Page 49 of This Vicious Hunger
I glance down, seeing the faint imprint of Olea’s fingers carved in blue-green on my left breast.I know where those are from.
The sight of them is too much. The memory of her hurts like an ache—I toss myself onto the bed and lie, arms outstretched, until the heat leaches from my bones and the sickness stops its crashing inside me. How much of what I feel for Olea is real? How much of it is the natural, unnatural magic of the garden? I am drawn to her like bees to pollen, but how much of the enchantment is mine and how much is hers? Am I only an addict, rooting for my next fix?
More hours pass. I roll on my side and read more from the book I stole from the library. Whereas before I chose my favouritechapter, now I read from the beginning, as I once did in secret in my husband’s house, determined to purge myself of all thoughts of Petaccia and Olea and their unnatural, incredible science. I must become myself again—I must start anew.
I don’t know how long it takes. Hours. Days. At first Olea is all I see, in the curl of the book’s text, in the shadows of the darkened room. Her lips, her eyes—and then her panic as the bird fell, dead. The sun and moon become the tick of my clock as I lie in sweating silence, waves of fever rolling over me, a withdrawal I never expected I’d have to endure. I finish the book, the first time skipping the scenes inside I know will make me ache for Olea—the second time reading them, touching myself, crying for her anyway. More than once I consider dragging myself to the garden, to her. But I don’t.
A new week begins and I do not consider the lectures I must be missing. They seem so paltry in comparison to this. Nor does Petaccia chase me for my presence. I am a ghost—she, lost in new potential discovery, and I merely a distant memory. That suits me well.
The fourth afternoon, I think, I’m roused by the flutter of a note underneath my door. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling cracks, feeling the gently receding heat of the day creeping around the edges of my shuttered window. My mouth is dry and a little cracked but no longer caked in blood; my eyes don’t hurt when I move them, and neither do my limbs.
I stumble unevenly to the stove to make tea, a pit of hunger in my belly but no more than would be normal after days without food and with little water. I drink a pint of the stuff, tepid and metallic, and shiver with relief as my hunger abates.
It is only then that I remember the note under the door. I openit warily, half expecting a letter terminating my scholarship with the doctor—a ridiculous thought, given what I now know about her research, but one that I realise still terrifies me—but it is from Leonardo.
Thora. Forgive my intrusion, I knocked but received no answer. I am worried about you. Ignore me elsewise if you like, but please, please just let me know that you are all right. You know where to find me. As you said, you still need to eat.
Yours,
Leo
I turn the note over, searching for… what? I don’t know. The warmth I feel at seeing his handwriting surprises me, and I realise with a jolt that I miss him. I miss the familiarity of his face. A pang of guilt swiftly follows. He has been kind to me since we met. I would be a fool to let his kindness go unappreciated. But now… I think of the ring Olea buried in the garden—for I’m sure now that’s what it was—and the thought plays in spinning golden circles in my mind.
If the ring was Clara’s, or given to Olea by Clara at least, that signals more than a short friendship gone awry. And if Clara treated Olea so badly, stealing the plants that belonged safely in the garden… Why did Olea keep the ring, and why bury it only after I asked what happened between them?
And, perhaps more importantly, how much did Clara know—about Petaccia’s research, about the garden, about Olea…? And how much does Leo know still? His warning tugs at me, a suggestion that if he does not know the truth, then he at least suspects it.
I can’t sit and ponder any more; I feel as if I am going mad. Idress in one of Aurelio’s gowns, soft peach silk, which I hope will hide the new pallor of my skin. I’ve lost so much weight that it hangs off me, but I’m right about the colour. My hair has grown past my ears in places and the peach makes it look burnished, like gold. I almost cackle at my reflection, wondering what Aurelio would make of me now.
I arrive at the dining hall just as the server is seating Leo at our usual window table. He sees me instantly and the relief melts across his face like butter, a reaction he doesn’t even try to hide.
Part of me is wary. This is where our friendship risks the kind of familiarity I can’t afford, and relief could so easily turn to more. I’ve not forgotten my revelation about the truth of his romantic feelings towards his wife, but I’d be a fool to assume he doesn’t still long for the kind of stability that another marriage could provide. I must tread carefully. Still, whatever his intentions, he is always kind, and I have so few friends. I’m pleased to see him.
“What,” he says thickly, waiting for me to be seated before pouring us both a glass of the dark red wine already on the table. “No trousers?”
“Not today.” I don’t have the energy to muster a witty comeback. We order our food and I sip at the wine, but it is bitter and ashy. I almost miss the way things tasted when I was visiting the garden. It was as if food was hollow and I was ravenous, but when I ate—oh, even stale bread was glorious. I know the way I feel tonight is closer tonormal, so why does it pale so in comparison to the hunger?
“Are you…” Leo leans in when the server has gone, his dark eyes earnest behind his glasses. He’s had a haircut since the last time I saw him. How long ago was that? A week? Without the lectures to mark my days I’ve lost all sense of time.
“I’m fine,” I say. It comes out with a caustic edge I don’t intend, but I try to soften it. “Honestly. I’m sorry.”
Leonardo’s gaze indicates he’s not so sure. He takes in the new cut of my cheekbones, the jut of my collarbones under the soft silk of my dress.
“I haven’t been well,” I explain hesitantly. I want, desperately, to tell him everything—about Olea, her kisses and her poisons, about Clara’s ring, about the doctor’s groundbreaking, impossible work—but…
Leo is my friend. He is kind and caring. I open my mouth and then stop myself. He might be my friend, but he is still a rival scientist and—a man. A vision of Aurelio comes instantly to me, his face, the book, the library.Fuck.I can’t tell Leo about Olea, can’t ask him what he knows without opening up about everything. I will not be vulnerable to a man like that again.
“I think I caught something last week. And then with running the lab, I guess I was exhausted. I’m feeling a lot better now. I just needed to sleep.”
“You slept for nearly a week?” Leonardo raises an eyebrow. “I was worried when you missed your classes. Did you need help? Why didn’t you send a note? Did you at least see a doctor?” He peppers questions at me as though he can’t help himself.
“I saw Florencia—Petaccia.” I shrug. “She’s a doctor.”
“Sure, of academic medicine. She’s not a physician.” Leo’s lips thin.
I’ve never noticed before, but I see it now clear as day. Leonardo does not like to talk about Dr. Petaccia. He applauds her achievements, but he doesn’t respect her. He’s just like the others, grousing about her as if she got where she did by accident, not design. Last week I would have been angry, but now… part of me—only a very small part, a tiny speck of doubt at the back ofmy mind—wonders if the scholars are at least a little bit right. Petaccia is a genius, sheis, but I know there’s a fine line between genius and madness, and her secret research treads it with one foot on either side.
“It’s fine,” I say, impatience just beneath the surface. I didn’t come here to be grilled like some common criminal. WhydidI come? “I feel much better.”
