The name "Silas – Botanical Retrieval" echoed in my mind, a strange, almost whimsical code in a game that was rapidly becoming anything but. Finch's journal, with its cryptic reference to the "Rose of Sarasota" and a "second key," felt like a dangerous weight in my possession. The Thornecroft Estate Gardens, once a vague notion from an old magazine article, now loomed as my next, most perilous, objective. Julian Thornecroft's shadow stretched long, even here in the sun-drenched languor of Sarasota. Every move had to be calculated, every risk weighed with chilling precision. Olivia, my ever-present, saccharine-sweet warden, was a constant, unpredictable variable.
My "tennis-induced migraine" bought me another precious afternoon of solitude. Olivia, after a perfunctory display of sisterly concern (which involved suggesting I try a "simply divine" new spa treatment she'd discovered), had happily decamped to the academy's main pool, no doubt to hold court and display her latest resort wear. The coast was clear, but for how long?
The encrypted data chip Davies had provided was my next port of call. Using the academy's supposedly secure Wi-Fi felt like a risk, but it was one I had to take. The chip, when inserted into the sleek, untraceable tablet, opened a simple, text-based interface. Following Davies' minimalist instructions (also on the chip), I found the "Local Contacts" file. There, beside "Sarasota," was Silas's name and a string of digits – a satellite phone number.
My heart hammered as I powered on the satellite phone Davies had included. It felt alien in my hand, a tool of a world I was only just beginning to comprehend. After a moment's hesitation, I keyed in the number. It rang twice, then a voice, low and gravelly, with a faint, unplaceable accent, answered. No greeting, just a questioning, "Yes?"
"I… I'm looking for Silas," I began, my voice a little unsteady. "I was given this number by a mutual acquaintance… concerning a matter of botanical interest. Specifically, a rare rose."
A pause, then, "The Annelise's Heart, perhaps? Or something even more… unique?"
He knew. Davies, or whoever ran this network, had clearly pre-briefed him, at least to some extent. "The latter," I confirmed, my own voice dropping. "Finch's journal mentioned a 'Rose of Sarasota' and a 'second key' possibly located at the Thornecroft Estate Gardens." I decided a degree of directness was necessary; Silas was unlikely to be swayed by my usual ingénue act.
Another pause, longer this time. "The Thornecroft Gardens," he finally said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. "Ambitious. And… unwise, without proper preparation. Evelyn Thornecroft's collection was legendary. The trust that manages it now is… particular. And the Thornecroft name still carries considerable weight in these parts, not all of it fragrant."
"I understand the risks," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "But I believe Mr. Finch may have left something there, something vital. He called it a 'second key.'"
"Keys open locks, Miss Vance," Silas rumbled. "And some locks are best left untouched, lest you unleash what's inside. Julian Thornecroft is not his great-aunt Evelyn. He has a… more direct approach to protecting family interests."
"I'm aware of Mr. Julian Thornecroft," I said, a chill tracing its way down my spine. "But Finch's journal implies this 'second key' is crucial. Can you help me gain access to the gardens? Discreetly?"
"Discretion is my specialty, Miss Vance. Access… that requires finesse. The gardens are not Fort Knox, but they are not a public park either. They have limited research access, occasional horticultural tours by prior, vetted appointment only. A direct approach under your own name is inadvisable, given your… recent re-emergence and the Thornecroft connection to your stepsister's new associate."
He knew about Julian's connection to Olivia. Davies' network was indeed thorough.
"What do you propose?" I asked.
"There is a small, private horticultural society – the Sarasota Bloom & Thorn Society, ironically enough – that has a long-standing, albeit infrequent, arrangement for research visits to the Thornecroft Estate. Their next scheduled visit is… fortuitously… in two days. It's a small group, primarily elderly enthusiasts. One more, a quiet student researcher with a passion for heritage roses, might not be unduly noticed, provided her credentials are… impeccable."
"Credentials I don't possess," I stated.
"Credentials that can be… cultivated, Miss Vance," Silas replied, a hint of dry amusement in his gravelly voice. "I have a contact within the Society, a Mrs. Albright. A dear lady, quite passionate about her roses, and occasionally… forgetful about the exact number of attendees she's expecting for her little excursions. For a suitable donation to the Society's 'rare bulb fund,' she might find an extra name on her list."
It was a plan, audacious and fraught with risk, but a plan nonetheless. "How suitable a donation?"
"Let's say… enough to ensure the continued blooming of many rare and precious things," Silas said. "I will make the arrangements. You will receive a call from a 'Mrs. Albright' tomorrow, confirming your inclusion in the Bloom & Thorn Society's visit. She will provide you with a name, a research topic – something suitably obscure concerning heritage rose lineage – and the meeting time and place. You will be, for all intents and purposes, Miss Eleanor Ainsworth, a visiting botany student from a small, respectable New England college."
Eleanor Ainsworth. A new identity, however temporary. "And my… chaperone?" I asked, the thought of Olivia a constant, unwelcome shadow.
"That, Miss Vance, will be your most delicate cultivation," Silas said. "The Thornecroft Estate is some distance from your current… academy. You will need a plausible reason for an extended absence."
The call ended. I sat there for a long moment, the satellite phone feeling heavy in my hand. Silas was a professional, his calm, no-nonsense approach both reassuring and slightly terrifying. The "Rose of Sarasota" was no longer a cryptic phrase in a dead man's journal; it was a tangible place, a garden I was about to infiltrate under an assumed identity.
Manufacturing an excuse for Olivia proved easier than anticipated. The academy, it turned out, was hosting a "special guest lecture" by a "world-renowned sports psychologist" the day after next – an all-day affair, attendance supposedly "highly encouraged" for aspiring athletes. I feigned a sudden, intense interest, suggesting it might help with my "performance anxiety" on the courts. Olivia, who found the idea of an all-day psychology lecture mind-numbingly dull, readily agreed it was something I "absolutely should attend," no doubt relishing the prospect of a full day of uninterrupted poolside leisure for herself. She even offered to "cover" for me should Caroline call, a gesture of "sisterly support" that dripped with insincerity but served my purposes perfectly.
The call from "Mrs. Albright" came the next afternoon, as promised. Her voice was fluttery, elderly, and entirely convincing. She welcomed "Miss Ainsworth" to the Bloom & Thorn Society's special excursion, provided me with my research topic – "Cross-Pollination Patterns in Pre-War Gallica Roses" – and instructed me to meet the group at a small, discreet botanical library on the outskirts of Sarasota at 9:00 a.m. the following day.
The night before the excursion was a sleepless one. Finch's journal lay open on my bedside table, his final, chilling words replaying in my mind: The thorns are sharper than ever. Time to disappear before I am pruned. Some seeds are best sown in secret, to bloom in a safer season. Was I walking into those thorns? And what "seeds" had Finch sown in the Thornecroft gardens, hoping for a safer season that, for him, had never come?
As I prepared to leave my suite before dawn, dressed in the guise of Eleanor Ainsworth – sensible walking shoes, a simple linen dress, a wide-brimmed hat to shield me from the Florida sun, and a satchel containing a notepad, a camera, and, most importantly, the A.G. locket – a new message pinged on the satellite phone. It was from Silas.
The Rose of Sarasota is not a flower, Miss Ainsworth. It is a cultivar, yes, but also a code. Finch was a man of letters and layers. Look for what is hidden in plain sight, where the oldest roots meet the newest bloom. And be aware: Julian Thornecroft returned to Sarasota unexpectedly late last night. He is reportedly staying at the family estate. The thorns are indeed out.
Thornecroft was at the estate. The stakes had just become lethally high. My carefully constructed plan, my assumed identity, suddenly felt like a flimsy shield against a very real, very present danger. Was this a desperate gamble too far? And what, or who, was the true "Rose of Sarasota" if not simply a flower in Evelyn Thornecroft's legendary garden?