Chapter Text
"Good morning, Dr. Crane. This is Cressida Cowper from Verdantis, calling on behalf of the board. The Board of Directors met earlier this week and in light of the recent news, have decided not to renew your funding for the next fiscal year. An official Notice of Termination and an itemized audit request for remaining equipment will follow via certified mail. Please do not attempt to contact board members, legal counsel, or Verdantis personnel regarding this decision. Any further communications must go through our legal department. We wish you the best of luck in the future."
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"Hey, Phil. It's Nate. Listen, I have some not-so-great news. We're going to have to rescind the grant offer. I tried my best, man. I told them that it was just bad blood between you and Marina, and that you'd be happy to go over your findings in detail with them, but they didn't want to hear it. I'm really sorry, man. Maybe we can try again next year. We still up for lunch next week? I'd really—"
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"Dr. Crane, hello. This is Arthur Gunning calling from the Romney Institute. Look, Phillip... I’m calling to let you know that the advisory committee made the final decision this morning, and we won't be extending your grant for the upcoming cycle. I brought up your past breakthroughs and argued that the current press doesn't tell the whole story, but they simply aren't willing to deal with the possible loss of reputation right now. Look, I'm really sorry to tell you this in a voicemail, but my hands are tied. My assistant will send over the formal closeout documentation by the end of the week. Take care, Philip, and keep me posted on where you land, okay?"
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Phillip Crane sat back in his chair, rubbed his forehead, and barely managed to restrain himself from punching a hole through his computer monitor.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.
Six years of research and a lifetime of dreams down the drain. All because Marina was still pissed at him. He'd thought that signing the divorce papers was the end of the story, but as it turned out, divorced life didn't seem all too different from married life. Marina still had to get the last word. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.
He closed his eyes so he didn't have to look at the article on his desk, or her photo smiling at him, a full page spread under the headline, Folk Remedies and Phantom Plants: How Speculative Research Wastes Millions. She'd gotten a haircut and a makeover. A stylist to make her appear authoritative in a deep navy suit. Arms crossed. Smug little smirk, like she knew a juicy secret.
He could have laughed if it didn't feel like his throat was closing up and trying to choke him, maybe in an effort to kill him and spare him the humiliation of this fallout. Phantom plants indeed. Marina had been all ears, an eager confidante, a cheerleader even, right up until the end. Maybe she wasn't wrong. Maybe he was a dumb, blind idiot, because he certainly never foresaw her confessing to an affair with his own brother, and then slapping him with divorce papers mere weeks later. Those weeks had been all whiplash. He felt like his whole life had just been her, jerking him around on a chain. The loss of his family was heartache enough, one that still left him feeling like he was going to vomit if he stopped too long to think about it, but then she had to take his work, too. The only thing that had been keeping him sane in those long months.
"Publish a rebuttal," Miles had urged him. "You could ruin her. She cheated on you. With your brother. Who's going to take her seriously after that? Besides, the public loves a villain."
Phillip had genuinely considered it. He could have shredded her to pieces. But nothing was ever black and white. There were the children to consider. Already uprooted, their whole lives turned upside down. He couldn't drag their mother through the mud without splattering them in the process. And they had already borne the brunt of their parents' fallout. He just couldn't bring himself to be the cause of more of their suffering. Though Marina clearly hadn't had any such trepidations.
He exhaled and opened his eyes. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until it exploded from him in a hiss of helpless rage. Averting his eyes from the open magazine, he stood abruptly. The office walls suddenly felt like they were closing in on him.
Fingers pressed to his temples, he made his way down the narrow hallway on legs that felt like jelly, passing Miles' empty desk. The only remainder of his assistant was a lonely gray stapler in the corner and a pen with a chewed cap. He clearly remembered that cap dangling from Miles' lips as he leaned back in his chair, discussing his latest theory on alkaloid compounds. That was when times were good. When they'd been the darlings of the Enthnobotany department and corporations big enough to have stadiums named after them were wooing them with fancy steak dinners and single malt scotch. Verdantis had only been the first. Phillip wasn't much for socializing, but Miles had loved it. He'd been much better at schmoozing with the bigwigs who couldn't pronounce the compounds they were researching, but loved the projected profit margins. Phillip was there to provide numbers and scientific deep dives that more often than not made their eyes glaze over, but Miles had been the one to really sell it. He could conjure up scenarios that sounded like a pharmaceutical wet dream. Compounds that, with a little tweaking and genetic engineering, could be reproduced in quantity. Miles was such a good storyteller that he even convinced himself; enough that he'd been the first one to feel it when everything started falling apart.
The memory of it made him feel slightly sick as he pushed his way into the bathroom and stood at the sink. Hands shaking, he turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto his face. It helped for a moment to calm down the panic that was starting to rise. When he finally dared to look at himself in the mirror, he was unsurprised to see his bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles and a deep crease between his brows. He needed to shave, badly, and his shirt was wrinkled from sleeping in it. God, he looked like a fugitive living in an airport terminal, but he couldn't muster up the energy to actually care about appearances when the rest of his life was disintegrating before his eyes. It was like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. If he couldn't figure out a way to staunch to flow soon, not only could he kiss his entire career goodbye, but also his children. No way would the judge grant custody if he had no income, no reputation, no future, and no prospects.
Fucking Marina.
Groaning, he leaned against the counter, breathing hard. He couldn't get distracted by Marina right now. He needed to call his funders back. Beg, barter, offer them naming rights, if he had to. He just needed enough money to get him through a few more months, enough to prove to the world he was on to something real.
Feeling resolute, he pushed away from the bathroom counter and stalked back down the hall to his office. One of the overhead lights flickered. It had been flickering for the entire six years he'd been here, but he'd never gotten around to getting it replaced. He ignored it now, already composing a dialogue in his head. Sound confident, he told himself. Polite but firm. More 'unshakeable scientific evidence' and less 'I don't wanna be homeless'. Make them think twice about missing out on the breakthrough of the decade.
He shoved open the door to his office. And stopped dead in his tracks.
The leggy brunette spun around in his chair, the sound of her heels muffled against the carpeted floor. She held his mug of lukewarm break room coffee and looked at him with cool, practiced ease. An enigmatic smirk flickered across her face.
"Good morning, Dr. Crane," she said.
🌿𓂃𓈒𓏸 🗺️ ════❖════ 🧭 𓂃𓈒𓏸 🌿
About bloody time. She'd been waiting in his office for five minutes.
"Sorry, I've always wanted to do that," Eloise said, chuckling to herself as she stood. "Just like those old noir movies, right?"
There was a moment there when Eloise thought something broke in his brain. She had that effect on people. He shook himself, stupefied shock falling away to cautious befuddlement.
"I… what?" he said.
Eloise tilted the mug, swirled the coffee. Looked down at his desk and spied a picture frame. Two kids, a boy and a girl, about eight-years-old if she had to guess, laughing and smiling gap-toothed smiles of missing teeth. They were cute.
"Are these your kids?" she asked, picking up the frame. "How adorable."
A pause as he stared at her, regarding her like she was a panther who'd prowled its way into his office. She'd already had him sized up within the first ten seconds of walking through that door. The collar of his shirt was wet, and a few drops of moisture clung to the stubble around his temples and chin. Bags under his eyes, shadows hanging on his brow—lack of sleep, surely. Plus all the other signs of a person going through an enormous struggle. Eloise knew what a desperate man looked like, and this was certainly it.
Which was just how she liked them.
Eloise had learned quite early on in her career that there were three kinds of experts. The kind that knew what they were talking about. The kind that didn't, and talked anyway.
The third kind were botanists.
So when Dr. Crane came into the room, she wasn't really expecting a man who appeared to be in the middle of an existential crisis. But she wasn't surprised, either. Of course she knew about the controversy. She read the article, and even she could taste the spite in the words of an angry woman setting fires for fun. Honestly, she didn't care about that. What she did care about was the delicious timing of it all, the scandal on a scale of the Princess Diana level in the scientific community that left Dr. Crane ripe for the picking.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I don't remember having an appointment today."
Eloise set the picture frame down. "Oh, that's because I didn't make one."
"I see." He shook his head, a recalibrating gesture. "I don't believe I got your name."
She smiled.
"Eloise Bridgerton. I represent Aubrey Corp. Research and development."
She saw it click on his face. The way his eyes widened and his lips parted. Eloise took a self-satisfied sip from his mug… and tried not to gag on the black tar that washed over her tongue. It was like swallowing a mouthful of pure burnt coffee grounds. Now her teeth felt fuzzy.
Dr. Crane coughed, stood a little straighter, and the atmosphere shifted. Down to business.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the largest pharmaceutical conglomerate in Europe?" he asked. He had heard of them. This was good.
"Are you hungry?" Eloise set the mug back on the desk, stooped down and picked up her satchel. "There's a quaint restaurant not far from here. Let's get lunch, on me, of course."
Dr. Crane fidgeted, his gaze jumping around the office, from her to his phone, then his computer, and back to her.
"I'm actually rather busy at the moment," he said.
"Trust me, Dr. Crane." Eloise rounded the desk, put on her best I don't bite smile and lightly touched his arm. "You're going to want to get lunch with me."
She left his office, confident that he would follow. After a long beat, he did.
And that's how they found themselves at a fine dining penthouse restaurant high above the London corporate skyline, sitting at a corner table. This was the kind of place that didn't have menus. The kind of place where food was served in six courses or more. This was the place where important people came to discuss important business. When they'd stepped out of the elevator, and she saw his face drop open in surprise, Eloise had to admit, she was preening a little.
"I though you said this was a quaint restaurant," he muttered.
"Yeah, the name of the place is Quaint. Get it?"
He didn't seem to find this as funny as she did. Shame.
She looked over the wine-list. Dr. Crane slumped in his chair across from her. The look on his face kind of reminded her of a beached shark.
"Are you a Merlot guy? Or Chardonnay?" she asked, pinched her lips in thought. "Personally, you strike me as more of an apple juice kind of man."
He didn't answer. He was too busy gawking at the Swarovski crystal empire chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Eloise huffed through her nose, handed the wine list back to the garson, said "surprise me", and unrolled the warm wet towel to wipe her hands.
"So, Dr. Crane," she started. He didn't look at her. Didn't seem to have heard her at all, as his eyes floated around the restaurant. "I have a proposition for you."
Dr. Crane raised a hand and pointed. "There's a water fountain in here."
She looked over for half a second. "Uh-huh. As I was saying–"
"I am not nearly dressed nice enough to be here," he muttered to himself. Tugged at the collar of his shirt, brushed his fingers through his hair.
"No one ever is." Eloise shrugged. "It's okay, you're with me. Anyway, about my–"
"Madam." The garson appeared next to the table, presenting a bottle. "We have a 2019 Chateau Petrus, a pure Merlot hailing from blue clay soils on the eastern side of the Pomerol appellation in the southwest of France."
"Sounds lovely." Eloise didn't even look at the bottle. "Dr. Crane, what do you think?"
He examined the wine. It kind of seemed like he might have short-circuited a second there.
"Isn't that bottle, like, £7,000?" He asked.
"Eh. Beats me." She looked to the garson. "We'll take it."
He nodded, fished out a corkscrew from his apron, and Eloise tried not to let her bemusement show on her face as Dr. Crane watched him pop the bottle. To her, this was all par for the course. Perhaps she shouldn't be surprised. She knew he'd gotten most of his funding from Verdantis in the past. Those chumps only ever took their clients to steakhouses—and not even the nice steakhouses.
The wine was poured, an intense color like fresh blood. Dr. Crane stared at his glass as if it might shout at him as Eloise raised hers to her nose. Yep, smelled like wine.
"Let me know when your eyes adjust." She took a sip.
He blinked at her. At his wine. Very carefully, he touched the stem of the glass.
"Alright, so," he began, speaking slowly, deliberately. "Based on the blatant showboating and the obvious schmoozing, I'd wager that whatever your proposition is, it's probably something I really don't want to do."
She smirked. "Is there a better kind?"
"What are we doing here, Miss Bridgerton?" he asked.
Straight to it then. Good.
"Aubrey Corp has been on the leading edge of medical science for the last ten years, Dr. Crane. Every cure or vaccine or drug that came out to the public has started with us. We've engineered stem cells that can rebuild a damaged spinal column to 80% accuracy. We've begun trails on a synthetic arterial system. When the cure for cancer becomes a reality, it'll be Aubrey Corp that the world will thank."
He stared at her. "Okay? And?"
"And we find ourselves in need of a botanist," she said. The first course came. An amuse-bouche, one-bite starter that Eloise popped in her mouth in one go. "Have you ever heard of the Amritara?"
Everything changed. Where had once been the hard-gaze of careful scrutiny and unconcealed skepticism, gone now as unadulterated shock opened on his face. His mouth opened, a long beat of silence sitting on the table, then–
Dr. Crane tilted his head back and laughed.
She was expecting this.
"Oh, I see now," Dr. Crane wiped his eye. "This is a joke, isn't it? Did my ex-wife put you up to this?"
"I'm not in the business of entertaining the spiteful vendettas of jilted women, Doctor."
"Come on, the Amritara?" He spread his hands, looked around like there were cameras about to pop out. "The Star of Immortality? The Mother of Flowers? It's a myth. The Holy Grail of botany. The plant that can heal any ailment, even bring back the dead, that's what your talking about? Please. I don't believe in fairytales, Miss Bridgerton."
"You can call me Eloise," she said, swirling her wine in the glass. "And I find that hard to believe, given your own mentor spent his life searching for it."
He went very still, all cocky confidence fading away in an instant. His face went blank.
"Elias Wren was a great man," he said lowly. "But he wasted his time on that damn flower, and it made him the laughingstock of the scientific community. He became obsessed, went on that fucking expedition which, just so you know, he tried to get me to join on, and disappeared. Now everybody only remembers him for that, instead of the real break-throughs he contributed to the world."
His words were not bitter, which admittedly surprised Eloise. Only heavy with a deep, old sorrow. Like he was still mourning the loss of an extraordinary man. A teacher. A friend.
"So if you expect me to help you chase after ghost stories, Miss Bridgerton, then I'm afraid you've come to the wrong botanist." Dr. Crane pushed his wine glass away untouched. "Sorry to have wasted your time and money."
He made to stand just as the appetizer was being served.
"He didn't disappear," she said.
"Goddammit." He squeezed his eyes shut, a moment to have some sort of internal debate with himself… then settled back in his seat. "I was told no one from his group was ever found."
"Yeah, well, if you were the company who funded his expedition, you'd want to cover it up, too." Eloise reached for her satchel. "Especially if it was successful."
Dr. Crane blinked, then stared at her for a long moment. "Successful? I thought—I thought you meant they found his…" He swallowed. "… His body."
Eloise said nothing. Because that would lead them down a path full of questions that she didn’t want to answer right now, and she needed him to stay on track. So she opened her satchel, and pulled out a file folder, packed full, clearly referred to over and over again. Eloise flipped it open, took out the first article on top, and passed it to Dr. Crane. He turned it over. A sharp breath hissed from his teeth.
She knew what he saw. A photograph, a group of men and women somewhere in the Peruvian highlands overlooking the Machu Picchu steppe. There in the center—Elias Wren. He had a kind face, was the first thing Eloise had noticed about him. Patronly, wizened, the look of a gentle old man who could easily be somebody's favorite grandpa. Dr. Crane touched the image of his old mentor, his fingers light, almost reverent. At the same time, his eyes drifted to the corner of the photograph, and widened.
Two words, written in the flourished script of an excited hand: Found it.
"He… he did it?" Dr. Crane said, a near whisper.
Eloise smiled softly. "He did it."
Dr. Crane swallowed, said nothing, and stared at the picture for a long time. Long enough for Eloise to finish her appetizer—a soup with a name spelled with letters Eloise didn't know how to pronounce.
"Oh my god," Eloise hummed. "This is really good, you gotta try this."
"This doesn't make sense," he finally said, looking up at her. He'd realized what she'd hadn't wanted him to. "If the expedition was a success, how come I've never seen anything about it? Why hasn't there been a journal? What happened to Wren?"
It was fine. She was prepared for this. Eloise was very good at her job.
"All very good questions, but let me ask you one instead." Eloise pushed her bowl away, dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. "Do you know what the purpose of Dr. Wren's expedition was?"
"I… assumed he was looking for the Amritara."
"Not quite." The file folder again, landing heavily with its entire weight right there in the middle of the table. The glasses and cutlery rattled. "From what we can tell, Dr. Wren was tracing a historical record that goes back before the rise of the Inca Empire. Something the Norte Chico civilization referred to as the The Tree of Fire."
"I don't understand," Dr. Crane said, his brow furrowed. "Why that particular tree?"
"Because it's not just a tree." Eloise pushed the file across to him. "It's a map."
There’s a certain satisfaction in being the one to provide all the answers, to being the one with the big file. Eloise felt it now, as Dr. Crane opened it and his face immediately dropped into sharp contemplation. Right there on top, a photocopy. The cross section of a tree, impeccably detailed, growth rings and grain as clear as day. He may as well have been holding the specimen itself. Aubrey Corp never skimped on printer ink.
If he was as good of a botanist as she’d been told, Eloise knew exactly what his first observation was: the tree that this cutting came from was clearly old—very old, measured by the thousands of years, not the hundreds.
He flipped to the next page. A detailed close-up of the core sample, and next to it, a typed log of observations. He read silently for a moment.
"What am I looking at?" Dr. Crane asked.
"That specimen was recovered by Dr. Wren in Peru. It's four thousand years old by our estimate. Give or take. Radiocarbon dating is complicated." The fish course was served. "Notice anything interesting?"
She ate while he observed. Eloise was not a botanist. But she knew tree rings measured more than just a tree's age. They recorded climate changes, temperature variations, rainfall, periods of drought, soil alterations, ecological succession. It was the tree's entire life story told in enormous detail, if one knew how to read them.
But this tree was special.
Dr. Crane saw it, too.
"Miss Bridgerton," he said.
"Eloise," she said.
"Fine, Eloise." She could see his thoughts working behind his gaze, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. "This specimen… are you sure it was found in Peru?"
"Are you doubting Dr. Wren’s expertise?"
“No,” he bit, shooting her an annoyed glare. "Look, the Andes region is a black hole. Four thousand years ago, there was a major climate shift. Higher precipitation. Shorter dry seasons. Shifting glacial activity. We know this. It’s in the soil sediment.”
“Yup.” She looked at him expectantly, her fork halfway to her lips.
"How—how did a singular tree survive four thousand years, through all that environmental stochasticity?"
"You're the botanist, you tell me." She took a bite of the most exquisite grilled mahi she'd ever had.
“I can’t, that’s the problem.” He sat forward, engaging fully for the first time. “The oldest trees in Peru live to one thousand years, and the only other ancient forest on record is buried under volcanic eruption. You’re telling me that a singular organism managed to survive–”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Eloise said. “I’m just reporting the facts that Dr. Wren recorded.”
Dr. Crane tossed the photograph back down on top of the pile that littered the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "Look, Eloise. I appreciate the lunch and wine, but, respectfully, you didn’t know Elias like I did. If he actually found a tree that was as significant as this, there's no way he would have cut it down. That's just irresponsible, not to mention completely unethical. He would have sooner built a wall around it than killed it."
Eloise paused, a moment to give Dr. Crane her undivided attention. She saw the tension of him, how his eyes had set into something hard as steel. Displeased, obviously, but also something like ire, direct and serrated. Like an accusation.
“Oh, I see.” She carefully set her fork down, lined up perfectly with the knife, folded her hands, and sat back. “You think we made this all up. Retraced Wren’s steps and destroyed the tree. Is that it?”
“I think your company is using my mentor's work to try and justify some secret agenda with no regard for the natural world and scientific integrity,” he said. “I know Aubrey Corp has their fingers in more jars than just pharmaceuticals.”
“Please, Dr. Crane, don’t insult me or my family legacy by questioning our work ethic.” This had never happened before. It wasn’t a secret that Aubrey Corp had military contracts and working projects in the private sector and many other industries. But no one had ever used that against them. No one cared. Clearly Dr. Crane was more jaded than she had believed. “You’re right, Dr. Wren didn’t cut down the Tree of Fire. Neither did we.”
A short, harsh laugh, derisive and terse. "How else would you have gotten wood disk cross sections like this?"
She huffed her own laugh. “Come now. There’s more to a tree than just the trunk. You know that.”
His mouth opened, but it took a long moment before any sound came out. "It's… it's over ten feet in diameter. You're telling me this is a branch?"
“Ah, so you are capable of critical thinking.” Eloise rolled her eyes, picked up her wine glass. “I’ll forgive the erroneous comment just this once. Now, can we proceed?”
He stared at her for a long moment. She didn't need to look at him to know the gears were grinding in his head. He was a smart man. He'd come to the right conclusion.
"Okay. So. This tree," he began, the edge gone from his voice.
That was more like it.
"There are legends that the Norte Chico people took cuttings of this tree, grew forests of it, and used it to build vast empires. Which is pretty strange when you realize they lived in a fairly arid region that isn't exactly known for its massive trees. Or any trees, really."
“Mm, yes, very strange indeed,” she said, picking up her fork again.
He narrowed his eyes at her, annoyed. "And now you have evidence that not only is this tree real, but that it has lived far longer than any other tree should have and grew to an enormous size. All through unsurvivable climate change."
"So it seems," she agreed.
"Is it some sort of genetic mutation?"
She shrugged. "That's one theory."
"Do you have another?"
"He catches on quickly," Eloise said with a grin. "Ever since Dr. Wren recovered this from Peru, three more specimens have been found. One in the Taurus Mountains of Turkey. One in the Frank Church wilderness of America. And one in the Annamite Range of Vietnam."
She spread the photocopies out over the table. More fossilized trees. More history.
"So… what, these trees were… were transplanted?" he asked, thoughts spoken aloud to himself.
"If the shoe fits."
Dr. Crane took one look at the specimens and shook his head. "That's not possible."
She sighed loudly. "Here we go again."
"No, I mean, it's clear that these are all the same species, but there isn't a single tree in the world, living or on record, that can live in that many different environments."
"But they did," Eloise tapped the closest photocopy. "Wherever these trees originally came from, there was something that kept them healthy and alive even in completely different ecosystems. That could have been a genetic mutation, or…" she trailed off, hoping he would pick up on what she was hinting at.
"Something that changed the trees on a molecular level," Dr. Crane said, his voice low, his eyes dazed like he was in a trance.
"Something… external, perhaps?"
His breath caught. "Like… the Amritara?"
She chuckled. "Finally. I thought you'd never get there. And here you're supposed to be the smart one."
He ignored her baiting, eyes focused on the photographs. He picked up one of the enormous cross-sections. "And if it's true that all the trees were grown from cuttings, then theoretically the tree rings wouldn't just tell us about that individual specimen, but also the original plant it came from. And on and on and on into the past."
"Keep going," she encouraged.
"So if you can track where it moved by the climate measurements in the tree rings…"
"Then we have a biological map." Eloise finished for him. "And we can find out where they came from."
The meat course came. The pièce de résistance—a rack of lamb, herb crusted, and a classic mint sauce. It smelled heavenly. She didn’t touch it though. Not yet.
“It seems like you already have everything figured out,” Dr. Crane said, gathering the documents into a pile. “So what exactly do you need me for?”
“We’re still missing the final piece of the map,” she said. “The last trail marker that will take us all the way back to the genesis point. That’s where you come in.”
“To do what exactly? Find another one of these Trees of Fire, which could apparently be anywhere in the world?” He pinched his lips, shook his head. “All in the hopes that it might lead you to this mythical flower?”
“We’ve already approximated the location of another tree, in fact,” Eloise said, eyeing the lamb. “But actually finding the thing would be a lot easier with someone who knows what they’re looking for.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you that right now.”
“Of course.” He closed his eyes for a moment. In that one instance, he looked very, very tired. “And once I’ve done that for you, then what?”
“Then the real adventure begins.”
He said nothing. As Eloise gathered the papers back into the file, packed it all away back into her satchel, he finally picked up his wine glass, swirled it for a few seconds, and took a hearty sip before the legs had even formed. She let him think, let him consider everything they had talked about over the past hour. Picking up a lamb chop by the bone, Eloise bit into the juicy delicacy at long last. Good god. Life-altering.
Phillip did the same. It didn’t seem like he even tasted it, as lost in his head as he was. They ate quietly for a long while, sitting there in the dim, close atmosphere of Quaint and all its dazzling decor. It would have been terribly romantic in any other circumstances.
When the lamb was gone, nothing but a pile of bones and smears of green on the plate, the final course came: dessert, a vanilla panna cotta with fresh berries. Simple, but elegant.
“So, Dr. Crane?” she asked, breaking the silence. “What do you say?”
Eloise was very good at her job. She knew people. She could read the ambition of a person across a room, she could unravel a man with the exact right words, and convince even the most private of people to spill their darkest secrets. Eloise took pride in her ability to never be surprised by anybody.
He looked up at her. Even sitting this close to him across the table… he was a blank slate.
“No. I can’t.”
And she was very surprised.
Eloise stared at him for a beat. Recalibrating.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not willing to risk my career on a maybe. I don’t believe in flowers that can bring back the dead and heal any malady. There’s too much at stake for me.” He shook his head. "This is all ludicrous. The Amritara doesn't exist. It can't. Elias is dead. And I've got to get back to my office and do actual work–"
"Back to work doing what? Begging your old funders for money?"
Crane paused. She could almost see the blood drain from his face.
"Yes, yes," she continued, waving her hand in the air as if it was all inconsequential. "I know about all of that. How long do you think the university will keep you, once your grants are gone? A few months? Maybe a year, owing to your good reputation?" She tilted her head. "Oh, wait. That was before your ex-wife published an entire exposé about you chasing fairytales." She made a sympathetic tsking sound. "Just like poor Dr. Wren. So sad and disappointing."
He said nothing, didn't look at her, staring into his glass of wine.
"Look, Phillip. Can I call you Phillip?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "If you're so sure this is all a hoax, then come prove it. We'll pay for all of your expenses, of course. If you're right, then you've lost nothing other than maybe a few weeks."
He finally looked at her. She noticed, for the first time, how deep his gaze was. Swallowing blue, nebulous, and entirely too perceptive for her liking. Eloise could drown in those depths if she wasn't careful.
"And if I'm wrong?"
A slow smile spread over her face. "Aubrey Corp is in the habit of rewarding its partners very handsomely. And we're in the market for new research. In fact, we've got development funds just sitting around waiting for the next medical breakthrough. Unfortunately we haven't found anything compelling enough to want to invest. It's been very disappointing. Money is just sitting there, burning a hole through our metaphorical pockets." She laughed, shook her head ruefully, like it was some hilarious joke. Then she leaned over and tapped a perfectly manicured nail against the wine bottle. "You think they'll let me get another bottle of this to go?"
“So you get a nice shiny new patent,” he said. “Another product to push to the people with the right sized wallets. Your corporate agenda isn’t as appealing to me as you think it is, Eloise. Not even with six zeroes.”
Great, Eloise thought. He was one of those.
She sighed. Let the facade of the confident business woman slide to the side. So he couldn’t be bought by a big paycheck, not even when it would literally fix all the problems in his life. As annoying as it was in the moment, Eloise could respect that kind of integrity.
“Then how about you get to be the one to tell the world that Dr. Elias Wren was right?” She let this sink in for him. Let the sentiment of such a thing take root. “You can be the one to prove that he wasn’t just a kooky old man chasing fairytales. Don’t you think his legacy deserves to be honored?”
There was a long pause. She carried on, relentless.
"Not to mention proving to your ex-wife that perhaps not all fairytales are lies?"
He looked down. Faltering. Eloise latched onto it.
“Look, we don’t think that there’s a flower out there that can bring back the dead, either. But something extraordinary is going on. Don’t you want to know what it is? Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
Phillip took a deep breath. Held it. Blew it out slowly.
Eloise knew she had him.
“Think about it,” she said before he could respond. Reached into the inner pocket of her jacket, and produced her business card. “But don’t take too long. The crew leaves in three days.”
He took the fine, heavy cardstock. “That’s not very long… you were counting on this going well, weren’t you?”
Eloise picked up her spoon, took a scoop of the panna cotta and berries. It was, of course, delicious. The perfect conclusion to the perfect meal.
“I had a feeling.”
They departed at the elevator. She watched Phillip meander back to his university. Back to his burnt coffee and rejection emails. He had a lot to think about. Eloise waited until he was out of sight.
A quick text as she turned to leave.
The heron has eaten the sardine.
Two seconds later, her phone rang.
“What the fuck does that even mean?” Anthony said. He didn’t even wait for her to say hello.
“Jesus, Anthony, where’s your sense of whimsy?” Eloise scowled. “It means the meeting with Crane went well.”
“Then just say that next time,” her brother barked. “There’s no budget for whimsy.”
“That seems more like a character flaw than a financial shortcoming.”
“Whatever.” She could picture Anthony rolling his eyes. Someone was talking behind him—sounded like Benedict. “Is he fully onboard?”
“He will be, of that I have no doubt.” Eloise rounded the street corner. A sleek black Buick was waiting on the curb, exactly where she’d left it this morning. She climbed into the back, tucking her cell between her cheek and her shoulder to get the seat belt. To the driver, a quick “back to the office, please.”
The Buick pulled out onto the street.
“Alright then,” Anthony said. “And the worry that he would be unhappy with our history regarding Dr. Wren?”
Eloise thumped her bag down on the floor beside her. “He doesn’t seem to be aware of it. I saw no reason in disclosing that we were the company that funded that expedition. Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Uh-huh,” Anthony hummed. He didn’t seem quite happy with that. But what could he do? This was Eloise’s project. Her brother knew better than to interfere. Even if he was CEO. “Fine then. Just make sure this doesn’t blow up in your–”
“Did you tell her about the thing?”
Benedict, standing close to Anthony if the clarity of his voice was any indicator.
“I was getting to tha–ack!”
Static burst down the line, crackling into Eloise’s ear. She tilted her head away from the phone, waiting for whatever scuffle her brothers were having to resolve.
“El,” Benedict breathed, sounding winded. Behind his voice, Anthony’s distant ‘you are such a child’ filtered into the speaker. “Heads up. They’ve started making moves. You need to be on your guard.”
She stiffened. “Are you sure?”
“Our firewall picked up an attempted hack.” Benedict spoke quickly, that tone that Eloise always knew meant he was being dead serious. “Targeted straight at your research. Nothing was compromised, but you know what that means.”
Eloise squeezed her eyes shut. Goddammit.
“We’ll talk when I get back,” she said. “See you soon.”
“Be safe,” Benedict said, and the line closed.
Her driver looked into the rearview, then, the car picked up speed. For the first time all day, a small, tiny flicker of unease sparked in her stomach. She swallowed it down, buried under the more manageable emotions, like irritation and acceptance.
Things just got complicated.