The Winter Garden (IMD #2)

Chapter One: Forget-Me-Not

Chapter One:

 

Forget-Me-Not

When Immanuel Winter begrudgingly set off from the dormitories to the bank of the Thames to sketch and label the native flora for his botany class, he never thought the day would have ended in anything more exciting than sunburn. As the blonde man sat tucked under an oak tree with his sketchbook resting on his narrow thighs and the August sun scorching the side of his face, he listened to the voices on the other side of the copse. On the way to his spot near the river, he passed a large picnic of well-dressed families and their servants. At first he thought the merry group may have been the professors and their wives, but then he noticed the banner welcoming the guests to the 1891 Annual Oxford Spiritualist Society Picnic. The young man’s stomach growled at the thought of it. Oh, how he wished the professors were the ones having a feast. With a sigh, he once again applied himself to sketching a stalk of water mint that peeked from the water’s edge. He smiled as he inspected his handiwork. His mother was fond of flowers, and he hoped in a few months when the term was over to send her a great folio of English botanical prints to go along with her collection of German ones.

“I like your necklace.”

Immanuel looked up to find a young woman staring down at him. Her strigine brown eyes and soft porcelain cheeks gave her an inquisitive expression that made her appear more like a child than the young woman she was. As she tucked a curl behind her ear, he followed the girl’s jet hair across her cheek and down to her shoulder where it drizzled onto her white gown. His hand instinctively reached for the chain hanging around his neck. He had always considered the pendant quite ugly, but his mother insisted he wear it to England to keep him safe. It was a vial no bigger than his finger wrapped in curled gold vines and tarnished silver leaves. Etched into the stopper were the words “Miscē cum Cruor.” His mother said to use it if he was ever injured, but from the murk of the liquid within and the vial’s ugly exterior, he always joked that it was probably filled with poison.

“Thank you,” he replied, his German accent gone after over three years on English soil.

Her gaze traveled over him, scrutinizing his face and taking in his deep-set blue eyes, angular cheekbones, and sandy hair before migrating to his sketches. “Are you an artist?”

“No, I’m studying to become a scientist.”

She plucked the sprig of blue and yellow flowers from her hair and held it out to him. “What are these are called?”

“Myosotis scorpiodes, true forget-me-not,” Immanuel replied as he flipped to the page where he drew them earlier and held it up for her to see.

“I like forget-me-not better.” As she went to put the flower back in her hair, it was as if she noticed the fabric parcel in her hand for the first time. “My mother sent this for you. She thought you looked hungry.”

He gratefully took the bag of food she dropped into his lap, unable to suppress his shock at the unwarranted act of kindness. “Thank you. Please, miss, tell your mother thank you for me.”

With a nod and a smile, she turned and strolled back to the picnic, running her hands over the trees and grasses as she went. Immanuel untied the linen bundle to reveal a roast beef and a Welsh rarebit sandwich along with a turnover pastry. He ravenously dug into the spread, savoring the rare meat as it bled down his lips with each bite.