Page 55 of Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore
“I’m honored to make use of them,” she said softly. “And let me know if you’d like me to grow anything in particular. I’m still getting the hang of squash—Pru said my last attempt tasted of cinnamon.”
“Was she complaining? Pru loves cinnamon.”
Violet’s laugh was clear and sweet as ever. “No, she was inquiring as to whether harvesting the seeds from that particular squash would growmoreof the same flavor.”
“That sounds like my sister.”
“She said something similar,” Violet divulged. “About your father’s love for the vegetable garden.”
“That’s because it’s true. Neither of us liked seeing it fall to disorder last summer. And I suspect my mother would be pleased that the greenhouse is being used for growing plants again.” He made sure to smile so she’d know he was teasing as he added, “Even if they’re for bouquets and not medicines.”
“Har har.” A kettle was already steaming atop the woodstove, and Violet pulled down a jar from a shelf. “Tea?”
“Got anything stronger?” he drawled, scraping a hand through his hair.
She smirked at him. “Was that a joke?”
“I am capable of humor, you know.”
“Oh, I’ve seen your chalkboards, if that’s what you’re calling humor.”
“And yours are any better?”
They stood grinning at each other until Nathaniel forgot what they’d even been saying.
Violet looked back at her jar of tea. “I mix my chamomile with mint before bedtime,” she explained as she retrieved a second jar. “I call it mintomile.”
“That sounds perfect.” He frowned, his brain snagging on the name. “Have you considered chamomint as an alternative?”
“I have not.” She brandished the tea at him like a weapon. “Is this going to be on your sign tomorrow?”
“Frankly, if the superior wordplay option is up for the taking, I’d be remiss if I didn’t use it.”
“Superior! Haven’t we just been over this?” Violet’s laugh soothed him more than any cup of tea could—and Nathaniel really, really liked tea.
“Now what’s all this about you not doing anything right?” Her eyes were on the shelves as she pulled down a jar of Quinn’s honey, but Nathaniel felt her attention nonetheless. “I’ll assume you haven’t made progress with the blight today, then?”
He shook his head and thanked her when she set her place with a mug and handed him another. It was one of Fallon’s, heavy and glazed in pale green. Their fingers brushed for the barest moment, and he responded, “Not even a little. My experiments are limited until I can get a new workbox. Corrin says she’ll make it her top priority, but it will still be a day or two at the soonest.”
“You’re doing all you can,” said Violet soothingly, taking the seat opposite his and pushing the book aside to make space for the teapot. She poured them both a cup. “And more than anyone else knows how.”
“That’s the problem,” he said with enough force that her gaze sharpened on him. “It’s still not enough.”
Gently, Violet reached across the table and laid her hand overhis. Her palm was warm from her mug, yet still nothing compared to the heat that coursed through him at her casual contact. “No one is asking you to solve this on your own. No one expects that of you.”
“Iexpect that of me.” He turned his palm, lacing his fingers with hers, and marveled at the very act—was this what they were to each other now, or was their closeness something they could only achieve late at night with the moons their sole witnesses? “It feels sometimes like everyone I know is depending on me. I’m the one they’re relying on to solve the blight, but what if I can’t do it? What if I’m not clever enough to fix it and more people lose their crops or livelihoods? And then there’s the apothecary—it’s my family’s legacy and I can barely keep it afloat. If I can’t make my next bank payment, I’m going to lose the shop. And then I must make it again the next month, andevery month following.We’ve had entire days lately without a single customer.”
He wasn’t sure what he expected. He thought she’d demand to know what would happen to her own livelihood or try to solve his problems for him or even insist that things would suddenly turn around on their own. But she stayed silent, the pressure of her fingers warm and comforting over his, and just listened.
Nathaniel continued. “My sister and I have inherited so many problems from our parents and now it’s on us to solve them all—but neither of us even reallywantto run an apothecary. If I ask Pru for more help, I know she’ll give it, but then she’ll have to stop playing music at the inn and the market, and I won’t do that to her. Even you—” He turned a tortured gaze on her. “If I fail to keep the apothecary open and the bank takes the building, what will become of your shop? I can’t let you lose it, not after you’ve worked so hard.”
“Thank you for saying that.” She squeezed his hand. “But Nathaniel, what about you? What is ityouwant?”
He could feel himself closing down, shuttering the windows through which he was suddenly afraid she had seen all his dusty rooms and dark corners not often exposed to light. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” she insisted, and suddenly his hand was clasped in both of hers. “Nathaniel, of course it matters.”
He resisted the urge to pull away from her, settling instead for closing his eyes, focusing on the warmth of her fingers wrapped around his. “I want what I’ve always wanted. To make a difference. To invent medicines that can help people.”
