turn up anything on the habitat of
Cypripedium incognitum
, of course.” He knew from Bedie’s photograph that the orchid had once grown somewhere on the grounds of Les Colombes. The shawl now gave Aurillac Manor as a second point of reference. That was valuable. However, he still had no information on the specific conditions under which the plant grew, which was what he really needed if he was going to find it. “So I’m stuck making a lot of guesses. Do I assume my Mystery Orchid behaves like the European Lady’s Slipper?”
Cypripedium calceolus
liked cool shade and alkaline soil and attracted a specific pollinator, a bee called
Andrena
. He tugged his beard. “I mean, what if
incognitum
needs deeper shade or a wetter environment? Also, it looks like a whacking great flower, bigger than
calceolus
and with an even larger pouch. So does it attract a larger insect, or a wider range of insects? What?”
He turned the possibilities over in his head as Mara drove out of the sleeping village.
“You know,” he said eventually, “at bottom, everything about orchids boils down to sex. In fact, the ancient Greeks considered the orchid as a symbol of sexuality. The word
orchis
means—”
“Balls,” Mara cut in dryly.
“Orchis
means balls. Because orchid roots look like testicles. Géraud told me.”
“Oh.” They were now bumping down a gravel road, past farms where only occasional lights showed, or here or there the blue glow of a television in an unshuttered window. “Well, did he tell you that orchids are some of the most ingenious plants in the world when it comes to reproduction?”
“We didn’t get that far.”
“Then he missed the most important part.” Julian waved his hands enthusiastically. “They go to incredible lengths to attract pollinators. Some orchids put out a scent like rotting meat to lure a certain kind of fly. Others produce a fermented nectar that getsvisiting insects drunk in order to increase the chance of cross-pollination. Others have evolved physically to resemble the pollinators they want to attract. Take the Fly Orchid. Its labellum looks like a certain kind of female wasp, even down to the development of pseudo wings and eyes—” He broke off to glance at Mara. She drove, staring straight ahead. “The—er—male wasp tries to mate with it,” he finished lamely, “gets covered in pollen, and then goes off to try it on with another Fly Orchid, which it pollinates in the process.” It was hard to read her expression in the dark.
A minute later, Mara pulled up in front of his cottage. He reached across to stroke her cheek. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week,” he said, really meaning it. “Time with you.” She was unresponsive, and he found it necessary to explain, “Us alone. Coming in?”
She seemed to struggle out of a reflective mood. “Sorry, Julian. Not tonight.”
“Oh? Something wrong?”
If there was, she clearly didn’t want to go into it. “I’m just beat,” she said. “Rain check?”
“Okay. If that’s what you want.” He paused, then added, “I suppose I could do with an early night myself.” Stuffing down his disappointment, he tried at least for a lingering kiss.
She pecked him briefly. “I’ll call you.”
Julian stood with Bismuth at the roadside, watching her car disappear into the night, feeling stunned. Friday-night dinners at Chez Nous, weekends together, lovemaking, it was the rhythm that he measured his life against nowadays. He sensed that her leavetaking had been more cool than tired. Things had been running along so well. Now he wondered uneasily if Mara was going off him. His throat constricted with a feeling of dismay as the vision of a piece of elastic, suddenly gone limp, free-floated before his eyes.
F or Mara, one of the things that was wrong was Baby Blue. The little corpse haunted the corners of her mind, demanding—what? Justice? Retribution? Truth? Because someone in the past had got away with murder.
Cypripedium incognitum
, of course.” He knew from Bedie’s photograph that the orchid had once grown somewhere on the grounds of Les Colombes. The shawl now gave Aurillac Manor as a second point of reference. That was valuable. However, he still had no information on the specific conditions under which the plant grew, which was what he really needed if he was going to find it. “So I’m stuck making a lot of guesses. Do I assume my Mystery Orchid behaves like the European Lady’s Slipper?”
Cypripedium calceolus
liked cool shade and alkaline soil and attracted a specific pollinator, a bee called
Andrena
. He tugged his beard. “I mean, what if
incognitum
needs deeper shade or a wetter environment? Also, it looks like a whacking great flower, bigger than
calceolus
and with an even larger pouch. So does it attract a larger insect, or a wider range of insects? What?”
He turned the possibilities over in his head as Mara drove out of the sleeping village.
“You know,” he said eventually, “at bottom, everything about orchids boils down to sex. In fact, the ancient Greeks considered the orchid as a symbol of sexuality. The word
orchis
means—”
“Balls,” Mara cut in dryly.
“Orchis
means balls. Because orchid roots look like testicles. Géraud told me.”
“Oh.” They were now bumping down a gravel road, past farms where only occasional lights showed, or here or there the blue glow of a television in an unshuttered window. “Well, did he tell you that orchids are some of the most ingenious plants in the world when it comes to reproduction?”
“We didn’t get that far.”
“Then he missed the most important part.” Julian waved his hands enthusiastically. “They go to incredible lengths to attract pollinators. Some orchids put out a scent like rotting meat to lure a certain kind of fly. Others produce a fermented nectar that getsvisiting insects drunk in order to increase the chance of cross-pollination. Others have evolved physically to resemble the pollinators they want to attract. Take the Fly Orchid. Its labellum looks like a certain kind of female wasp, even down to the development of pseudo wings and eyes—” He broke off to glance at Mara. She drove, staring straight ahead. “The—er—male wasp tries to mate with it,” he finished lamely, “gets covered in pollen, and then goes off to try it on with another Fly Orchid, which it pollinates in the process.” It was hard to read her expression in the dark.
A minute later, Mara pulled up in front of his cottage. He reached across to stroke her cheek. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week,” he said, really meaning it. “Time with you.” She was unresponsive, and he found it necessary to explain, “Us alone. Coming in?”
She seemed to struggle out of a reflective mood. “Sorry, Julian. Not tonight.”
“Oh? Something wrong?”
If there was, she clearly didn’t want to go into it. “I’m just beat,” she said. “Rain check?”
“Okay. If that’s what you want.” He paused, then added, “I suppose I could do with an early night myself.” Stuffing down his disappointment, he tried at least for a lingering kiss.
She pecked him briefly. “I’ll call you.”
Julian stood with Bismuth at the roadside, watching her car disappear into the night, feeling stunned. Friday-night dinners at Chez Nous, weekends together, lovemaking, it was the rhythm that he measured his life against nowadays. He sensed that her leavetaking had been more cool than tired. Things had been running along so well. Now he wondered uneasily if Mara was going off him. His throat constricted with a feeling of dismay as the vision of a piece of elastic, suddenly gone limp, free-floated before his eyes.
F or Mara, one of the things that was wrong was Baby Blue. The little corpse haunted the corners of her mind, demanding—what? Justice? Retribution? Truth? Because someone in the past had got away with murder.
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