Page 11 of This Vicious Hunger
“Oh really?” I raise an eyebrow. “Perhaps you’d better consider some form of retribution. It seems wholly unfair for you to be the sole keeper of such a secret. Have you considered writing a letter of thanks? Or posting a piece in the papers?”
Leonardo’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing—not in anger or annoyance, but something else. It isn’t a delicate expression, though. There’s a warning there. Then he takes another sip of coffee and releases another sigh, this one more theatrical than the last. A smile flits back over his lips, forced but not false, and I understand myself, and Leonardo, better already.
“Alas no,” he says. “Sadly the secret is all mine now. Nobody else wants it.”
The reason I’m hesitant around Leonardo has nothing to do with Petaccia, but it is the same reason the other scholars avoidhim—though I’m not sure they know exactly why he makes them so uncomfortable. It isn’t because he is soft, or strange; it’s not because he is too gentle—though he is—nor is it because he’s mean beneath that gentleness. The reason is also the reason I am holding home-brewed coffee in my hand, my attention half on this man and half on Almerto’s lecture, warmth in my chest and pity there too. It is a reason I see myself in him, and I’m sure he sees himself in me.
Leonardo is grieving.
The lecture ends with the ring of a small gong that echoes around the amphitheatre-like hall, and Leonardo catches my eye as we get up to leave. I give him the smallest nod and we trudge together in silence to the same spot outside where we first spoke. My head is spinning.
I’ve never heard the theory that most medicinal plants have origins in cool oceanic regions and that’s why we see few of them truly thriving in Isliano’s mountain heat, but it makes sense. It scares me, too, that I’ve never noticed before how sparse common herbs like cattlethorn and amber grass have become; my father used to burn amber grass with mint for the cleanse after a grieving, but at some point he started to substitute that with double doses of mint, and although I often quizzed my father about his plants, I never thought to ask why.
“Are you seeing stars too?” Leonardo asks.
“Stars and moons and whole universes.” I shake my head. I wonder if Petaccia knows all this and wants me to learn it, or if she wants me to report back like a little spy while she’s busy with her own work. “I just can’t understand why it’s not talked aboutmore widely. Surely there’s the potential for huge problems if the supply chain dries up.”
“It’s what Almerto wants us to work on together,” Leonardo confesses. “The academy in Romeras are trying to come up with plans for what happens if we have another influenza like the Fourth-Decade one; half of the counsellors think that the modern medicine will be enough—they’re expecting breakthroughs in the next few years with some sort of synthetic vaccine or antidote—but others maintain we ought to have a backup and it doesn’t make sense to funnel all our research away from tried-and-tested methods.”
“So Almerto is trying to fearmonger the scholars into switching their studies?” I wrinkle my nose. “That seems like the stupidest way to get clever people to care.”
Leonardo shrugs one shoulder and lights his customary cigarillo. The smoke from it is grey against the bright blue of the sky, its scent at once sharp and earthy. An image of Aurelio flits, unwelcome, across my brain: my husband smoking in the library, his feet up on his desk, a funeral summons in one hand as he told me, without punctuation or pause, that my father was dead.He’s dead. You can give him three days, if youmust, but no more. I need you here.
He’d not even tried to comfort me.
“It’s not fearmongering if it’s based in truth, is it?” Leonardo continues. I shake the memory with a physical shiver. “That’s how he adopted me—he read a thesis I wrote on the decline in wildling flowers in my hometown back when I was a first-year.”
“Fearmongering is exactly what it is when you’re lecturing a student body that largely doesn’t have a clue about botany.” I wipe the sweat from my palms onto my skirts, wishing I hadn’t finishedLeonardo’s coffee so quickly. “It would be better if he encouraged the scholars to open their minds first, rather than grubbing them to support him when they don’t even understand the severity of what he’s talking about.”
Leonardo sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he agrees, “you’re probably right. But you have to consider that half of these men have never considered botany as a serious science—and most of those have decided firmly against it once they realise it’s a wo…”
I quirk my eyebrow and Leonardo hesitates. “What?” I prompt. “A women’s issue? Just because they’ve all decided that medicine is only the real deal if somebody is bleeding doesn’t mean there isn’t a crossover that’s spanned centuries.”
“Look, you know as well as I do that most people don’t consider what we do a serious science, regardless of its medical history. Just look at the way some of them flinch when Petaccia’s name comes up.”
“But you do,” I point out. “So why even say it? You know it’s not true. I’ve never been more convinced than in this last week that any scholar would take the subject seriously if they actually attempted to learn it. There is more to botany than horticulture and pretty flowers; it is the very essence of life, isn’t it? There’s evidence that plants were here long before we were, and I’ve no doubt they’ll exist long after the human race is gone. As much as the scholars in their terra-cotta towers would wish to deny it, plant medicine and taxonomy benefit us all.”
“I’m sorry,” Leonardo apologises, and he looks genuinely stricken. “You’re right.”
“Relax, Leonardo. I’m only teasing. I mean, half teasing, anyway. And only because I know you can take it. I’d actually love tospend the next hour discussing all this, but I’ve got another class to get to now.”
When Leonardo smiles it’s crooked and his whole face shifts. There’s that childlike quality again that it momentarily lost in sadness. If the other scholars could see him like this, I wonder if they would keep such a distance from him.
I push away from the wall in the shade of the trees and feel the immediate burn of the sun on my shoulders and the back of my bare neck. I should buy a hat—but I know I won’t; I’ve enjoyed the freedom since I got here and I’m reluctant to go back to hats and shawls, although it would be proper. The other scholars already find me strange just by virtue of my being a woman; I might as well make the most of that.
“What would you say to dinner tonight?” Leonardo blurts. I stop, half turning. “There’s a little place I know just off campus; it’s not far and I can get a trap for you…” He trails off.
Petaccia’s warning echoes unbidden like the ring of a bell. But I don’t think Leonardo is trying to poach me, to rush me into a marriage or anything so silly. I think maybe he’s just lonely—and I like his company. There’s something refreshing about him compared to the other stuffy men in this place. Still, there’s being kind and there’s being naive, and I want to avoid the latter as much as possible. If marriage taught me anything, it’s that men will say a lot of things to get what they want.
“No,” I say after a thoughtful pause. “Thank you.”
Leonardo’s face falls instantly. There’s something still quite childish about the expression—it isn’t petulance, though, not like it would be in most men. It feels gentler. More like regret.
“I’m so sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you or be impolite—I just thought… That is… It’s been a while sinceI had a dinner companion. It would be nice to talk to you more… about science.”
The stammering is so different from our usual banter that I hesitate, torn between laughter and sorrow. Have I made a mistake? I don’t want to upset Leonardo, but Petaccia’s words have stuck with me. I’m not here for marriage. Is that what Leonardo is hoping for? It didn’t feel like he was proposing some sort of date or trying to twist my arm. But who’s to say his remorse is genuine? Perhaps he’s trying to make me feel guilty.
After all, that’s what Aurelio would have done.
