A veritable hothouse of plants awaited.
She stood at the top of a longhouse made of glass. Moisture slaked the walls, dripping in tumbling beads. Plants populated gardens both in the ground and above. Planters, hanging pots, shelves of starts barely peeking out of rich black soil. A permeating, earthy smell filled the air. She braced her hands on her hips, breathed deep.
“Well,” she drawled. “What have we here?”
A squeak of a voice came from behind her. “It’s a bloody greenhouse. Haven’t you ever seen one before?”
Isadora whirled with a shout. A muddied little boy stood back there. He had rickety, thin legs, arms almost too long for his lanky frame, and gangly teeth at odd angles. His wide eyes were bright, however, and dark as night. The black hair tousled on top of his head stood almost straight up. Dirt streaks marred his wrists, neck, and cheeks.
“Well, merry meet,” she said, hand to her fluttering heart. “Who are you?”
“Ean.”
Her eyes widened. “Ean? Oh, Max has told me about you.”
The lad’s suspicious gaze tapered. “You Miss Isadora?”
“I am.”
“So he did handfast someone?”
She hid a smile. “He did.”
“Huh. Thought it was a rumor.”
She motioned to the manor with a lift of her hands. “I’ve been here for almost three weeks. How have we not met yet?”
“I don’t go in the manor much. Just for food.”
“Why not?”
“Ghosts,” he said solemnly. “The place is haunted. Can’t you feel them?”
Isadora schooled back a laugh. “Ah, no. I haven’t observed that yet, though it certainly is an interesting place.”
He shuddered. “Many ghosts. I sleep in the stable. Ghosts don’t like horses. Sometimes, we have goats and they don’t like goats neither.”
“I haven’t seen inside the stable yet.”
He eyed her. “How long did you say you’ve been here?”
“Obviously not long enough. Tell me about this greenhouse, Ean. You take care of it? Clearly run by magic, if you’re growing starts in the dead of winter.”
He picked up a water pail at his feet. His other hand clutched soiled trowels and a rake. “Yes, to the magic. But only environmental magic, and it doesn’t work for every plant.”
“What does that mean?”
An exasperated eye roll followed. “Environmental magic!” he cried. “We heat rocks to keep it warm, and pour water on them to create steam for the plants. In the winter, we only plant tubers, because there’s not enough light for stuff like peas. Spells to deflect the cold. You know, environmental.”
“Right.”
“Mr. Maximillion lets me stay, so I keep the greenhouse. He likes to cook with fresh vegetables and spices. He works with some of the Network school teachers, too. So students come here to learn and test new spells and read grimoires for planting and herbology.”
“How very kind.”
“Not really. We want to know the good stuff, too.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve noticed he does love to cook. Do you want to sleep in the house? There are so many rooms.”
Ean shrugged. “Better than an orphanage, and I told ya. No. Too many ghosts.”
“Right.”
He motioned with a tilt of his head. “Down here are some flower starts, if you want to see them. Just tried ‘em out with Mr. Chen’s School for Boys. Two of the older blokes want to be gardeners, apparently. Supposed to be winter flowers that make your heart stronger, or something.”
“Sure.”
For the next twenty minutes, Ean trudged around the dirt-packed greenhouse, rattling off explanations and vexed sighs that deeply amused her. Roped off areas, fenced with meager wooden stakes and cut by even rows of hoed lines, filled the area. An impressive system of maintenance existed, not to mention organization.
One tall shelf above rows of vegetable starts held a book. She pulled it down. Brittle pages filled with small envelopes, glued with their backs to the paper, lay inside.
“Seed diary,” Ean said. “Miss Faye put it together a few years ago. We harvest the seeds from the previous year and keep them in there for the next year. Sometimes, at markets, she finds new seeds. We try to grow and replant those too.”
“Very self-sufficient.”
“Wildrose is a big manor. Gotta feed everyone somehow. Though, there used to be a lot more witches here than there are today.”
Isadora riffled through each page. The envelopes were neatly marked with what appeared to be a woman’s handwriting. Faye’s probably.
Caramine seeds.
Falfalla spice.
Watermelon salt.
Gourds, variety.
Isadora eyed Ean as she re-shelved the book. “Do you go to school, Ean?”
“Yes.”
“Max requires it?”
He shot her a piercing, annoyed stare that almost made her laugh. “Yes.”
“How did you find each other?”
Ean shrugged. “Dunno.” The way his fingers clenched until the knuckles turned white told a different story. She let the question go, curious about other things as well. Did Max often save other witches, or was it Wildrose? He said the manor existed as a sort of haven.
The Advocacy certainly asserted that.
“Hullo in there?”
Ean and Isadora looked up at the same time. A familiar head of bright red hair appeared at the door of the greenhouse. Charlie waved, stepped inside, and drew in a lungful of air.
“Earthy as ever,” he called, laughing. “Ean, you’ve done some impressive work, my boy.”
Ean beamed, illuminated like a candle.
Ah, how interesting.
Charlie gazed around, rattling off questions. Ean answered all of them, asked a litany of his own. Charlie answered each, carefully touched a few plants, cast several spells, taught Ean a few tricks, then looked at Isadora with an equally wide smile.
The lack of a stuttering, bumbling High Priest startled her. This self-possessed man ran their Network, thank the good gods, and remained an ever-elusive enigma.
He held out an arm. “Isadora, always so wonderful to see you. I came to see if you would be interested in going on a short stroll with me?”
Startled, she could only nod, accept his arm, and follow him out.
* * *
Snow crunched beneath Charlie’s feet as they walked across the grounds, toward the stable. Horses stood at a fence of thick timbers, their dark eyes curious and ears high. Charlie steered their direction.
“And?” he asked, breath fogging in front of him. “What do you think of our manor?”
“It’s lovely.”
“Odd, too.” His nose, tipped red at the end, wrinkled. “So many strange parts. Max mentioned you were diving deep to Wildrose’s secrets. You opened the nursery?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled. “I’m quite jealous. Tried for years to finagle my way in that room. My father never saw it, nor my grandfather. I believe a distant cousin of my father claimed to have opened it once, but no one ever proved it. She was half-mad with grief over losing a stillborn child, as family legends go.”
Her thoughts rushed to the sheaf of letters tucked in her armoire. “Do you know when the nursery was last used?”
“I don’t. Max knows Wildrose best. He’s read through all the stories and genealogies kept through the years. If he doesn’t know, it’s lost to history. Though, one might be able to piece it together, given time.”
“I don’t know how it allowed me—”
Charlie waved her explanation off. “It’s better not to ask, as Wildrose never explains. I’m happy that the magic of the manor approves of you, though I’m not surprised.”
The magic of the manor rang through her head.
Fascinating.
A bay horse trotted closer, giant breaths pluming free. She reached out a hand, caressed the soft velvet of its nose. It nickered, shaking its mane. Charlie laughed.
“Are you able to stay busy at Wildrose?” he asked.
“Yes, so far.”
“Do you have any plans for a job?” His head tilted to the side. “Working somehow?”
“Eventually, yes.”
He made a thoughtful noise in his throat she couldn’t quite interpret. For a long pause, neither said a word. The silence wasn’t awkward, nor warm. Conjecture over the High Priest rose within her constantly.
Who was he really?
Did he throw the wool over her eyes even now? If he did, how would she ever know or prove it?
“Have you seen the cemetery yet?” he asked.
The macabre question broke through her thoughts.
“Uh, no.”
“Come. I’ll show you the Dauphins. It’s a far lovelier place in the summer, I assure you.”
They crossed the lackluster grounds, crunching through frozen grasses and patches of snow. A leaden sky threatened to burst with moisture at any moment, and a warm fire with a cup of tea and a book sounded delicious.
Curiosity over Max’s closest confidante kept her pressing around a patch of forest at Charlie’s side.
Silently, they approached a fenced-off area, tucked into a tree line. The icy top of a pond darkened the ground nearby. Charlie led her to a creaky iron gate, which he opened. Stones and uneven pockets of earth and graves filled the ground. There must have been hundreds spread over a rather small area for so many.
He stopped, waved his free arm.
“The Dauphins.”
“So many?”
“Well, lost souls have always been drawn to Wildrose, some in their final breaths. A few witches they had to bury on top of others, just because there’s not much space. One day, Max’ll have someone expand the fence, I’d wager, but it would take quite a bit of work. When Mother died in childbirth with me, she slowed the usual expansiveness of the Dauphin name.” His eyes twinkled when he looked at her. “Dauphins typically had a lot of children.”
She smiled.
A dark feeling stole over her as she imagined, decades from now, her and Max lying side by side with gravestones of their own. Sickness filled her at the thought. She forced lightness into her tone, eager to escape the suffocating, cold place.
“Might we stroll to the road?”
Charlie leaped back to attention. “Certainly!”
As they headed toward the cobblestone path lined with dead rose bushes, Charlie’s arm tightened ever-so-slightly.
“How are things, Isadora?”
“They’re fine, Your—”
“Please, please.” He grimaced. “Not that. Not my title. When I come to Wildrose, I’m Charlie. Just Charlie.”
Smiling an apology, she nodded. “Charlie.”
“Thank you.”
“Ah . . . I’m still orienting myself to Wildrose, to the affairs of my family in Letum Wood.”
“To Max.”
Gently, she said, “To Max.”
He paused at the gravel path and released her arm as he turned to face her. She tucked her hand into her pocket, grateful to see him eye-to-eye. His freckled face and coppery hair proved a stark contrast to the day.
“And how is Max handling marriage, would you say?”
“Fine, I suppose.”
“Isadora.” A tone of chiding filled his voice. “There isn’t a soul in Alkarra that knows Max better than myself, a designation which I assume I’ll hand to you as time goes on. He’s a hardhearted menace, and those are his good days. How is it really going?”
Shocked, she could only stare at first. Eventually, that wore away. She sighed.
“He’s been accommodating and kind and thoughtful.”
“But?”
“But . . . I think he’s afraid to touch me. A kiss is rare. There are gestures of affection but . . . I want to know that he loves me before we decide whether we should remain handfasted. With words. Yet . . .”
“He won’t say the words.”
“No.”
“He never has, you know.”
She lifted a dubious eyebrow. “Never?”
Charlie’s lips turned down in a thoughtful purse. “Not that I can ever recall. Nor do I think he’s heard them.”
“That doesn’t make it impossible for him to speak them.”
“Not at all.”
Her irritation ebbed. “But it does make it unlikely.” She gazed past Charlie, to the strangely motionless ribbon of forest ringing Wildrose. The manor stood stalwart behind them, the ever-present flames issuing from the gargoyles on the top floor again. What started and stopped such snarling creatures?
“Unlikely doesn’t mean never,” he said. “Max might need a bit more time than others.”
Isadora chuckled ruefully. “I have been known to hurry witches along my own schedule.”
“Same,” he remarked with a cheerful smile. He sobered. “I came today to offer my help, should you ever need it. Someone to talk to when Max is too irritating to endure. I’ve felt that way before, sometimes. It helps to have another witch that loves him to . . . vent to, I suppose.”
She laughed. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll take you up on it.”
“He loves you, Isadora. Let me reassure you on that count, as his brother. I commend you for taking the time to figure out whether or not you would work as a couple, and ask you to be patient with him.”
Isadora met his steady gaze. Love filled his eyes. She may not know if she understood Charlie, but she did like him.
“I will.”
He held out his arm a final time. Snow spit from the clouds, falling in hard spurts. “Then let me escort you back inside before it grows too cold out here. One never knows what lingers in the forest.”