Page 50 of This Vicious Hunger
“Are you sure? It’s just… you seem different.”
Am I different? What I felt in the garden, what I have felt since… Have these feelings changed me? Or have they made me more of who I already was, who I’ve always been, the very wife Aurelio sought to twist into submission?
“Do I? You said that before.”
And then it hits me. I miss Olea, I miss her with such fire it licks at my bones, but I miss the garden too. Not as a person misses their friends, or their loved ones even, during a short separation—no, this is more like the grief after death. I miss them like I would miss breathing, with an ache so sharp it maims. Despite the illness, despite everything I have learned about Olea, I long to be amongst the quiet greenery—to study alongside her. I don’t want to be in this crowded dining hall; I don’t want to be here justifying myself to Leo.
Olea is toxic to the touch. I wasn’t sure, before, how I felt about that—but now I am. It isn’t her fault. It can’t be. I remember the way she avoided my question when I asked if the catalogue and the tower, her time in the garden, were her choice.What a question, she’d said. Well, that wasn’t an answer.
Whether the doctor knows or not what sickness has developed in her ward doesn’t really matter.Oleamust know about her condition, understand it a little; that is why she wouldn’t let me intothe garden at first, why she let our friendship unfold slowly, and at a distance, just as she bade me keep away from the plants until I’d acclimatised to them. It’s all about tolerance.
She is lonely. And sad. And resigned. What kind of a life is it? Beholden to science whether she likes it or not? But—I think with a jolt—Petaccia’s antidote research could save her. I wonder if this is part of the doctor’s plan. Whatever toxins flow in Olea’s blood, whatever sickness locks her in her poison paradise, a cure for all—it could fix everything. For her—and for me.
Only then will I know how much of myself, and my feelings for Olea, are real—and how much is the seduction of the garden itself.
I look Leonardo directly in his eyes and fix a gentle but firm smile on my lips. He doesn’t know it, and I’m sure he would hate it if he did, but he has helped me to decide.
“I promise, I’m fine,” I say. “Now, let’s eat before the food gets cold. Tell me about your week, I’m sorry I missed it.”
I am going back to the garden. To Olea. I am going to find that cure.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thora.”
There is so much longing in this one word, it seizes my guts and makes my blood pump hot and thick. I am breathless from my walk to the garden, grateful for the moonlight. I’m still not recovered from my fever, my lungs aching and my limbs weak.
“Olea,” I say.
She ushers me into the garden, but there is hesitation in her movements, a jerkiness I’ve not seen before. I try to reach for her, to draw her to my chest; I want the crush of our lips, the heat of her skin on mine. And I know Olea wants the same; I can see it in the tension in her limbs, the tautness of her jaw.
I inhale, the sweet bitter greenness filling my lungs. It smells like home, but then—not quite. There’s an acrid tang that follows, settling on my tongue. I’ve been away too long. I—
Something in my body screams in warning, that old haziness clouding my mind and my vision. I stagger, leaning against the wall for support.
“Are you okay? Thora—Thora, look at me.Look at me.”
I see Olea’s face through the flutter of my eyelids. She doesn’ttouch me, but with her as my guide I stumble through the plants and along the dirt paths until we reach the tower. I have never been this close before. It is taller than I thought. I sink down at its base and rest my back against the sun-warmed stone, still baked from the day’s heat. My chest heaves and I have to take long, deep breaths to calm my slamming heart.
“You should leave,” Olea says, panic lacing her words. “The garden—something’s happening. I can’t let you—”
“Just. Give me a few minutes,” I squeeze out.
Olea sinks into a crouch, knuckles white with tension. Her beautiful face is distorted with worry, but as my breathing finally begins to slow and my dizziness abates, her brow smooths and her dark lips soften. I wipe my lips, the sweat from my brow.
“Better?” she asks softly.
“Yes.”
“Good. You… you haven’t been to see me for so long. I thought…”
“Olea.” I let out a sigh. “Petaccia told me about the antidote you’re working on. I’ve seen her labs. I know everything.”
“Oh.” Olea hugs her knees to her chest. “So that’s why you’ve been gone. You understand more about me, then.” It isn’t a question, but I nod anyway. I wipe a hand over my face again and it comes away damp with fresh sweat. I feel as if I have run the length of my father’s sepulchre after a mourning, my mouth dry and ashy. “When you didn’t come back after… I thought maybe you wouldn’t come ever again. I was worried it was because…” Her eyes are locked on my lips and I feel that now-familiar pulse of desire within me. I want nothing more than to touch her, to kiss her. I don’t move. “Then I started to think maybe you’d realised—it isn’t safe. I warned you. I wanted so badly for you to ignore that warning, and I should have been more forceful.”
“I needed time away from the garden.” I don’t want her to feel guilty but she must understand that none of this is simple.
“You needed to be away from me.” Olea rocks back on her heels. “I understand.”
