“It was science,” Oliver said. “You weren’t doing science.”
Sebastian had imagined this moment for years—the moment when someone else discovered the truth. Sometimes, he’d imagined blurting it out to his friends. On other occasions, he’d dreamed of disclosing the secret on his deathbed to a confused pack of family, who would all immediately assume that he’d lost his mind.
“Yes,” he said. “Although it’s never been that simple.”
“Oh my God, Sebastian.” Oliver shook his head. “We’re your best friends. How could you not tell us?”
“Because Violet didn’t want you to know.”
Oliver took that in in silence. He looked at the closed door to the pantry. He looked around the room, finally picking up viola odorata, the plant that sat nearest them, turning the pot so that he could examine the purple rosette of the flower.
“Violet,” he said slowly. “And that was enough reason to keep it from us?”
“I told you some of it.” Sebastian smiled. “The night before your wedding, I told you.”
Oliver shook his head. “You said that you…” He trailed off and shut his eyes. “That you had been in love with Violet half your life. Christ, Sebastian. Are you serious?”
“Look at her,” Sebastian said. “Really look at her one day.”
His friend ran his finger over the violet, shaking his head.
“Look at me,” Sebastian said. “I spent years crossing violets, and she was the one who took one look at what I had done, combined it with a paper she had just read, and…” He spread his hands. “She took what should have been a complete failure on my part, and look what she did.”
Oliver exhaled. “Knowing all this… I worry, Sebastian. You’re so…you, and she can be so…prickly.”
“Flowers only grow thorns because they need them to survive.” He smiled. “Look at what she’s managed, having to hide who she is. We can argue and argue and argue, for as long as we like. But in the end, thorns or no thorn, Violet is what she is.”
“Sebastian!” The call came from the pantry. “We need you.”
“And who are you?” Oliver asked.
He gave his friend’s arm a squeeze. “I’m the one she needs.”
Chapter Sixteen
VIOLET PUSHED A LOCK OF HAIR behind her ear and peered at the photograph. It wasn’t so easy to tuck away her growing sense of disquiet—or, for that matter, her increasing weariness—but she managed.
“We need a better name for these.” She stifled a yawn. “‘Individual chromatic elements’ is unwieldy. Chromatin is not a noun that can be counted. A pox on the person who named it chromatin.”
Next to her, Alice slumped in a chair, pushing fingers to her temples. “Thingy-blobby.” Her voice was laden with happy fatigue. “I’ve been calling them thingy-blobbies for months now. I know it’s not accepted scientific nomenclature. I’ll ask Simon when he returns.” She yawned. “What is the Greek for thingy-blobby?”
“I think it’s amoeba,” Violet said. It probably wasn’t funny, but they both slid into peals of extremely exhausted laughter.
“What about chromosome?” said a voice across the table from them.
“Chromosome,” Alice repeated, and they dissolved into laughter again. “Oh, that sounds funny. Look, it has the same meter as Figaro.”
“Chromosome,” Violet sang, and after the first iteration, Alice joined in. “Chromosome, chromosome chromosome chromosome!”
“I’m being tutored in Greek. Chromosome means colored body.”
Violet frowned, considering this. That sense of unease came back; this time, even though she gave it a solid shove, it wouldn’t retreat.
Slowly, she raised her head from the photograph she was contemplating.
It was…morning. How had it come to be morning? She didn’t recall sleeping. She didn’t recall anything but a blur of film negatives and glass slides. Her fingers were dyed a deep blue; the early sunlight reflected off piles of silver spoons right across from her.
Just beyond the silverware, watching with an earnest expression, sat Frederica Marshall. She was the one who had just spoken.
For one moment, Violet was filled with in uncomprehending confusion. Oh, God. What had she done?
“What are you doing, Violet?” asked a voice from behind her. She whirled in her seat. Robert and Oliver stood in the doorway. Robert’s hair was still damp; he held a cup of something steaming and hot, something that set her stomach growling.
“Oooh.” Alice staggered to her feet. “Good heavens. Look at the time. I’m too old to stay awake the entire night. I haven’t done that since I was twenty-two.”
“Violet?” Robert pressed.
Violet blinked. There was nothing to do but brazen it out. “Didn’t you know?” she said breezily. “One of the great unsolved questions in biology is that of how traits are passed from parent to child. There have been many theories.”