Page 14 of Bane Bloom

Rather than white like an English water lily, the petals were the color of antique sterling spoons that had been scrupulously polished, their brittle, bright gleam crossed with delicate black veining. Leaning closer, I saw that the stamens, too, instead of yellow threads, were bright silver filaments. Whatever this was, it was unusual and certainly arresting.

“Can I assist you in any way, Miss Gray?”

I jumped at Thomas’s voice; I hadn’t heard him come in. He lurked in the doorway, which appeared to be a habit of his. It made him seem wary, and uneasy.

“Oh,” I said, a breathless note in my voice. “I was just getting acquainted with the glasshouse.”

There was really no need to explain myself, but my earlier thoughts about his situation had left me with a feeling that I was invading his home.

“Mmm.”

I was growing used to his noncommittal noises. His expression, too, was neutral. His eyes were always slightly narrowed, like he was pondering something, and I wondered whether he might need spectacles.

“Now you’re here, though,” I said, “I wanted to ask you about this flower.”

I gestured at the pool—and my hand froze in midair.

“That’s a water lily, Miss Gray,” said Thomas.

I blinked several times, confused. There was no strange flower. Only the standard English water lily, creamy white and perfect, tinges of pink at its center—which I’d sketched at least a dozen times and would recognize anywhere.

“I . . .”

After a moment or two, Thomas asked, “Are you well, Miss Gray?”

I looked at him. “Of course. Only . . . I thought I saw a very different flower in the pool. But it’s not there now.” I glanced again at the lily, realizing how foolish I must sound.

“You’re fatigued from the journey, is all,” he offered matter-of-factly. “May be best to take it up again when you’ve had a chance to settle in.”

His manner had changed from earlier. I wouldn’t have gone so far as to call it warm, but his advice was sensible and seemed well intentioned.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“Go upstairs and rest, if you like. I’ll see to your supper tonight.”

I felt my brows lifting. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Still his expression didn’t change. I rose from the chair and gathered my sketchbook and pencils. Fatigue had indeed set in—so much so that I wondered whether I would even make it up to my room.

Thomas held open the glasshouse door, and I walked inside, into the cooler air of the sitting room. I went to the stairway and began to tread heavily up.

He followed me to the bottom. “Watch your step, Miss Gray. The stairs are steep.”

I could feel his eyes on me until I reached the top.

Chess

I woke from strange dreams that faded too quickly for recall. They had left an impression of lurking shadows and murky water.

Confused at first about where I was, I sat up in bed, my gaze coming to rest on the window and the body of water beyond. Pine Cottage. Buttermere. Fog still blanketed much of the view, but it was yet light out.

I lifted my watch pendant, rubbing a finger over the cricket engraving on the silver back. This had become a tic of mine over the decade since my father had given it to me; I often rubbed it when nervous or thinking through something, and the raised areas of the engraving always shone from constant polishing, while the rest had blackened with tarnish. A wonderful, whimsical little indulgence, it had an extra hand that could be positioned so that when the hour hand reached it, the watch emitted a cricket-like chirp.

The pendant had been payment from a Swiss gentleman whose portrait Papa had painted. I’d never seen anything like it and had insisted that we sell it, but Papa was so hurt by this suggestion that I gave up the idea. Now I thought I might be lost without it.

Lifting the clock face closer, I saw it was half past six—perhaps an hour of daylight left. I’d slept for several hours! The journey had indeed been fatiguing, but exploring the cottage and glasshouse had seemed to revive me. I supposed the warmth and the comfortable seat—perhaps even the scents of the botanicals—had combined to create a sedative effect.

Yet how odd for my mind to have so tricked me about the water lily. Despite being an artist with a fondness for whimsical subjects, I was hardly prone to fanciful imaginings. On the contrary, I thought of myself as clear thinking and practical. I’d had to be in order to protect Papa and myself from his more extravagant impulses. And taking over his slapdash bookkeeping had required an orderly mind.