Page 61 of This Vicious Hunger
“To wilt? Yes. I’ve always suspected it might happen,” Petaccia says, “but so far the bouts of sickness have been few and far between, definitely not as pronounced as these days with you. I suppose nobody else ever spent so much time with her.” She shrugs. “I started to suspect you might have something to do with what was happening. A symbiosis of sorts. It’s a long way from a provable hypothesis, of course, but you’re not a dimwit, Thora, surely you can understand. The garden has a strange hold over her. It doesn’t want her to leave. You’re a threat to that—and therefore a threat to it.”
I falter. I came here to demand answers from the doctor about Olea’s future, about the antidotes. I wanted to know if what Olea said about her friends beyond the gate and their deaths was true. I feel as if I’m drowning and can’t find the surface. Nobody speaks plainly in this damnable place and I’m so tired of it.
“I won’t visit her any more, then,” I swear.
It isn’t planned. In fact, as the words leave my lips I regret them, a screaming panic filling their void. Yet, I also know that I’m speaking the truth.
“I won’t go there again if it hurts her. I don’t care about the research if it’s putting her life at risk. I didn’t sign up for any of this, Doctor. I can’t stand by and watch as innocent lives are lost in this pursuit.”
“No…?” Petaccia’s expression has gone coy. “You wouldn’t risk one life to save millions?”
“It isn’t working!” I shout. “For god’s sake, can’t you see that? What good is any of this doing? We’ve nothing but failure to show—”
“Ah.” Petaccia raises a finger and waggles it, cutting me off. “Now, this is where, for once, failure isn’t failure.”
“What do you mean?” I drop my hands to my sides, tiredness snaking through me. Just that small outburst has exhausted me, and I long, absurdly, for the peace of the garden.
“Olea’s illness isn’t so black and white, I don’t think. I’ve been watching her—and you. Yes, I know. I’m a vengeful old crone who deserves everything she gets.” She rolls her eyes. “But I have a theory.”
I shake my head, refusal making my whole body rigid.She’s mad, I think. And the fresh truth of the thought shocks me.This is utter insanity.Petaccia cares more about the possibility of this achievement than she does Olea—or me, or herself, or anyone. Even if she succeeds, when the truth of her discovery comes to light—when the academy hear of her methods, her behaviour, hercallousness—will this pain and sacrifice be worth it? Before I would have said yes in less than a second, but today it is Olea’s face I see, contorted in agony, her body twisting in my bed, and I’m no longer so sure.
“I don’t care about theories,” I say sharply. “I won’t continue to hurt her—”
“I think there is a different conversation we should be having here.” Petaccia rolls her shoulders, rising to her full height. It’s only now I realise how much bigger than me she is, how strong. I’ve no doubt she could crush me if she chose to. “My theory is that Olea’s relationship with you has the potential to unlock another core level of understanding in how toxins in the body function as part of our system. It’s clear, thanks to you, that removing Olea from the garden isnotthe way forward. And it was beginning to show that your presence in the garden had its own impact. Theimportant thing is I need to develop greater understanding of why Olea’s sickness has progressed in this way when otherwise she is more hopeful, dedicated, and happier than she has ever been since you arrived.”
“You talk about her as if she’s not even human,” I seethe. “You can’t make me be involved in any of this. If my presence is a danger to Olea, then I refuse to go into the garden again. Isn’t that my right? It doesn’t matter if you make me leave the university.”
“No,” Petaccia says simply. “That’s not acceptable.”
“How many times do I have to say I won’t be involved in this?” I growl.
Petaccia is as quick as she is strong; her hands dart out and she grabs a hold of my shoulders before I can react, pushing me backwards until she has me pinned against the wall.
At first I’m shocked, unable to react. And when I do try to move, she shoves me again, hard.
“Thora,” Petaccia says, warning in every syllable. “Don’t test me. I think I’ve been more than patient with you. I thought I made it clear that we are partners and partners are supposed to trust each other. I made no fuss about you visiting Olea in the garden behind my back, and didn’t even have a problem with you trying your own antidotes—but taking her from the garden? And now your refusal to assist me in fixing the mess you’ve made? That, my dear, is one step too far.”
I spit in her face.
Petaccia continues, entirely unperturbed. It’s unsettling how little she cares what I think. “Olea will need somebody in the garden with her. Especially if she is as weak as you say she is. And I need you to monitor her health. My suspicion is that your presence has a wilting effect—but the girl is too precious to the garden. Idoubt the sickness will progress past a certain point. It’s a punishment more than a concrete threat.”
“And why, exactly, would I do anything you say now?” I say angrily.
“Oh, I have a few reasons.”
The calculation in Petaccia’s voice is new. Different than the annoyance or her anger. This is pure coldness and it stops my own anger in its tracks, leaving me filled with icy fear.
“Did you think I wouldn’t have some sort of insurance policy, Thora? Do you think I would invite merely anybody into my lab, to share my work? I might care about empowering female scientists, but not at the expense of my magnum opus. And I might have known your father, but that was thirty years ago.”
“I…” I didn’t think. I did not think.Thora, you stupid, stupid girl.“Why me?” I whisper, meek now.
“I know about the library,” Petaccia says. And those five words change everything. I know, instantly, that she is not talking about the book I stole from the library here at St. Elianto. My skin crawls with the memory I have fought so hard to box away. Like my grief, I have tied it with a ribbon and forbidden myself from ever peeking inside again. Oh, but my dreams, they keep the score. “I know, you’re probably wondering why I would bring amurdererinto my research, but I think it makes for a very interesting conversation, don’t you?”
“I am not a murderer,” I say, but my voice wobbles.
“I think perhaps that’s a normal response, though I see the flicker in your eyes, my dear. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know a coverup when I see one, and I am very, very familiar with guilt. I know the official story, that your dear new husband was killed during a planned purge of his private library due tospace.” She chuckles. “I’m also familiar with the family story.”
I swallow hard. My mouth is dry as the dirt in the plant pots in that window bed, and my heart pounds with surprising tenacity. I’m half surprised it doesn’t give out entirely.
