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I glance down at where his hand lies on the desk—his skin is tan and clear. In slow motion, I move my hand over his. We both watch it hover in the air before I slowly drop it to his smooth, hot skin.
I barely register the feel of him before he pulls it away like I laid a hot poker on him. When he looks up at me, his nostrils flare angrily.
“Don’t. Touch. Me,” he enunciates loudly. “Leave.”
I jump back several inches, my hand landing on my chest over my pounding heart. My breath comes out fast, and sick disappointment swirls in my stomach as I slowly back away from the desk, not taking my eyes off his face.
“I’m so sorry,” I squeak, but he’s not listening.
He shakes his hand as if flinging off my touch before looking down again, sipping his coffee nonchalantly.
When I reach the door, I turn, fumbling clumsily for the knob before slipping out into the hallway.
It’s all I can do to hold myself together. But as soon as the door clicks closed, I sink to the floor.
Hugging my knees, quiet but violent sobs shake my body as tears run down my face, hot and urgent. There’s a loud crash from inside the study, but I barely register it—I’m so wrapped up in my own grief.
Seconds pass, and my ghost urges me to get up before Noah catches me. But I can’t move. All that pining, wishing, and dreaming in my bed the last couple days.
It was for nothing.
He doesn’t feel anything for you, my ghost hisses viciously. Stella’s right. You’re pathetic.
I don’t notice Gran until she’s standing right over me. Releasing a sob, I can’t keep the tears from falling as I look up at her.
She sniffles once, but her expression is blank when she reaches down, pulling me up by the arm with a surprising amount of strength.
I think she’s going to yell at me, but when I stare into her faded blue eyes, I don’t see anger.
I see pity.
“Stupid girl,” she grunts gently, her gnarled fingers dancing over my long braid. Sighing, she turns and waves me forward. “You need a cup of tea.”
I nod in agreement—what else can I do? But as I move toward the kitchen, I notice that’s not where she’s leading me.
No, bypassing the kitchen door, she turns down a long hallway that ends with a single door.
The greenhouse.
11
The Smell of Sadness
Hetty
I never liked the greenhouse.
Maybe it’s because Stella and I were forced to spend so many hours there with Gran and Isolde.
Among the gravel rows lined with shelves of potted plants, herbs, and flowers, we’d giggle while they put us to work picking lemon balm leaves or grinding echinacea petals. Sometimes, we got lucky, though—they’d forget all about us, and we’d play elaborate games of make believe or hide-and-seek.
But those times were few and far between, and despite the smattering of happy memories, it’s always been shrouded in a certain mystery—maybe because I never quite understood Gran and Isolde’s fascination with herbal remedies.
You should appreciate the gifts of the earth more, Gran frequently told me. Sometimes, they’re a beta’s only defense.
But I couldn’t make myself care. I longed to drink something other than musty tea or to go a day without having some smelly oil or lotion rubbed on my body or hair. So, to spend an afternoon in the greenhouse was like icing on a disgusting, herb-infused cake.
That said, it’s no wonder that immediately upon entering the steamy, glass room, I’m overwhelmed with a need to escape somewhere that doesn’t smell like this.
