Hothouse

By Natalie Brink

I knew my life in Sow’s Creek was over the moment Evangeline Helsing strutted into town. She arrived in a flurry only two days after the biggest snowstorm of the season, a strike of color against the gloomy landscape. It was especially cold that day, so the crunch of her footsteps echoed through town, accompanied only by the occasional short birdcall. 

I should have been finishing the hat I was knitting for my neighbor, but I left my needles and wool in my rocking chair and pressed my forehead against the window. The chill of the glass nipped at my skin, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the movie star. 

Evangeline Helsing had not been seen in public since her July wedding. She had simply vanished from movie theaters, television, even the covers of magazines wives would buy and analyze for hours in an attempt to fashion their look after hers. 

In pictures, she seemed too gorgeous to be real, with her sharp features softened by eyes as big and brown as the centers of sunflowers. But here she was, in the town I trusted to be far enough off the map to hide me from crowds of desperate believers begging me to help them. My gut twisted; she was here to beg for my help. 

Surely enough, Evangeline marched straight to my doorstep. 

I recoiled from the window and scrambled for a coat to wrap over my cotton nightgown. As I pulled the door open, I gave a too-big smile. “Hello. Can I help you?” “Are you the woman who performs miracles?” Her voice carried an accent I had never heard, something soft like a lullaby, but her words sent my thoughts unspooling.

“Are you alright?” She asked. 

I was not alright. Despite the cold, I could feel the heat of my neighbors’ gazes, trying to comprehend how their dowdy neighbor had caught Evangeline Helsing’s attention. And to my horror, a troop of men with cameras was marching into town, already snapping pictures of Evangeline on my porch. My cover was unraveling by the second. I was cornered, and there was nothing I could do except let her in. 

“You should come inside,” I managed through clenched teeth. 

Unfortunately, “inside” was not much. The fire in the stove roared, making the air wooly like my mother’s Afghan blanket spread over the back of the sofa. Orange garland webbed the room, sighing its citrusy aroma. I had even managed to buy a radio that year, and music leaked into the room, slightly distorted but undeniably bluesy. However, despite my best efforts, you could tell the place was in disrepair. Paint chipped from the walls, leaving giant white silhouettes. The floors croaked. And the scent of mold lingered under it all. 

Evangeline’s nose crinkled at first, but she was kind enough to plaster on a smile. “How do you know about me?” I asked once she set her denim blue suitcase down. “I always have ears for anyone whose talents might be otherworldly, so when this woman in the hotel started talking about you to her friends, I interrupted.” 

Shit. I had forgotten to cover my tracks somewhere, there were a hundred places it could have been, thousands of people it might be. Was it the woman who wanted that job in Denver, the one who called me Madam Zara? The one in Atlanta who wanted love and knew me only as the witch? Could it have been the teenager in Santa Fe who called me Molly and asked for parents who didn’t use her as an ashtray? All gods, I could still remember the desperation in their eyes. I saw it in Evangeline’s eyes, too. 

“I see,” I barely managed through suffocating fear. Outside, the photographers were contorting themselves to snap a glimpse of Evangeline through the windows. I scrambled to shut the curtains.

Evangeline shied away from the windows. “The woman told me you help those in need. You are a miracle worker. According to her, you can turn pebbles to gold and see people’s memories with only a touch of the hands. I came as soon as the storm allowed.” “Why?” 

“I need your assistance. I am cursed.” 

I opened my mouth, my voice wobbly. “I’m sorry – cursed? Aren’t you basically Hollywood royalty?” 

“Yes, I suppose.” She tugged at the silk scarf knotted around her neck. “But that is exactly the problem. You see… actually, might we sit down? There is much to discuss.” I motioned to the table shoved against the far wall. It was ancient and far too big to move out of the house, so I had made repairs as best I could. I hope she did not mind the uneven legs or the blotchy stain I had slapped on when I was still hopeful it could be restored. For her part, Evangeline made no comment as she tucked herself into the far chair. 

Seeing her seated at my table, I came to my senses and realized I had a guest, however famous she might be. I tampered down my annoyance and put the kettle on the stove and set the table for tea. She watched me in silence, running a painted nail across the roughly hewn tabletop. Outside, the birdcalls were drowned by the clamor of photographers and the sizzle of their camera flashes. I turned up the radio. 

“Right,” I said, once the kettle started to hiss. “Now we can have our chat.” She let her eyes fall shut as I poured tea, the hot water bubbling into mismatched cups. “I suppose there is no easy way to put this. I have been alive since 1679.” 

“Really?” I said, using every ounce of my being to keep my tone neutral as I took my seat at the table.

“Yes, really.” She had opened her eyes, and I found the weight of her gaze too heavy to meet. “I have been trying for centuries to break the curse, and no one has been able to help me. I am asking you to try.” 

I gripped my mug, impervious to the scalding tea. It was one thing to be visited by one of the most famous women in America. It was quite another thing to learn she was two and three-quarter centuries old. “I’m sorry to ask, but why would you want to break the curse? Didn’t you just marry that director? Do you know everyone in America knows your name? Do you know every woman wants to be you?” 

“I’m quite aware.” She piled spoonfuls of sugar into her tea and stirred but did not drink. “It’s part of my curse to be famous. I’ve been famous under almost half a dozen names in my life. I thought that was the goal: to be beautiful and coveted. Could you blame a young peasant? I watched labor gnaw away at my parents’ flesh and turn them to bone. I ran off to the forest more times than I can count to get away from the farm. Such a shame no one warned me of forest witches and curses dressed as blessings.” 

“So you want me to break this curse that a… forest witch cast on you?” 

She nodded. I couldn’t help but notice the stink of mold was stronger near the table. “Are you certain? Dealing with strong magic can result in death. Painful death,” I said. She slumped over the table, her tea sloshing over the rim. “I don’t need moralizing 

lectures. I have lived too many lives to be lectured. Tell me, do you like to eat? Do you like to sip tea? Do you like to have the reassurance that air swells in your lungs and blood through your veins? Yes, I have been beautiful and famous ever since that day in the woods, but I have long since lost my tether to humanity. I have not tasted food nor drink for centuries. I could recite a thousand lines and never take a breath. I could cut my skin a thousand times and never draw blood. Tell me, is that a life?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I do not need your empty words. I need you to work a miracle.” 

“I can try. I will try.” I had promised myself I was done with miracles, with facing crowds of beggars who were out of luck, out of money, out of time. I scampered out of cities in broad daylight because they usually came to me after the sun fell. It was more mystical that way. But in every new city, all it took was one lonely soul, and I was scrambling to come up with a new identity for myself and make miracles that soothed lost souls. 

Evangeline was staring at me. I thought I saw her lip tremble, ever so slightly. I set my cup down and reached across the table for her hands. They felt almost like porcelain, smooth and without any warmth. My gift rushed through my veins and set them alight. My gut twisted painfully, and her memories flooded over me. 

EVANGELINE’S SIX LIVES 

evgeniya morozova 

the serf 

1699 

Trees crowded around me like armor. The darkness in this part of the forest was absolute. I was following the woman’s voice, soft like candlelight. Her promises bundled around me, shielding me from the freezing temperatures. 

As I got closer, the forest grew bright. I was almost there. I was almost free. The moment I saw her, I knew I had made a mistake. She was not so much a woman as she was a lump of flesh.

But it was too late, I was blinded by her spell. 

Before I could so much as scream, everything was dark again. 

It was in this darkness I drew a ragged breath. 

It was in this darkness I found I could not take another. 

EVGENIYA MOROZOVA 

THE TSAR’S DANCER 

1702 

The package arrived late, right after a blizzard. I snatched it from the courier and disappeared inside the mansion I finally had enough money to own. I cradled the package close to my chest and sat beside the fire, the silks of my skirts pooling around me like liquid rubies. 

The box was carved with the two bird-bodied women of Russian folklore who sang away misfortune. I let my fingers wander over the carvings, unaccustomed to such artistry. When I finally lifted the lid, a necklace glimmered in the firelight. It was stunning – a wedge of emerald embraced by glistening diamonds. 

I couldn’t help but laugh. The man who history would remember as Peter the Great had seen me dance, and he sent me riches. Me. Evgeniya Morozova, the peasant girl. Except, I was no longer a peasant girl. 

I was a bird on the precipice of something great. And I was about to take flight.

EVELINA MOROZOVA 

THE TSARINA’S DANCER 

1762 

Ballet was changing. The moves I had become famous for were too tame.

The instructor lashed at me with a venomous tongue, and I fell from my pirouette. The others watched with their hollow eyes. My skin crawled under their collective gaze, and I wished only to lie on the practice room floor for a few moments. The witch had not taken my ability to feel the ache of my muscles, and my body was twisting in agony. 

“Again! Your mother would have no issue with this routine!” 

I struggled to my feet, thankful I had no blood to allow a bruise. Piano music drifted through the room like snowfall, and I began my routine once more. 

I could not help but marvel at myself as I glided through the air with otherworldly grace. I knew how it felt to fly. 

But then I was falling, crashing down to earth with broken wings. 

The instructor stood above me with his hands curled into fists. 

I guess I should be thankful I had no blood to bruise. 

EVA VALENTI 

THE PRIMA DONNA 

1850 

It was after an impressive dinner served by the Duchess Este that her husband the Duke yanked me into the hallway. The veal, which looked wonderful but tasted like dirt, swam bloody in my stomach as his hand tightened around my bicep. 

“You’ll no longer have a patron if you continue to shame yourself,” he hissed. “Everyone can hear that accent of yours, so don’t fool yourself into believing another patron will be eager to take you in.” 

My body was sore from the Verdi I had performed earlier in the evening and dinner was most uncomfortable in my stomach, but I had learned how to rely on my muscles to keep me upright even while they screamed. However, my mind was not so reliable, and I could not fumble out a response to the Duke before he pushed me away. 

“Did you not hear yourself arguing with Mr. Amati? Your job is to sit down and make nice with my guests. Tell them about your roles. Be agreeable, and do not take up space.” “I was only arguing on behalf of Verdi.” The words were clumsy, girlish on my lips. “He told me himself –” 

The Duke raised a hand, and I swallowed my words. 

“You will never take up an argument at my table again.” 

I nodded, but he still struck my face. 

The veal escaped my lips before I could stop it. It splashed into a meaty puddle on the Estes’ oriental runner and buried the stylized birds woven into the rug. 

AVA LIVINGSTON 

THE BELLE OF BROADWAY 

1918 

Romeo lay dead before me, his warmth still dancing on my lips. I howled with grief, and I knew without looking I had the audience ensnared. 

But there was a slight tremor to my hands I could not shake. I knew the critics were watching, and I intended to give them a show – a show they would think about in the dead of night when they couldn’t fall asleep. Just how did she do that? 

“O happy dagger!” 

I fumbled for the very real, very sharp knife I had snuck on stage. 

“This is thy sheath.”

I stabbed myself. The metal thunked against my flesh, sinking between my ribs and igniting my side with pain but drawing no blood. I wailed in convincing agony. I had almost done it, I just needed to die with flourish to seal my name with Juliet’s forever. “There rest, and let me die.” 

Before I fell to the ground, I caught Romeo’s eyes. They were open. They weren’t supposed to be open. He was in full view of the wound that should be fatal but was not. I tried to draw a steadying breath, but there was no relief of air, there hadn’t been for centuries. 

I could not explain myself out of this, could not rely on the inoffensive nature I had crafted since Italy. But I could buy his silence. I had to. I shuddered at what it would cost as the audience’s gasps swirled around us: the two fallen lovers, tied together by an unnamable secret, trembling at the thought of one another. 

EVANGELINE HELSING 

THE STARLET 

1954 

After the heat of the studio lights, the coolness of the office was welcome on my skin. But anxiety beat inside of me like a caged bird. There was something else inside of me too, something I did not know could happen to someone with no blood. 

Arthur thundered into the office. “You’re not keeping it, so don’t get attached. We’re putting you on a plane to Sweden tomorrow.” 

I bit my tongue, determined not to make a mess of my stage makeup. 

“You’ve caused an enormous burden to the studio.” He was yelling, spittle flying in all directions. “You’ve got to marry him now, do you realize?” 

“I will.”

I can’t. 

“That’s right. We’ve got a date set in December.” 

“I love him.” I had to fall back on centuries of practice to deliver the line convincingly. Before I could stop myself, my mind conjured images of a married life with Forrest. Us standing on the church steps while white doves fly high into the sky. His hand digging into my 

back on the red carpet. His accusations of “whore” when he was the one who took me to bed. The blows he rained onto me. My body that refused to break, to scream the truth to the world through black eyes or broken bones. 

“You better love him,” Arthur said. “You’re gonna be with him for the rest of your life.” “I understand.” 

Outside, a pigeon came to rest on a telephone wire. I forced myself to look away. *** 

The fire roared in the stove. The smell of citrus and mold mingled in the air. Evangeline sat across from me with her hands still in mine. Her skin was tinged green, and I knew she had relived every memory as I had snatched it out of her. She had been alive for so long, under so many different names, but her memories were the clearest I had ever witnessed. 

“I’m sorry.” I took my hands back and dusted them against my skirt. “I didn’t realize.” “I remember everything,” she pressed her fingers to her temples, “but that was unlike anything I have ever experienced.” 

“Again, I am so sorry –” 

She held up a hand to silence me. “This is good. This means you are not a fraud. This means you can break the curse.” 

“As I said, this will be hard.”

“After so long, do I have any other options?” 

“I guess not.” My chest was tight. Part of me wanted to scream at her, scream for the quiet life of mine she had uprooted. 

I could hear the photographers through the walls. The air was thick with their chant: “E-van-ge-line! E-van-ge-line!” 

I hesitated. I could turn my back on the movie star, kick her out to be devoured by the media. It would be a lie to say I did not want her to suffer for drawing America’s attention to Sow’s Creek, to me. But where would she go? Back to Forrest? Back to a life she could not call her own? 

Evangeline smiled at me, and all I saw was the scared girl in the forest. Evgeniya. The peasant girl who longed for more than life had to offer people like her. The girl who wanted to be adored but could not imagine the cost. 

There are many small towns in this world, and I was not particularly attached to Sow’s Creek. I could pack up my life in less than an hour and be on my way. 

I got up from the table and began rummaging. “I think I can break the curse, but I should let you know I don’t know what will happen. You might be fine. You might seize. You might turn to dust.” 

“I understand.” 

I didn’t doubt that she understood. Unlike my old clients, she knew what those of us who were gifted were capable of. 

I filled a large pot with snowmelt and set it to boil on the stove. I tossed in rosemary and dried rose petals, dropped in a few perfectly round stones, and settled on the surface an eagle feather that had blown up to my front porch right before the snowstorm.

Outside, I could hear the sustained murmur only a large crowd could create, a chorus of dozens of voices. More photographers and journalists must be arriving in town – chasing the lead that after six months of hiding, Evangeline Helsing had shown up in Sow’s Creek of all places. 

The mixture on the stove was soon raging. I concentrated on Evangeline’s earliest memory, of the words the witch had spewed. I imagined plucking the sentences out of the air and snapping them word by word, letter by letter until the curse had lost all meaning. There was banging on the door. 

I ladled some of the mixture into a cup and thrust it at Evangeline. “Drink this now.” Without hesitation, she put the cup to her lips. 

Before me, Evangeline Helsing melted away. Her features contorted, then smoothed into someone who resembled Evangeline but whose features were less sharp than gaunt and whose nose was slightly crooked and too small for her face. 

The sound of banging overtook the radio’s music. The door was shaking in its frame. “Evangeline?” 

She sipped once more at the mixture, then her face soured. Her eyebrows shot up. “It worked! This tastes awful!” 

She had her arms wrapped around me before I could understand what had happened. She was cured. 

“Thank you a thousand times over.” Her accent was growing thicker. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Never have I –” She frowned, her words coming slow and jumbled. “I – REDACTED” “Evangeline, are you okay?” 

She cocked her head. “Redacted Redacted Redacted”

The door buckled against its hinges. 

“Evangeline?” 

“Redacted Redacted” 

“Hello? Evangeline?” 

She tapped her finger to her chest. “Evgeniya. Redacted Evgeniya.” 

“Can you understand me?” I was grabbing her hands, probably too tight. 

“Redacted Redacted Redacted?” Her eyes were not so big as they were when she came to me, but they were wild with fright. 

I couldn’t believe it. I had destroyed Evangeline Helsing, and Evgeniya had arisen to take her place. 

Just as I came to understand what I had done, the front door slammed open. The heat of the flash puckered my skin as the photographers took shot after shot. 

“Evangeline!” They cried out like a horrific chorus. “Evangeline, look over here!” By the time I had forced myself between Evgenyia and the mob, they had already realized that Evangeline Helsing was not in my kitchen. It was just a girl who resembled Evangeline, but who could under no circumstances be mistaken for the movie star. The photographers fell silent. They did not even apologize as they left out of the broken door, their heads slumped not in shame but disappointment. And then we were alone. I held Evgenyia close and hummed a lullaby, a wordless tune that I prayed could calm her. I held her until she stopped shaking like a bird stuck in the cold. 

I set her at the table with the tea she had made herself earlier. She was shaken from the incident, but she managed to sip at it, her eyes fluttering at the sweetness.

As she sat in silence, I rummaged through my belongings and uncovered an ancient Russian to English dictionary that had been in the house when I moved in. Its cover was torn half off, and I wasn’t sure if Evgeniya would even understand the Russian it contained, but I had to try. Evangeline was gone, but Evgeniya still needed me. 

I took the dictionary and sat next to Evgeniya. She didn’t acknowledge me, merely continued to stare at her cup of tea. 

I flipped through the pages until I found the word I was looking for. “Hello.” She flinched before slowly raising her eyes to meet mine. “Hello?” 

“I. Be. Help. You.” 

Her mouth contorted into the breath of a smile. “redacted redacted redacted.” Her words were too fast for me to understand, but I nodded anyway. 

Her careful smile reached her eyes. 

“My. Name.” I tapped my chest as she had done. “Imogen.” 

“Imogen.” She repeated. “Imogen.” 

That evening, I took Evgeniya’s hand in mine, and we walked down Main Street in silence. Her hand no longer felt like porcelain, but something rough and warm and very much alive. A few sparrows carried a birdsong as darkness shuffled in with sunset. A gentle spring mildness hung in the air about two months earlier than expected, so the snow was already melting. We helped one another through the mud. 

When I left town with Evangeline Helsing, no one took notice. After all, she was no longer Evangeline Helsing. She was Evgeniya, and she was finally free.