It was there, in that damp ledger, that Kirsch found other signatures—dates and practices that overlapped with his own notes. Elise had been working with someone else: a botanist named Marius Kett, who had cataloged plant mutations near the river and had been seen the week before she fell ill. The ledger spoke of trials, of blossoms that bent toward the hum of something like electricity; of leaves that remembered touch like a wound remembers a blade.