Page 42 of This Vicious Hunger
She stands, the fragrant crush of leaves in her lap tumbling to the grass, leaving a patina of the garden on her dress. Her voice is urgent. “Youwillcome back tomorrow, won’t you?”
My appetite doesn’t return for breakfast. I’m too anxious for Petaccia’s return; I sit in the laboratory, watching the slow tick of the hands on my wristwatch and listening to the building settle around me. Without the vine, the room feels empty. I know this is ridiculous, and almost certainly a result of the ebb and flow of my guilt, but still I jump at every small noise, catching the scent of the garden in my hair though I’ve dabbed it liberally with rosewater.
I get up and check my reflection in the small mirror over the sink. My skin is grey tinged from poor sleep rather than its normal golden tone, my hazel eyes shockingly dark. The smattering of freckles across my nose reminds me, sickeningly, of the ash of theParuulum. There’s a small speck of blood at the corner of my lip, and I wipe at it impatiently. Despite all this eating I’ve done recently, I think I’ve lost weight—I can see it in the sharper jut ofmy cheekbones and around my neck. Olea is right. I need to sleep tonight, to get some proper rest.
I wash my face with cold water, scrubbing at my lips and at my hairline, where normally sweat would be beading already. Today the heat in the lab doesn’t feel so bad, as if my night in the garden and the cold that leached into my bones are insulating me against it. Hopefully Petaccia won’t notice that the cuffs of my creased shirt are stained with grass, and that the seat of my trousers is dusty with the garden’s dirt. I don’t want to lie to her, but I will if I have to.
Another noise from below startles me. There are a lot of noises, I realise. From the gentle whistle of each gust of wind outside to some unknown ticking and clicking somewhere beneath me in the building, La Vita is not silent like Olea’s garden. Its thick green scent and muggy heat feel artificial, too, like a paste spread too thick. I can’t quite put my finger on it but the laboratory feels almost like a facade, like the real work is missing from this picture, and then the guilt becomes real once more. Petaccia’sParuulum aridais dead… what if she no longer needs me as her partner?
I think myself into such a spiral of doubt and panic that by the time the doctor arrives at just after eight o’clock I am sweating profusely and the room stinks of it on top of its usual heavy scent. It is mildew and dank soil combined with dust and heat and gently seared leaves. I’ve tried to hide it the best I can by brewing a fresh pot of coffee, but I can still smell it.
I leap out of Petaccia’s chair at the desk and clasp my hands in front of myself like a schoolchild. Petaccia seems a little surprised to see me, but she recovers quickly.
“Thora, my dear. How have you enjoyed having the lab to yourself?”
“Hi, ah, it’s been—well. Did you have a good trip?”
Petaccia drops several bags by the door and closes it behind her. First she strides to the window and checks the temperature on the gauge there, then each of the little black seedlings, none of which look much different, each wilted and sad but still growing. Then she turns back to the desk and my stomach lurches. I’m going to be sick. I’m—
“What happened?” she demands. Her eyes flash and she steps closer. “It’s gone?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did something happen? Did you change anything?”
“No!” This comes out as a yelp and I swallow hard, trying to unstick the words I’ve practised from my throat. “No, I didn’t… it didn’t…”
Petaccia closes the final steps between us. She’s studying me hard, her gaze darting from my face to my clasped hands.Guilty, I think.I look completely guilty.I need to do something, say something. I can’t keep standing here like a naughty child.
“Thora,” Petaccia says sternly.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Sit down. I’m going to make us both tea—no, coffee’s on the go so we’ll have that—and you are going to tell me everything.”
“I…”
“Everything, Thora. This is serious. Do you understand?”
I fight the tremble in my limbs, clinging to Olea’s advice and reassurance from last night. This can’t be the end. I won’t let it. But my knees are weak and they betray me; I sink into the chair and rest my head in my hands.
When Petaccia brings our drinks over, I snatch mine before she can place it on the desk, my mind imprinted with the image ofthe vine as it withered, blackened, and turned to ash, nothing left but dust motes in the sunlight. The coffee is thick and black and sludgy. Petaccia sips at hers, taking the seat across from me—the very one I sat in for our first meeting.
“Well?” she says coarsely. “Tell me.”
I sip gingerly from my own mug, nearly gagging as the bitter liquid clings to my tongue and burns my throat. It is like chicory, harsh and raw. Now that I’m seated, my hands are still, my limbs unshaking, my panic over. Olea was right: I can do this.
“It wasn’t my fault. I did everything you asked. I watered only the plants you said, did all the prep and wrote up the notes. I wore gloves for all of the small work and made sure to change pairs so there was no cross-contamination—”
“I didn’t ask for excuses,” Petaccia cuts me off. “Just tell me what happened.” Her features are so sharp they could cut glass. I can’t read her expression.
I take a deep breath. “I didn’t do anything unusual, is what I’m saying. Everything was fine. And I took the gloves off to handle theParuulum, just as you said it prefers. I held it for perhaps… an hour? If that? I was writing up some more notes. I don’t know if any ink got on the vine, or if I got anything corrosive on my shirtsleeve, but one minute everything was normal and the next…”
The memory of it is surprisingly painful. I might not have cared for the damn thing, but I’d started to see it sort of like a pet. And the fact that it wasn’tmypet almost makes it worse.
“And the next?” Petaccia prompts. She’s crossed one leg over the other and rests her chin on one hand while the other clutches the top of her mug. Her eyes are dark and thoughtful, and maybe a little damp. The sick feeling twists in my belly again and I’m glad I didn’t eat breakfast.
“It just sort of… died? I appreciate that’s not very scientific.”
