Flame by Amy Kathleen Ryan Page B

meeting?”
    “Dr. Carver will fill me in. And he wants you to get some exercise.” He raised a finger in the air and stooped over. “‘She needs exercise and mental distance from her captivity,’” he said in a nearly perfect imitation of the old man.
    Waverly laughed in spite of herself.
    He rested his eyes on her, those dark blue eyes that were so unsettling, then took hold of her elbow and led her gently. She pulled away. Each time he touched her, or looked at her, she wanted Seth, missed him more. Where was he?
    I should forget about him. He’s obviously forgotten me. And so has Kieran.
    “Where would you like to go?” Jared asked her.
    “I don’t care,” she told him honestly. He held out a palm, indicating for her to choose the direction, so she continued down the hallway. She walked slowly, unsure whether she was matching his pace or he was matching hers. She didn’t look at him, but she was intensely aware of his presence and his scent. Soil, sage, and something more—cardamom and garlic, maybe.
    They entered the stairwell and descended several flights in silence. When he opened the door for her, she found he’d taken her to the family gardens, a fabulously lush and beautifully kept acreage. They walked between rows of huge cabbages, overgrown squash plants, pumpkins so large she could have sat on them, tomato plants hanging heavy with rich red fruits. He turned left, passing perfectly straight rows of uniform corn plants, then stopped at a large arched trellis bursting with purple clematis and sweet pink honeysuckle. A small path led from the trellis to a petite stone bench upon which he sat. He patted the seat next to him, and Waverly took it, leaning away because the heat coming from his body made her uneasy.
    “Do you like it?” he asked her, waving his hand over the herbs and flowers growing in patches all around them. The colors were perfectly arranged: fragrant lavender next to pale green sage, golden saffron framed by white chamomile.
    “Did you plant this garden?” she asked him.
    “I’ve been working on it my whole life.”
    “It’s…” She tried to find the right word, one that wasn’t too generous. “Nice.”
    “ Nice? ” he said, comically outraged. “Decades of my life boil down to nice ?”
    “What do you want me to say?”.
    “It’s a work of art!” He threw up his hands theatrically. “Are you blind?”
    “Okay, Jared,” she said condescendingly. “It’s a work of art.”
    “Better,” he said, squinting at her with mock anger. He was funny, she had to give him that.
    “You grow a lot of herbs. Do you take them to the processing plant?”
    “Oh no. These are for me. I dry them at home. I don’t share.”
    “Never? Not even a tiny bit of thyme?”
    “I have no thyme to spare.”
    She looked at the huge patch of the herb growing in a tangled knot. “You must eat a lot of soup.”
    “I do. I eat a lot of soup.” He looked at her sideways with mock suspicion. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
    She was laughing again. How did he do that? She was trapped, miserable, and she’d lost everything, but this strange man was cheering her up. She hated herself for relaxing, but she couldn’t help it. I can’t be miserable all of the time, or I’ll die.
    Maybe he knows that, she thought. She snuck a glance at him. His nose was narrow and straight except for the end, which bulged out slightly, but it was a nice nose, a friendly nose. His skin was very smooth for someone who must be in his forties, and she wanted to ask his age, but she held her tongue. His hair was still thick, though it was salted here and there with specks of gray. He turned toward her, but she looked away quickly.
    “You must have questions,” Jared said. “About the doctor?”
    “Why do you work for him?” Waverly asked.
    “He’s my father, kind of.” Jared swung his feet casually, his attitude completely different from the rigid discipline he showed around Dr. Carver. “He