The shine of her new position had rubbed off a bit recently. Working with Dr. Maxwell was perfectly fine, though researching plant pigmentation didn’t particularly inspire her. But she had never planned on being his assistant forever, and had wanted to earn a place in the department so she could do her own research as well as teach, like her father had. The reception she’d received upon being hired was less than warm, and Berking’s actions the past few months had made her question her plans more than once. He was a relatively young department head and had decades to torment her. He would be inescapable, and she would require his approval for all her work. Could she really bear to have her career in Berking’s hands?
Another sigh escaped Saffron’s lips. All this business with the police and the poisoning was making her morose.
Resolving to be in a better mood, Saffron set aside her concerns and cracked open Annals of Botany, Volume 34, to resume her note taking.
* * *
Several hours later, Saffron was ready for a break, both from examining texts and from wondering where the professor had gotten to. He and Dr. Aster had likely gotten caught up in a debate again and were holed up in Dr. Aster’s office. She’d half hoped to see Mr. Ashton—Alexander—again, but he hadn’t turned up either.
Eager for a change of scenery, Saffron put on her coat and hat and made her way out of the North Wing. The conservatory at her grandfather’s estate, where she grew up, filled with her father’s impressive private collection, was nothing compared to the university’s multitude. The five greenhouses contained an extensive collection of plants from all over the globe, and though she had no official business to take her there, that was where she went.
Situated in a small park one street away from the Quad, the long glass buildings stood out from the squat brick buildings bordering the green. Condensation fogged the panels of glass and obscured the trees, ferns, and vines inside. Saffron pushed the door to the first building open and the humid air, heavy with the scents of loam and the fragrance of a hundred exotic blooms, wrapped around her, as familiar and comfortable as a favorite jumper.
At the old worktable across from the door, Saffron slipped on thick pair of leather gloves and tied on an apron. She didn’t require her short, mud-caked boots, lined up next to the others.
A wizened man stumped toward her through the greenery. His steel-gray hair was scraped over his ruddy forehead, his clothes worn and smudged with dirt beneath his leather apron. “Everleigh,” Mr. Winters said by way of greeting.
“Hello, sir. How is the ziziphus?” Saffron asked, noting a few jagged cuts crisscrossing his perpetually dirty hands.
“Just has more thorns by the day. Don’t know why they care about the ruddy thing! Waste of space and fertilizer if yer ask me,” he muttered.
Saffron looked fondly at the old man. Mr. Winters was a groundskeeper turned greenhouse minder in his old age. He expertly cared for every plant that could be reasonably found in Europe, but took audible offense to caring for the exotic plants that filled in the greenhouses. Privately, Saffron thought he wouldn’t mind them so much if he would wear gloves. Despite the thriving biology department, which encompassed botany and a handful of other disciplines, the greenhouses were not a popular place, perhaps because of their curmudgeonly caretaker.
Saffron made her way through the other greenhouses. She observed a few new aerial roots descending like thick ropes from the largest philodendron. One of the larger cacti had a black spot on one arm, another seemed to be nearly ready to flower. Her wandering steps brought her to the back of the largely unoccupied greenhouse, the last in the row. The entire back wall was covered with vines spreading like a yellow stain. She stepped closer to examine the heart-shaped leaves, pointing down at the floor with sharp tips. At their widest point, the leaves of the xolotl vine were the size of her palm, though she was sure she’d read in Maxwell’s research that they grew to the size of a man’s entire hand in their natural habitat. Her stomach dropped as she examined one of the lower vines. Above one of the scaly brown nodes, a clean cut had sliced off a portion of the vine. It was recent, given how the pale flesh hadn’t yet scarred over.
Mr. Winters was still in the first greenhouse when Saffron returned her gloves and apron. He was elbow deep in a trough of dirt, grunting as he turned it over to prepare to transfer the tray of sprouts next to him.
“Have you seen Dr. Maxwell today, Mr. Winters?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I haven’t. Came in the other day, but he comes and goes every few days.” He tugged his arms out of the dirt and tenderly picked up a sprout.