.
“As far as Florencia is concerned, you are. She rarely visits the garden herself. It’s—it’s its own biome, a complete ecosystem. Her experiments don’t factor you into them. She wouldn’t want you in here. You could ruin everything just by being here, don’t you understand?”
“I…”
“Oh, Thora.” Olea reaches out to me and grasps my hand, squeezing it tight. My fingers tingle painfully. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. It’s just—Florencia and I have worked so hard to create this place, to culture and nurture it, and she’s so very protective of it. And me. Youdon’tunderstand, but this isn’t like her other work.”
“I don’t understand because you won’t tell me.”
“No.” Olea’s expression shifts to sadness. “I know. I wish I could, but—not yet.”
“What if she can smell it on me, though?” I ask. “I know the garden has a scent.”
Olea thinks a moment. “If she does, just tell her you’ve visited the wall—like before. It isn’t a lie—or at least it doesn’t have to be if you tell it carefully.” She wrinkles her nose. “But… I don’t think she will notice, or if she does she might assume it’s from her own clothes maybe. I don’t want you to lie for me, Thora. I’m just saying maybe don’t mention it to Florencia if she doesn’t bring it up first, not over something like the vine. When we bring you into the experiment, we want it to be on positive terms, don’t we?”
I still have no idea what the experiment is. This garden is a wonder of toxins and poisons, a veritable treasure trove of death,but still I cannot see why there is the need for such secrecy. They are, at the end of the day, just plants.
But at the same time, I want it. Iwantto be included; I want desperately to be a part of whatever this experiment might be. So until Petaccia invites me in, I’ll keep Olea’s secrets.
“You look tired,” Olea says. “I’m sorry. I’ve kept you awake again and you’ve got such a long day ahead. You should—why don’t you stay away from here tonight. Get some sleep.”
My chest tightens, regret and a new kind of grief pricking tears at my eyes, but Olea adds quickly, “Come back tomorrow night instead. The garden trusts you now. Please don’t stay away.”
