“Not jonquils,” Ander said. “Narcissus.”
He ran his fingers along one flower’s thin stem. He plucked it from the earth and rose to his feet so that the flower was at Eureka’s eye level. She noticed the butter-yellow trumpet at its center. The difference from the cream-colored outer petals was so slight you had to look closely to see it. Inside the trumpet, a black-tipped stamen shivered in a sudden breeze. Ander held the flower out, as if he were going to give it to Eureka. She lifted her hand to receive it, remembering another jonquil—another narcissus—she’d seen recently: in the woodcut image of the weeping woman from Diana’s book. She thought of a line in the passage Madame Blavatsky had translated, about Selene finding the prince kneeling near the river in a patch of narcissus flowers.
Instead of handing her the flower, Ander crushed the petals inside a tight, shaking fist. He yanked the stem free and flung it to the ground. “She did this.”
Eureka took a step back. “Who?”
He looked at her, as if he’d forgotten she was there. The tension in his jaw relaxed. His shoulders rose and sank with resigned melancholy. “No one. Let’s sit down.”
She pointed to a nearby bench between two oak trees, probably where the museum staff came for lunch on days when it wasn’t too humid. Brown nesting pelicans wandered the path leading to the pond. Their feathers were slick with mossy water. Their long necks curved like the handles of umbrellas. They scattered when Eureka and Ander approached.
Who was Ander talking about? What was wrong with flowers lining a pond?
As Ander walked past the bench, Eureka asked, “Didn’t you want to sit?”
“There’s a better spot.”
He pointed at a tree she hadn’t noticed before. Live oak trees in Louisiana had famously twisted limbs. The tree in front of St. John’s was the most photographed tree in the South. This live oak tree in the deserted museum garden was exceptional. It was a massive knot with branches so warped they looked like the world’s most complicated jungle gym.
Ander crawled through a web of wide, crooked branches—straddling one, ducking under another, until he seemed to disappear. Eureka realized that beneath the tangled canopy of branches was a second, secret bench. She had a partial view of Ander as he reached it agilely, sat down, and draped his elbows over the back.
Eureka tried to follow his route. She started off okay, but after a few steps, she stalled. It was harder than it looked. Her hair tangled on the knob of a branch. Sharp twigs jabbed her arms. She pushed on, swatting moss from her face. She was less than a foot from the clearing when she reached an impasse. She couldn’t see how to go forward—or back.
Sweat formed on her hairline. Find your way out of a foxhole, girl. Why was she even in this foxhole to begin with?
“Here.” Ander reached through the tangled branches. “This way.”
She took his hand for the second time in five minutes. His grip was firm and warm and still fit hers.
“Step there.” He pointed at a pocket of mulchy ground between two curving branches. Her shoe sank into the dank, supple soil. “Then slide your body through here.”
“Is this worth it?”
“Yes.”
Annoyed, Eureka craned her neck to the side. She swiveled her shoulders, then her hips, took two more careful steps, ducked under a low branch—and was free.
She righted herself to stand inside the oak lagoon. Dark and secluded, it was the size of a small gazebo. It was surprisingly beautiful. A pair of dragonflies appeared between Eureka and Ander. Their slate-blue wings blurred; then the insects came to rest, iridescent, on the bench.
“See?” Ander sat back down.