Page 37 of Hollow

She takes it, her fingers brushing mine. They’re cold as ice, as usual.

“Like this?” she asks, making tentative circles with the pestle.

“Harder,” I say. “You need to break down the cell walls to release the compounds. Put your weight into it.”

She tries again, pressing down with more force, her thin wrist flexing with the effort. It’s still not enough, but I don’t push. She’s trying.

“The secret’s in how you blend them,” I explain, measuring a dropper of alcohol tincture. “Too much valerian and you’ll be groggy all day tomorrow. Too little and it won’t touch the nightmares.”

“How did you learn all this?” she asks, stillgrinding. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing they teach you in gardening school.”

“There’s no gardening school.” It isn’t really an answer. “My father taught me the basics. The rest I figured out myself. Trial and error.”

“On who?”

“Mostly me.”

She stops grinding, looks up at me. “You have trouble sleeping, too?”

There’s something in her expression—not pity, more like recognition. I don’t like it.

“Sometimes.” I take the mortar from her, check the consistency. “This needs more work.”

I place my hand over hers on the pestle, guiding her movements. Her skin is cool against mine, but there’s warmth underneath. Blood still pumping despite everything her body throws at her. It’s impressive, in a way.

“Like this,” I say, pressing down with her, showing her the right motion. “Circular but with pressure on the downstroke.”

We work together for a minute, the crisp smell of herbs rising between us. I’m standing too close, and I can feel the slight heat from her body, see the pulse fluttering in her neck. I should step back, but I don’t.

When the herbs are properly ground, I remove my hand and reach for a small pot.

“Now we heat water,” I say, filling the pot from a jug. “Not boiling. Just hot enough to open the compounds.”

I set the pot on my camp stove, turn on the flame. Briar watches, her arms wrapped around herself again.

“Cold?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Always.”

I grab an extra flannel shirt from the hook by my cot and hand it to her. “Here.”

She looks at it, then at me. “You don’t need to?—”

“I’ve got others. Take it.”

She puts it on over her cardigan. The sleeves hang past her fingertips. She pushes them up, revealing her bony wrists with their tracery of blue veins.

“Thanks.” For a second, she looks almost normal, merely a girl borrowing a guy’s shirt on a chilly evening. Not someone who killed a man last night.

The water’s heating, sending up wisps of steam. I add the herb mixture, stir it with a wooden spoon.

“So,” she says after a moment. “Viktor’s looking for you specifically?”

“According to Flint.”

“What will you do?”

I shrug. “Nothing. I’m the gardener. I work here. Nothing unusual about me being around. I’ll just avoid town for a bit.”

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