Page 34 of Bane Bloom

Twilight deepened. Glancing back at the house, I noticed the windows were dark. I hadn’t lit any candles yet, and the fires from earlier had all but burned out. Best to go back now. I didn’t relish the idea of fumbling around in the dark for matches.

What on earth had happened to Thomas? Up to now, I’d hardly been able to turn around without bumping into him. Maybe he’d gone to the village for some reason. Glancing toward the stable, I couldn’t see the pony in the yard, but she might well have gone inside for the night. I felt a stab of envy imagining Thomas sitting in the comfortable inn, hunched over a pint of ale, maybe even enjoying the company of some of the local people.

But that was a fantasy. Annie had made it clear the villagers avoided the people of Pine Cottage.

Turning to walk back, I glanced once more at the stream. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught some movement on the other side, near the lakeshore. I studied the stark lines of the pine trees there, and the thicker woods on the other side. The movement came again.

A creature, pale as the moon, was slowly walking toward the stream along the water’s edge.

Phantom

A head came up, and a tail swished—a horse. Not Thomas’s pony—she was dark, and smaller. Probably a neighbor’s.

We watched each other a moment, and then the animal turned and galloped off through the pines. I started back to the house.

In the sitting room, I went to the mantel for a box of matches. Groping around in the dark, I knocked something over and muttered an oath. Finally I found the box and lit a candle. The object I’d disturbed lay on its side next to the candlestick—a bisque horse figurine.

Coincidences were becoming suspicious in my current state of mind. But that’s all this is. I righted the figurine and began lighting the other candles.

As I lit the candelabra on the pianoforte, I felt cold air drafting through the casement. I stepped over to close it and saw that the clouds had broken up enough that the lake was washed in the light of the moon. It hadn’t risen high enough to see from this west-facing window, but judging from its shape the previous evening, it was likely full tonight.

Recalling that last night the Bane Bloom had appeared in the moonlight, I turned and hurried to the dining room for a sketchbook. The samples I’d collected today still sat at the end of the table, and I’d need to move them to the presses soon, before they wilted or got too dry. But I might not get another chance like this.

Having no desire for a repeat of last night’s swoon, I entered the glasshouse and crossed quickly to the outer door and opened it. Looking over the ground, I found a chunk of brick close to the glasshouse wall and used it to prop the door open so some air could circulate. I would have to be quick so as not to chill the plants.

My heart skipped as I approached the pool and saw it. Layers of rounded petals like dove-colored velvet that had been brushed until it shone, the black veins contrasting starkly.

I sat down and began my sketch, penciling my lines quickly, as if the flower were a dragonfly that might lift into the air at any moment.

As I worked, a plan took shape in the back of my mind. I would keep the illustration compact enough to easily post, and I would send it to Mr. Harding, along with a letter describing my observations of the shape-shifting flower and inquiring whether he’d ever encountered it before.

At worst, he’d solve the mystery for me, and I could go on about my business undistracted. At best, he’d take note of how seriously and responsibly I had taken to my task. And of the fact I’d discovered something possibly of value to the Society.

With the specimen before me rather than working from memory, I soon managed a sketch that satisfied me well enough. I spent a few more minutes on smudging and shading, then filling in around the bloom with its broad, round leaves. Finally I sat up, rubbing my neck and studying the plant for any details I might have missed.

The light dimmed suddenly, a cloud having obscured the moon again. The Bane Bloom vanished with it, leaving the lily in its place.

In the entry I’d read on hellebore in Plant Lore of Britain, Arthur Bane had written that the flowers were believed to glow in the moonlight if they marked an entrance to Fairy. Today I’d read in Prudence’s diary that her father’s glasshouse gradually became a place of overlapping worlds.

Might this plant exist in two worlds? The lily in our world, perhaps, and the hellebore-like bloom in another? It sounded like something out of a children’s story. Yet with each passing hour here, it became more difficult to find the line between fantasy and reality.

And I didn’t at all like the way this felt.

Focus on the work.

Quickly I got up and closed the outer glasshouse door before going back into the house. I carried my sketchbook upstairs and set it on the desk. The sun rose early at this time of year, and the light in my room was very good. I could add watercolor to the illustration in the morning.

Next I fetched my cuttings from the dining room and took them up to the main bedroom. I lit every candle I could find to give myself enough light to work, vowing not to save this task for so late tomorrow.

The entryway clock had struck eleven by the time I’d finished with the presses. After I’d put out all but one of the candles, the room filled with so much smoke that I cracked open the casement. Looking out at Thomas’s hut, I still saw no sign that he’d returned. I searched around the shoreline for his boat, but it wasn’t in view. It could be tucked on the other side of the hut, where it had been the first time I’d noticed it. But what if he’d gone out, and something had happened to him?

Thomas was at ease on the water and very likely could swim, but a feeling of dread took hold of me as I remembered how easily I’d gone into the lake. And how cold it had been. Thomas owed me no explanation of his comings and goings, but I couldn’t help feeling that if he had expected to be gone for some hours, he would have mentioned it.

I retrieved my candlestick from the bureau, glancing at Arthur Bane’s unsettling portrait, and hurried downstairs and back out into the night. The air was cold enough to bite now, and I held my shawl closed with one hand.

When I reached the hut, I checked the other side, breathing relief to find the boat there, overturned on two sawhorses.

Knocking on the door, I called, “Thomas? Are you there?”