Page 36 of This Vicious Hunger
“Like what?” I throw up my hands uselessly. “Cosmic intervention?”
“Amongst other things.” Olea’s amused smile is almost worth the pain. It lights up her whole face, her dark lips standing stark. It is only now that I notice them, how purple-red and plump they are. I have always assumed they only looked that way in the moonlight, a trick of the shadows, but she is even more beautiful by this hazy light of early evening.
“Other… things?”
“Like acid, I suppose,” Olea continues. If she notices me staring at her lips she doesn’t say anything, but she must be able to see me—I can’t stop myself. “Vinegar maybe? Did you have anything on your hands?”
I think back. I’d eaten lunch not long before, but I doubt the rye bread and soft cheese could have caused such a reaction. I shake my head.
“What about sweat?” Olea tries then. “Perhaps your sweat was salty and when you touched the plant it transferred.”
“Salty enough that theParuulumvirtually caught fire?” I scoff, trying to punctuate my words with a laugh. It comes out as more of a grimace and Olea’s expression flickers in response.
“How about… something from the garden, then?”
“Like what?” I repeat my earlier question. If it was obvious, surely I’d have thought of it by now.
“You’ve not taken anything out of the garden, have you? Any blooms or pollen?”
I recoil at the suggestion. “No! I wouldn’t do that. You said—”
“All right, all right,” Olea soothes. “I was only asking.”
“Wait.” My stomach lurches. “Do you remember… the flower you gave me as a token?”
Olea stills. “You took that with you?”
“I thought—since you gave it to me… I thought that would be okay. I wanted…” I trail off. Would Olea understand if I told her why I took it? “Do you think that could have done this?”
“Did you touch it?” Olea asks. Her expression is a mixture of worry and again that same open curiosity. Her gaze flicks from my face to my hands, then her face melts to a softness I can’t pinpoint.
“No, never,” I swear. “I carried it with my clothes and it’s been on my desk ever since. I haven’t even been back to my rooms since this morning.”
“It’s—it’s okay. It was only an Ophelia. They’re a little troublesome, can cause some nasty stings, but they’re only risky with prolonged contact.” Olea’s shoulders bunch and then relax as she smiles. “I’m surprised you took it, though.”
“How could I not? It was a gift—from you.” I tremble as I say it. It’s the closest I’ve come yet to telling Olea how I feel, and even this is dangerous. What if she doesn’t feel the same way? Worse: What if she tells Petaccia, and she thinks I’m some sort of pervert?
“I…” Olea’s smile falters and then widens—and it’s like the moon between clouds, bright and cool and good. “I’m glad it made you happy.”
I rub my hands over my face, cheeks burning, exhaustion threading through me. “What am I going to do?”
“I would say try not to worry about it. There’s a lot you haven’t told me, and I assume, given—Florencia—there’s a lot you likely don’t know. Maybe it had a life cycle, or maybe it was all part of her thesis.”
“Wouldn’t she have told me, though?”
“Maybe.” Olea shrugs. “Maybe not. She’s… difficult, sometimes. Anyway, there’s no use bolting the door after the horse has left the stable. Isn’t that what they say? You might as well wait for her to return before you panic.”
“I’m already panicking.”
“I know you are. I know.” She smiles. “But all I’m saying is try not to. And maybe…” She trails off. I wait for her to speak, but it’s a long minute. I breathe in the greenery around us, feel the blood singing in my ears slowly reduce to a gentle flow. “Maybe this is a good thing,” she says finally.
“Good?” I can’t help the crack in my voice. “How can this be good? You sound like Petaccia. She’s always on about how science is about learning from mistakes and failures. Does anybody ever stop to consider if we shouldn’t be making these mistakes in the first place?”
Olea doesn’t answer. Instead she begins to pace. The shadows from the tree branches flicker across her face, one way and then another, and I stare. Everything seems farther away here. As the moments trickle past, the laboratory seems so hazy and distant I could almost forget about it. Olea is right: Here in the garden, what does it matter if I fail? What does it matter about anything at all? Anything except her—
“Come with me,” Olea says suddenly.
“What?” I blink. Olea has pulled the shawl up over her head once more, its fringe framing her face. Her dark lips curl, her cheeks rounded and tinged with faint pink.
