One Lamp Stayed Lit Until the Late Roses Bloomed

The greenhouse door stuck against the frost, and I had to throw my shoulder into it to get out before the bus left. My hands were already shaking. I tucked them under my arms and crossed the gravel courtyard toward the west entrance, where Julian stood in a dark wool coat, reading something on his phone. His hair was still damp from the shower. A silver watch flashed at his wrist. "Julian." My voice came out thin. "Do you have two dollars?" He looked up. His gaze went to my face, then to my fingers, which I had failed to hide inside my sleeves. "What for?" "Bus fare. I need to get to the clinic." "Call the estate car." "The car is at the airport with your mother." He glanced at his phone again. "Then ask Mrs. Bell." "She isn't in yet. I have twelve minutes." The bus stop stood at the end of the long drive, half a mile from the house. The clinic was in Bellweather, four miles beyond the estate gates. I could have walked if my hands hadn't been numb and my knees hadn't started to feel hollow. Julian put his phone away. "You have a staff medical account." "I don't. My name isn't on the list." "It was last month." "It wasn't." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. I expected him to hand me a bill. Instead he opened it, looked at the few notes inside, then closed it. "There's a cash box in the office," he said. "I'll get you some." "I don't need some. I need two dollars." "I heard you." He said it as if I had been difficult. A pulse beat in my jaw. I had not slept much, and the cold in my joints had grown teeth overnight. "Julian, please." The word hung between us. He looked past me toward the greenhouse, where the glass panes were clouded white. A single lamp glowed inside, the one I left burning over the late roses. It was the only warm-looking thing on the property. "What happened to your paycheck?" he asked. "I haven't had one." "You were paid on Friday." "I was given a statement on Friday. There's a difference." He stared at me, and the bus horn sounded from down the drive. I started to move. "Wait." He pushed a hand into his pocket and held out a five-dollar bill. "Take this." I took it. My fingertips brushed his, and I flinched before I could stop myself. "Thank you." "Go to the clinic. Don't come back until someone tells you what's wrong." It sounded almost kind. I hated that I was relieved. I ran as far as my legs allowed, then walked the rest of the way to the bus stop. I kept the five folded inside my glove so the wind wouldn't snatch it from my hand. At the clinic, a nurse took my temperature, asked me whether I had been exposed to extreme cold, and made me sit under a blanket while she called the doctor. "How long have your hands been like this?" she asked. "Three weeks, on and off." "Any other symptoms?" "Fatigue. Dizziness. My fingers turn white, then blue. They get painful when they warm up." She pressed a thermometer into my palm and watched me hold it. "The cold can trigger what you're describing, but it's worth checking for more than that. Have you been sleeping somewhere heated?" I thought of my cottage, where the radiator had gone cold in October. I had told the estate manager twice. Each time, he had said the maintenance crew would come by. "I have a space heater," I said. "That wasn't what I asked." I stared at the clinic floor. The blanket around my shoulders was warm. The simplest answer made me feel like a child who had been caught lying. "No," I said. "Not properly." The doctor found signs of circulation trouble, ordered blood work, and told me to keep my hands warm. I paid the clinic fee with Julian's five-dollar bill and carried the change in my pocket. When I got back to the estate, I went straight to the greenhouse. The old roses had begun to open, though the temperature inside was barely above freezing. I checked the heater gauge, then wrote down its reading in my notebook. The greenhouse was my job, my room, and the only place at Ashcombe House that had ever felt like mine. I had spent four years bringing the rose collection back from neglect. Mrs. Ashcombe called it a hobby when she wanted to dismiss it and a family asset when she wanted it photographed. Julian came in behind me. "You should be resting," he said. "I have to check the boiler." "You can leave that to maintenance." "Maintenance hasn't come." He looked at the gauge. I watched his expression flatten. "How long has it been this cold?" "Since October." "I didn't know." "That doesn't make it warmer." He looked at me then, and for a moment I thought he might say something real. Instead, he reached for my notebook. I pulled it against my chest. "Don't." His hand stopped. "Those are my records," I said. "I was going to read the temperature." "You can read the gauge." He stood in the middle of the greenhouse, surrounded by leaves and frost, with the five-dollar bill still folded in my pocket between us. "I'll speak to the estate manager," he said. "You're the heir. You can do more than speak." "Not as much as you think." "Then I guess you have something in common with me." I opened the greenhouse door and waited for him to leave. He went without another word. I heard his shoes cross the stone path and fade toward the house. I turned the lamp toward the roses and wrote down the time.