Page 43 of This Vicious Hunger
“Make it scientific,” Petaccia returns coolly. I don’t argue.
“It stopped moving first. Then it started to blacken, the leaves first and then the vine itself. The whole stem went part translucent and part black, like it was cooking over a high heat. And then it crumbled to ash.”
Petaccia says nothing for a second. She sips her coffee. She leans forward to inspect the desk where I’ve been gesturing, and into the pot with the withered, blackened remains of the stem. And then she surprises me completely.
“Interesting,” she says.
“Interesting? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“Well, words aren’t going to make it un-happen.” Petaccia shrugs but her face is shrewd. “You say you were holding it at the time?”
“Wrapped around my wrist like normal.”
“And you didn’t tug or squeeze or trap it in any way?”
“No, I even checked.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s good.”
“Is it?”
“Good that you checked, I mean,” Petaccia says quickly. She gazes somewhere behind me, running a finger along her jaw while she thinks. She looks tired. This surprises me—in all the weeks I’ve known her I’ve never noticed her looking any different. She is always harried and slightly unkempt, but I’ve never seen such dark circles under her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I know it doesn’t mean anything for me to say it and words are cheap, but I truly am. I honestly don’t know what happened. I was so shocked I’ve not even cleaned up; there’s ash everywhere.”
Petaccia’s smile is unreadable and it doesn’t reach her eyes, but there is some warmth there, and as always that flicker of curiosity. It’s almost as if she’s seeing me for the first time. I want to cry but I blink furiously until the threat of tears is dulled.
“These things happen.” Petaccia gets to her feet, slopping coffee over the side of her cup. “Part of all of this”—she waves her hands at the laboratory—“is accepting that failure does and will happen, and that success isn’t linear. There is always an element of fate, or luck, or heavenly intervention—or whatever else you want to call it—at play. Now, wipe your eyes, the lab is no place for tears, and get out.”
“Ma’am—”
“For goodness’ sake, Thora, I’ve told you to stop calling me that. I amnobody’smother,” she snaps.
“I’m sorry, but please don’t throw me out. There must be some way I can make it up to you.”
“Make it up to me?” The doctor’s sudden laugh is harsh and foreign and it makes me jump. “Girl, I want you out of the lab so I can catch up.”
“You’re not angry?” I swallow my pleas, my cheeks flushing. Olea was right. I should have listened and now I’ve made a fool out of myself.
“I’m not. As long as you have told me everything.” She pauses. “You have, haven’t you? Told me everything?”
“I…” I think of Olea’s pleas, her insistence that I keep my visits to her garden a secret. Guilt threatens to capsize me, and for a second—just one second—I consider opening my mouth, but then I think of Olea’s lips on mine, the press of our bodies, the heat deep within my core, and I know I can’t tell the doctor. I nod instead. “Everything I can think of.”
“Good. Now, get out and leave me in peace for a while, will you?”
I wince. “All right.”
I make to take my barely drunk coffee to the sink, but Petaccia waves me off with a hand. “Leave it,” she says. “And the ash. Enjoy the rest of your day off because tomorrow we begin again. I’ve got alotof thinking to do, and I’m going to need your help.”
I leave La Vita with my head spinning and my stomach gnawing itself in knots. I can’t help feeling that despite Petaccia’s positive outlook on things, I’ve somehow managed to fuck this up so irreparably that she’ll have to give up on me.
I’m ravenous, and sick, and dizzy with pining for the coolness of the garden. This heat is stifling, it isunbearable, but I can’t think of anything worse than returning to my rooms, where I canseethe garden but I can’t touch it—can’t taste its sweet bitter greenness on my tongue. The sunlight burns my face as I cut across the campus; it’s quieter today, most of the scholars returned to their usual studies in the dim lecture halls and classrooms, hidden away from the baking heat. Petaccia has left no lectures for me, and I don’t feel much like pawing my way through any of the histories I’ve been reading. My mind is simply too full of bees.
Still, I’m surprised at where my feet carry me. The library is just as daunting and exciting as it was when I first entered. I’ve had most of my books delivered to my rooms or the laboratory—it’s easier than trying to find a private study area according to St. Elianto’s rules—and I haven’t had the time for any other reading since I started. Today, though, the library’s cool halls and hidden nooks call to me.
I slip into the building silently, wasting no time crossing the atrium and climbing up to the mezzanine. My appearance still garners more attention than I’d like around the campus, but at this time of day there aren’t many scholars to pay me any mind, and those who do quickly go back to their reading. I stride in my trousers, grateful to Petaccia for her insistence on them, and head up another spiral staircase.
I’m not looking for anything in particular, not any section or author or theory. I don’t want to read about politics or philosophy or science, I can’t think of anything worse right now than filling my head with morethings, but I’m burning with exhausted energy. I continue to walk because if I stop I will simply collapse.
