Allegra ate and ate, and grew strong. Boundless thanks to Sophie, whose access to a seemingly endless supply of food sped the Oracle’s recovery. Also Allegra’s own resolve, as she gained strength, to give one last performance in their village. The proceeds from it would promote her equestrian venture. Dr. Minyard pronounced Allegra well enough to return to her aunt’s house and resume her mediumistic work, although he still hadn’t been apprised of his patient’s imminent reinvention of herself. This worried Lavender; she felt Varn Minyard ought to be told, for he clearly possessed more than a passing interest in his patient.
The village was again all talk of the Oracle. How she’d virtually risen from the dead, like a lady-Jesus. The tales spun more wildly as winter clicked along. But, the Crier hee-hawed, the Oracle needed time to restore her strength fully; the date for the Mystical Extravaganza hadn’t yet been announced. They should tune their ears to him, oyez, oyez—he’d horn the news first. “Let him think it, silly chap,” Mrs. Clement Rose tittered to Lavender in the butcher shop. “The man is a boob, a mere soggy echo of common knowledge.” Hestie Buck had been heard on the streets hurrahing that since Miss Trout had been herself so near death, had practically crossed to “the other side,” she’d surely have much to impart at her upcoming show of mediumistic marvels.
Dr. Minyard arrived at the house on Pinnacle Street to oversee Allegra’s departure (though Lavender thought that was hardly necessary). Robert stood, in a nervous posture, by the fainting sofa, in case his assistance was needed; he’d go back to the Sawdust Flats with Allegra. Lavender made sandwiches of pickled beef tongue for them, herself and the doctor, who rested by the fire with his sandwich. A winter thaw softened the village and his spirits were high. He seemed in no hurry to expedite his patient’s release. In the horsehair chair, Robert enjoyed his sandwich, calling it the most satisfying luncheon in the world.
Having finished his lunch, the doctor withdrew a book from his jacket pocket and gave it to Robert. “I believe this volume is yours, Sir? I return it to you now—Leaves of Grass.”
So happy was Robert to hold the book again in his hands, he seemed close to tears.
“What’s all this about, Robbie?” Allegra asked, her mouth full of pickled tongue.
Robert cleared his throat. His voice a deep, lovely bell: “I sold my copy of Mr. Whitman’s poetry to that bookseller, Mr. Becket, and the little savant was most pleased to have it, I might say, for copies of it are scarce in these parts. With the money, I purchased a dictionary of floral language.”
“What? Flowers? Whatever for, Robbie?” At least Allegra had swallowed her bread by this point.
“To learn more of their meanings,” Robert said, turning his gaze to Lavender.
“But you love Leaves of Grass,” Lavender said. “It must have pained you to part with it.”
“Indeed, I felt the marigold’s grief, the rue’s rue.”
Allegra sat, her full beauty restored, on the fainting sofa. “Ah, Robbie, you knew the whole blasted grass-leaf book by heart anyway. You could recite it from memory, so what need had you of it?”
“The point eludes you,” Robert told his sister-in-law. “Yes, I’ve committed much of Mr. Whitman’s volume to memory, but it was having it with me, on our tours, the palpable feel of it, in my pocket or hands, the fineness of its leather-bound cover, the elegance of its typography—it has been my companion, my sole comfort, my best friend.”
“Doesn’t say much for me,” Allegra snuffled.
Dr. Minyard had been listening, amused. He turned to Robert Trout. “Sir, if I may ask, what drove your burning compulsion to educate yourself on floriography?”
Robert appeared rattled, especially as they all stared openly at him. “I confess I believed that my demonstrated knowledge of floral meanings might ingratiate myself with Miss Fitch.”
“I knew it!” Allegra carped. “Saw it from the moment we stepped off that train last summer.”
Laughter seized Lavender. Ingratiate? More mirth rippled through her, and she had to grasp the mantel to avoid tipping over. Everyone’s stares shifted from Robert to her.
“I knew the book was yours, Mr. Trout,” the doctor said, steering the focus away from Lavender’s oddball merriment, “because your name was penned in it. I was curious about it myself, so I bought it. After reading it, I supposed you might like it back.”
“My deepest thanks to you, Dr. Minyard, for I’ve missed the book sorely,” Robert said. “What is your opinion of Mr. Whitman’s poetry?”
“Strange stuff,” the doctor said.
Allegra excused herself to change her clothes in the upstairs bedroom, and after a few moments stood in the parlour in her own clothes, and those boots; and, like the illusionist she was, no one would have guessed she’d hovered near death’s gate. And though she looked well, Dr. Minyard cautioned her against overexertion. She shooed away his warning, and said she knew herself, and she’d stand on that stage showing her mediumistic powers soon enough.
The truth was, by that point she could have convinced Varn Minyard to dance about the village with fish sprouting from his head. But he played the stern doctor, saying he’d be monitoring her health closely in the coming days. And he’d decide whether she, still under his care, was fit to perform at her Mystical Extravaganza. He’d hired a horse and sled to take her and Robert back to the Sawdust Flats. But he must hurry away, other patients awaited; the winter months, he sighed, never failed to deliver outbreaks of ague and influenza.
Illness had planted seeds of courtesy in Allegra Trout. She thanked Lavender—briefly—for “the sofa on which to rest.” For Dr. Minyard, rose petals rained down from the ceiling: “Oh, Doc, words aren’t enough for my gramercy to you! Words just aren’t!” Though more words gushed forth: the doctor was her rescuer, her saviour, her hero, the best Samaritan a poor sick girl could hope for!
Quite flowery, Lavender thought, those petals from the Oracle’s floral-averse tongue. And, to be fair, Allegra’s show of gratitude to Lavender resided in plush swatches of red velvet that would rise again as bows and pincushion hearts.