Page 55 of Aïdes the Unseen
She snorted softly. Apparently not better enough for Irina. “You came all the way down here to ‘check metrics’?”
I didn’t answer, merely shrugged.
The dog lay nearby, watching. He seemed stronger than before. Sharper at the edges. His limbs didn’t quite move like a puppy’s. When he stood, it was silent, measured. Appearances could be deceiving after all, and who better to know that than I?
The puppy took a few steps toward me, not aggressive movement, just present. He put himself between me and Irina. A choice. His gaze met mine and I felt the tether again.
It wasn’t new at all. No, it was as old as I’d begun to suspect.
Irina knelt once more, though this time she did it to stroke behind the puppy’s ears, grounding herself with touch.
“Does he have a name?” I asked, curious.
“No,” she said, a wistful note in her voice. “Not yet.”
“Good.”
“Good?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Names bind. Better to know what you need before you do that.”
Irina tilted her head as the puppy mirrored the exact same movement. She glanced back down at the pitch-black animal, save for his single white paw—that paw was new. Something I tucked away to consider later.
“He doesn’t bark,” Irina said, more to herself than to me. “But he watches everything.”
“Some things don’t need to speak to be understood.”
That earned me a half-smile and a gleam in her sky-blue eyes. It was enough to stop all the breath in my body. “Was that poetic or ominous?”
I allowed myself the faintest of smiles, not that I could have contained it. “Both.”
She rose, but folded her arms. I didn’t think she was cold, but she was definitely unsettled. “You didn’t leave a name last time.”
“Didn’t think I needed to.”
“You still don’t.”
Amused at the bite in her words, I lingered. I should’ve walked away. Said something cryptic and made myself leave, then vanished into the humidity of the greenhouse. That might have let the moment fade.
That was exactly what I should’ve done. Instead, I stepped closer.
“Your soil composition shifted,” I said quietly. “Layer drift. The deeper trays, especially near the stem core.”
Her brow furrowed. “You read our data?
“No,” I said. “I felt it.”
She didn’t move, but something in her gaze changed. Caution giving way to curiosity. “You really expect me to believe you justfeelsoil layers?”
“Do you believeRegrowthblooms on instinct?” I answered her challenge with one of my own.
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
We stood there, a few feet apart, surrounded by plants that could feel heart rates and thermal loss patterns. The puppy didn’t interrupt. The leaves didn’t tremble. But the room wasn’t still. It waited.
“You’re not here about the plants,” she said finally.
