Red blisters had swollen on my fingertips. It felt as if the skin were being eaten from the inside. Shock rooted me in place as I watched the bubbles move unnaturally across my fingers, unable to comprehend what was happening. My ears buzzed violently, and suddenly the greenhouse felt suffocating. In an instant, Denis grabbed me by the shoulders and hurried me toward the exit. Behind us, Dasha and Tatiana gasped, a mixture of awe and alarm escaping them. Once inside the store, I held my outstretched hand before me, unable to tear my eyes away from my fingertips. Aside from a lingering burn, I felt no pain—but the sight alone was terrifying. This wasn't supposed to happen.
Denis guided me to a chair behind the cash register and quickly went to call his father. At his instruction, Dasha gripped her own wrist just above the pulse point, squeezing hard as if doing so could halt some invisible venom from spreading under her skin. How strange. How could such a dangerous plant be kept alongside harmless greenery in a greenhouse?
Soon Denis returned, carrying a stack of cotton discs in one hand and a plastic container with a thin, precise nozzle in the other, resembling those used for dispensing hydrogen peroxide. Was he sure about what he was doing? Hydrogen peroxide didn't seem like it could counteract aconite. My lips trembled with the urge to protest, but they refused to obey. My body shivered as the air in the store thickened, hotter even than the greenhouse, while a cool mist formed on my forehead.
Denis pressed the sponge gently against the back of my injured fingers and began pouring the clear liquid generously. Slowly, the burning sensation eased, the ringing in my ears faded, and the redness surrounding the blisters diminished. He continued, even when the sponge was soaked and droplets began falling onto the polished floor.
"Dasha, you can let go," Denis said, and Romanova finally released her grip, glancing at me cautiously, expecting some reaction. My senses cleared, focus returned, and the oppressive heat of the greenhouse was replaced by a shivering chill.
"It's… cold," I whispered, my own voice alien to me. My throat was parched, craving warmth and comfort.
"I'll make some tea now," came Uncle Dima's calm voice from across the counter, the first I'd noticed him since the incident.
Denis, meanwhile, produced a folded purple hoodie from beneath the counter, unfolding it and draping it over my shoulders atop my jacket, as if the gesture alone could help.
"How are you?" Dasha asked softly, crouched before me, her hand gently stroking my knee.
"Unclear," I admitted, surveying the concerned faces around me. Tatiana hovered to the side, picking nervously at her thumbnail—a stark contrast to the bold, lively girl I had known. Fear could transform anyone.
"What happened?" I asked Denis. He sighed, heavy with weariness.
"You're allergic to aconite, like me," he said, nodding toward my hand. "Even brief contact can cause blisters. Then breathing becomes difficult, and fever sets in—it's like anaphylactic shock."
"Isn't that when you call an ambulance, get medication?" I asked, confusion lacing my voice.
"Yes, normally. But your reaction was different. Allergy to aconite is extremely rare. I've only ever seen it in my grandfather, and I assumed it was strictly hereditary. And now, apparently, you have it too."
"Most people don't even try touching one of the most poisonous plants, and no one grows it in a greenhouse next to others," Tatiana muttered bitterly, and I couldn't ignore the sharp truth in her words.
"One of the most poisonous plants?" I asked Denis. He looked away, leaving the question unanswered. Tatiana rolled her eyes, but explained nonetheless:
"Monkshood—that's another name for aconite. Do you know what it is? Real poison."
Denis coughed, a deliberately exaggerated sound, though perhaps it merely seemed so. I had never had to worry about my health before, and now everything felt precarious.
"Sorry, what's your name again?" Denis asked Tatiana.
"Tanya," she snapped, slipping effortlessly back into her assertive persona. "Why keep something so dangerous in your backyard? Its flowers can kill even without allergies! Is that legal?"
"Legal—technically," Uncle Dima replied calmly, adjusting his wheelchair. A large thermos and a stack of plastic cups rested on his knees. "I've called Konstantin. He'll be here soon to pick you up."
I bit my lip, holding back unnecessary words. The last thing I wanted was for Kostya to hear about this mishap. I imagined him telling my mother, both of them panicking, trying to figure out how to protect me. But now I understood: aconite was rare. I would never touch it again.
"Uncle Dima… it wasn't worth it…" I murmured, but he only handed me a warm cup of tea.
"Drink," he instructed firmly. "It will help."
I held the cup with both hands, careful not to touch my burned fingers.
"Thanks."
"Still waiting for someone to explain why the hell aconite is in your backyard!" Tatiana demanded, drawing the group's attention. Denis leaned against the counter silently, eyes fixed ahead, while Uncle Dima began to respond calmly:
"There's nothing mysterious. My wife makes ointments from aconite root. It helps immensely with back pain and more. When you're our age, you'll need it too," he said with a faint, sad smile, sipping his tea. "Tatiana, right? You could try chamomile—it's excellent for stress."
"Oh, thanks," she replied with forced politeness. "I'll manage without."
"Tanya," I said gently, "no one's to blame. Calm down."
"Calm down? Tell that to your father," she shot back, voice sharp, and stormed to the door. The handle yielded a small crack, but the lock held.
"What's going on?"
Uncle Dima shrugged. "I locked the shop until Asya's father arrives. You can take the keys if you must leave. It's normal to be scared. You froze at the counter, unsure how to help—nothing shameful. Everything is fine now."
Tanya's lips pressed thin as she processed his words, her anger slowly softening. She wavered, uncertain whether to leave or stay. Moments passed in tense silence before she finally returned, quieter:
"Show me," she said in her typical, commanding Rostova tone, then softened with a whisper: "Please."