The Art of Inheriting Secrets(76)

“He’s . . .” A vision of his mouth, his way of teasing me ever so gently, his clarity of thinking, moved through me, and I touched my belly, wordless.

She only reached for my hand and held it for a moment. Her face was so much like her brother’s that I loved it just for that, and then I wondered if I loved his face, too, because it made me think of hers. “Just know that people won’t like it.”

“People?”

“The village. In general.” She moved her hand over my knuckles. “The earl in particular.” She knew he’d been mentoring me.

“Well, he wants to marry me off to his nephew, so . . .”

Pavi laughed. “Dynasties.” She didn’t let go. “My mother is going to be here soon.”

“Samir said she was coming.” I took a breath. “She won’t like me?”

“No, not for him.”

I bent my head, suddenly embarrassed, seeing myself through a mother’s eyes—the older woman. Mrs. Robinson. “I hardly know what to think. It’s all brand-new,” I whispered.

“Not really,” she said. “It’s been there since you arrived.”

I thought of the very first day, when he’d showed me through the house. Had I known then? “I’ve never met anyone like him.”

She smiled, and in this the siblings were different. Where Samir’s grin was wide and open, her smile made of her mouth a pursed heart. “Good response.” She patted my hand and released me, then briskly produced a thin net bag and a pair of scissors. “Let’s find the very most aromatic of all the roses.”

I laughed. “What a luscious task! How do you make the rosewater? And what do you use it for?”

“Haven’t you explored it?”

“Not really. I might have come across it in a recipe or two, but I haven’t made any study of it yet.” I smelled a bright-red bloom and found it disappointingly bland. “This has a pretty color but no scent.”

“You’ll want to write about rosewater,” she said with her customary confidence.

“I’ll give it some thought,” I said. “But that reminds me—I’ve been wondering if you would want to write one on coriander? A guest column for the magazine.”

She halted, eyes wide. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No! Why would I do that?”

“Oh my God! Yes, yes, yes!” She did a little dance, then halted, frowning. “You’re not doing this because of Samir, are you?”

“No!” I touched my heart, held up my right hand. “I swear. I’ve thought about it several times. I just remembered to ask you.”

She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “Okay. I’d love to. Though truthfully, I would have done it even if you were.”

“Good. I’ll send you an email on word count and tone, though I’m sure you’ve read plenty of them.”

“Every single one.”

We ambled through the roses, Pavi a few steps ahead of me. The rows between bushes were overgrown with grass and wildflowers, but many—most—of the roses were healthy enough.

“I can’t get over how many of them are still alive. No one has tended this garden for forty years.”

“Someone must have taken care of them sometimes. You see they’ve been pruned now and then, and—oh, look!”

Gliding through the garden was a peacock. It might even have been the same one I’d seen before, with a tall crown and gorgeous deep-blue chest. Arrogantly, he turned his face away from us, as if we were below his notice, and called out to the forest. From the trees came an answer, and he strutted off, king of his domain. “They are so beautiful.” Pavi sighed.

“Samir told me there is a flock that lives in the forest.”

“Roses and peacocks. It’s like the setting for a fairy tale.”

I looked around. “It’s going to take more than a kiss to save this place.” I thought of the single rose blooming into the parlor when Samir and I had first walked through. “But it does feel sometimes like it’s under an enchantment.”

One tall rose drew my eye, a castle atop a small hill, with tangles of white damask roses around it, as if on guard. The rose was orange and yellow with touches of pink, and I recognized it immediately from a hundred of my mother’s paintings. It seemed larger than others of the same type, as haughty as the peacock, and I rounded the overgrown white roses to see if I could find a way in.

Pavi, however, was enchanted by the damasks. “These are prime,” she cried, burying her nose in a mass of them. “The perfect flower for rosewater. It will be clear and very, very fragrant.”

“Look at the size of that!” I cocked my head at the peach-colored rose. “I always thought she was exaggerating.”

“You lost me.”

“My mother painted this rose. Over and over. Let me borrow your shears, will you? I want to cut some and take them back with me.”

“I’ll do it. I have the gloves.”

As she cut a passageway through the thicket of white roses, I picked up the branches she’d dropped. When I could get through, carefully, I bent my head to the giant blossoms and reared back. It had a strange, feral scent. “I’m not sure I like this one.”