Camille by Tess Oliver Page A

mouth turned up. He lifted his finger and touched my
bottom lip, barely making contact with it. “Did you know that when
you’re angry your bottom lip shakes?”
    I kept my expression stern, but my legs felt
like currant jelly. I caught my traitorous lower lip with my teeth
and walked on.
    A crush of laborers and customers circulated
around the stalls of Covent Garden. Pots filled with imported
flowers and hampers of fruit made the air rich with fragrance.
    One of the flower women jumped up from her
crouch and held a shabby bouquet in front of Strider’s face. “You
look like a lad who likes to buy flowers for his girl.” She winked
at me.
    “This girl?” Strider motioned to me with his
head. “Why, there is no flower fine enough to compliment her
sweetness.”
    “You’re a sweet one yourself, laddie,” the
woman said and returned to her position on the pavement.
    “How do you do that?” I asked.
    “Do what?” He picked up a red geranium that
had fallen from a pot.
    “Charm every girl you…”
    Before I could finish, he reached forward and
tucked the blossom behind my ear. Twice his fingers brushed my
cheek, and I realized I was holding my breath until he had finished
fashioning it in my hair. “Now, what were you asking?”
    “Never mind.” His talent was so effortless;
he didn’t seem to realize he possessed it. I tapped the petals of
the flower. “I thought no flower was fine enough.”
    “Well, except if it is free.” He put out his
arm for me to take. “How did you get that unusual streak of white
in your hair?”
    It was a question I had not expected. I
considered making up a fake story, but then he and I were connected
now in this incomprehensible situation, and he should know. “It
happened when I was ten. My father was a research scientist like
Dr. Bennett. He was an expert in cellular biology studying
transmutation.”
    “Your father was a transportation expert in
celery?”
    “Yes, he studied at Oxford and learned how to
move green, stalky vegetables across London.” I pulled him to a
stop. “My father spent his life looking for a way to stop humans
from becoming werewolves.” A long, black curl had landed on his
face, and before I could stop myself, I was reaching up to push it
back. His breath picked up speed, or at least I imagined it
had.
    “You mean like me?” he asked. His words were
quiet, but I heard him clearly over the clamor of barrows and
voices.
    “My father’s experiments took a horrible
turn. Somehow he contaminated his own blood with that of a
werewolf.” All the moisture dried from my mouth and speaking became
a chore. I had never told the story aloud to anyone. I’d gone over
it again and again in my head but never aloud. Not even with Emily.
Of course there was no need to tell it to my sister. She’d
witnessed the entire event first hand. The cold clamminess that
washed over my skin whenever I thought of it swept over me now.
    Obviously sensing my distress, Strider placed
his fingers over my lips. “Say no more.” He picked up my hand and
led me to a sunny corner. We leaned against the building and
watched as a man sorted flowers.
    Heat from the sun comforted me and I relaxed.
I could not make sense of my thoughts. The anguish that overcame me
when I thought too hard about my father’s death seemed to be
overshadowed by the possibilities I now faced. The tragic ending to
my father’s story could easily repeat itself, only, for the time
being, the boy standing next to me had no idea how this might end.
Up to this point, Dr. Bennett and I had been rather elusive about
our plans. And suddenly, it dawned on me that I had very likely
lured Nathaniel Strider to his death.
    A costermonger strolled past with a barrow of
oranges. Strider bent forward to breathe in the fragrance. “I seem
to remember something about buying fruit.” he said
    His smile obliterated my dismal thoughts.
“Indeed.” I pushed off the wall and as I did, a flash of red caught
my eye.