Page 22 of Bane Bloom

Reaching the entryway, I glanced into the dining room. My plate and goblet still rested on the table, but I decided to leave them, too, for the morning, and I went upstairs and dressed for bed. Seated in the armchair before the hearth, I dragged a brush through my hair, smoothing tangles both on my head and in it. My fire was cheery and my room snug. Maybe I had let the glasshouse’s shadows and these voices from the past too much into my thoughts.

Tomorrow I shall remedy that. I had business here, and it wasn’t with the Banes.

But as for the Bane Bloom . . . if this glasshouse contained a new or rare species, I should think it would indeed be of great interest to Mr. Harding and the apothecaries. If I introduced the Society to the Bane Bloom, would they be more likely to consider admitting me? Harding had made it clear this posting was a trial.

Obtaining a sample and making a detailed sketch must be my top priority.

Yet I must do it, if possible, without Thomas noticing. Even if he’d had nothing to do with Mr. Carroll’s disappearance, I still believed he was concealing things about both my predecessor and the Bane Bloom. And it could hardly be a coincidence that the two times I’d caught a glimpse of the elusive flower, Thomas had appeared a moment later. The man was a brick wall that I’d likely be more successful going around than through.

My reinforced resolve left me feeling much steadier, and at last I climbed into bed. Tomorrow, things would be easier. Clearer. I was sure of it. Getting on with my work would banish these phantoms and bring me closer to my purpose in coming here.

I felt like I’d lived three days in one today, and drowsiness came quickly. But before I dropped off, the words of Prudence Bane drifted into my mind:

Never beg such knowledge in desperation.

The thought was followed by a cry in the night, coarse and strange. An animal of some kind, perhaps an owl. But I was so near sleep I wasn’t sure that I hadn’t imagined it.

A Huge Mistake

I rose before the chirp of my watch with a plan fully formed. I would first assess Mr. Carroll’s work, and then I would spend most of the day filling flower presses. After that, I had a notion to return to the bluebell glade we’d passed through yesterday. It had made quite an impression, and it was in easy walking distance.

Because Mr. Harding had misled me, I reasoned with myself, I should feel free to devote some of my time here to my own work without any need to feel guilty about it. A bluebell fairy would be a perfect addition to my herbal, which I intended to complete whether or not the apothecaries wanted it. It was my only currency toward securing my and Papa’s future, and I believed that people would buy it. If the Society rejected my proposal, I’d find a publisher for it myself.

In fact, as I was dressing for the day, an idea of expanding my herbal to multiple volumes came to me. The Fairy Herbal series might contain The Kitchen Herbal (for culinary herbs like rosemary and thyme), The Field Herbal (for edible and medicinal plants like nettle, dandelion, and yarrow), and The Poison Herbal (for the plants most closely associated with darker English lore).

Inspired by Mr. Bane and his daughter, I would include lore in all my plant descriptions, but I would appeal to a general readership by keeping descriptions short, with the focus on detailed and richly colored illustrations. They’ll make a Pre-Raphaelite of me yet.

The more I considered this idea, the more I came to think the series might not be for children at all, but something society ladies might gift each other and entertain themselves with in their salons and tearooms. Mr. Harding’s subtle scorn for “lady botanists” notwithstanding, the study and illustration of flora was really the only scientific hobby deemed appropriate for women.

I could picture it in my mind—ladies in colorful tea gowns, surrounded by towers of cress sandwiches and cakes, paging through my herbals and planning picnic outings to sketch wildflowers and look for fairies.

Inspired and excited by these new ideas, I found it challenging to work up much enthusiasm for the first task on my list. In a way, I even dreaded it, as it only reminded me that a man was missing, and no one seemed to know or care much about what might have happened to him. Yet it also occurred to me that in going through Mr. Carroll’s work, I might find more clues about that. Maybe Thomas hasn’t managed to burn everything.

But as there was no indulgent Nancy here to have toast and coffee waiting, my real first task of the day would need to be breakfast.

When I reached the dining room, I was dismayed to discover that my dishes from the previous evening had been cleared. I suspected Thomas already viewed me as helpless—a weak city dweller who required his help to survive here—and allowing him to cook and clean for me only reinforced that notion. The cleared dishes also meant Thomas had come into the house without my being aware of it.

I made my way to the small kitchen, which contained a cookstove, pantry, and worktable. The room stuck out from the back of the house, and I wondered whether the Banes might have added it. Pine Cottage was old enough that at some point the cooking was likely done on the hearth.

Noticing half a dozen eggs on the cold stone, and a bowl of fresh, dewy cress on the worktable, I softened toward Thomas.

A variety of pans hung from the ceiling, and as I was selecting one, I thought I heard voices outside. I stopped to listen, and a moment later a knock sounded on the front door.

I went to open it and found Annie Foss waiting, a basket over her arm. “Good morning, Miss Gray,” she said. “I hope you’ll forgive me for dropping in unannounced. I thought you could use some provisions.”

“How very kind of you. Please come in.”

When I’d closed the door behind her, she said, “Have you had your breakfast?”

“I was just about to make something.”

“Why don’t you let me do that this morning, now I’m here?”

“Oh, please don’t trouble yourself,” I said quickly. “I can only imagine how busy you must be. But I could make us a pot of coffee before you go—if there is any, and if you have the time.”

“There is now,” she said, raising the basket. Her gaze glinted with friendly defiance. “I insist. We can continue our chat. Unless of course it’s not a good time, and in that case I’ll be on my way.”

The unexpected visit had lifted my spirits, and I found myself teary over her thoughtfulness. Smiling, I replied, “I’m happy to see you again so soon.”