Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I should be more worried. Instead, I’m obsessing over yarrow because plants make sense. Plants don’t lie or hide bodies or organize search parties.
I check the text anyway.
VIKTOR ASKING ABOUT YOU SPECIFICALLY. STAY LOW.
Great. Just what I need.
I dump the struggling yarrow into my compost bin and grab my pruning shears. Might as well keep busy while waiting for this whole thing to explode in our faces. The herbs for tomorrow’s tinctures need harvesting anyway.
The greenhouse door creaks open behind me. I spin around, shears ready, before I realize it’s Briar. She’s standing in the doorway, backlit by the security lights that just came on outside, looking like she hasn’t slept in days.
“Sorry,” she says, stepping inside and closing the door. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
I set down the shears, trying to keep my face neutral. “You didn’t. I’m just jumpy.”
“Join the club.” She wraps her cardigan tighter around her thin frame. “Have you heard anything? Have you heard from Flint?”
“Yeah.” I move to the workbench, giving her space to come further inside if she wants. “It’s not good.”
She takes a few steps closer, glancing around like she’s not sure where to settle. She seems different here than she did at the party or even during the burial—less confident. The greenhouse has that effect on people. It’s my space. My rules.
“I couldn’t stay in the house anymore,” she says. “Every noise, every shadow. I kept thinking someone was watching me.”
“They might be.” No point sugarcoating it. “Viktor’s got half the island looking for his brother.”
“I figured as much. That’s why I came through the back way. Used the path behind the hedge.”
Smart. I nod, feeling a weird sense of approval. “Good. Better if no one sees us together right now.”
She moves closer to my workbench, studying the herbs I’ve been sorting—lavender, valerian, chamomile. Sleep aids. The irony isn’t lost on me.
“Will these help?” She touches the lavender sprigs with careful fingers.
“With what?”
“Nightmares.”
I observe her face—the dark circles under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. “Some. Not enough.”
She nods like she expected that answer. “Worth a shot.”
“I can make you something stronger,” I hear myself offer. “Not a cure, but it’ll knock you out for a few hours. No dreams.”
“I’d like that,” she says, still trailing her fingers through the lavender. “I haven’t slept more than an hour at a time since...”
Since we buried a body. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
“Here,” I say, motioning her closer. “I’ll show you how to make it yourself. For next time.”
She moves to my side, and I get a whiff of something clean and vaguely citrusy. Not perfume—soap, maybe shampoo. It’s distracting.
I pull out my mortar and pestle, then grab jars of dried herbs from the shelf behind me. “Pay attention,” I tell her, falling into teaching mode. “Valerian root is the base. Powerful sedative, tastes like shit.”
She almost smiles. “Noted.”
“Add passionflower for the anxiety. That’s this one with the purple bits. Then chamomile to smooth the edges.”
I measure each herb, dropping them into the mortar, then hand her the pestle. “You grind.”
She takes it, her fingers brushing mine. They’re cold as ice, as usual.
“Like this?” she asks, making tentative circles with the pestle.
“Harder,” I say. “You need to break down the cell walls to release the compounds. Put your weight into it.”
She tries again, pressing down with more force, her thin wrist flexing with the effort. It’s still not enough, but I don’t push. She’s trying.
“The secret’s in how you blend them,” I explain, measuring a dropper of alcohol tincture. “Too much valerian and you’ll be groggy all day tomorrow. Too little and it won’t touch the nightmares.”
“How did you learn all this?” she asks, still grinding. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing they teach you in gardening school.”
“There’s no gardening school.” It isn’t really an answer. “My father taught me the basics. The rest I figured out myself. Trial and error.”
“On who?”
“Mostly me.”
She stops grinding, looks up at me. “You have trouble sleeping, too?”
There’s something in her expression—not pity, more like recognition. I don’t like it.
“Sometimes.” I take the mortar from her, check the consistency. “This needs more work.”
I place my hand over hers on the pestle, guiding her movements. Her skin is cool against mine, but there’s warmth underneath. Blood still pumping despite everything her body throws at her. It’s impressive, in a way.
“Like this,” I say, pressing down with her, showing her the right motion. “Circular but with pressure on the downstroke.”
We work together for a minute, the crisp smell of herbs rising between us. I’m standing too close, and I can feel the slight heat from her body, see the pulse fluttering in her neck. I should step back, but I don’t.
When the herbs are properly ground, I remove my hand and reach for a small pot.