Poison Diaries: Nightshade
Maryrose Wood
A dark, gothic tale of romance… and murder.Part of the grippingly dark series, The Poison Diaries.Our heroine, Jessamine, has lost her faith in the men she loved, and her innocence as well. She turns to the dark side and plots to kill her father, using his own poisons, before becoming an assassin, a poisoner for hire. Can she recover from her heartache and reunite with her true love, Weed? Find out in this thrilling story where poisons, darkness and horror are a part of everyday life, and love is the only cure.
Dedication
For Ruta Rimas, with deepest thanks
Epigraph
“Weed… fills my head with tales from the ancient forests, tales so old that the trees themselves call them legends. It is as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes, and the world I have lived in all my sixteen years is revealed to be something else entirely, something so
marvellous I could never have imagined it…”
– JESSAMINE LUXTON, The Poison Diaries
Contents
Cover (#ulink_28bbe352-c078-56b4-8948-a1103b4e6478)
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1
I WAKE, AS I usually do, to the sound of…
2
ALL DAY AND LATE into the evening, the fields ring…
3
A STAND OF HEMLOCK water dropwort grows in a sturdy…
4
IT IS LATE AFTERNOON when I return, though the sky…
5
DEEP IN THE FOREST is another world, yet three hours…
6
I AM ROWAN. I tell myself over and over, in…
7
THE JOURNEY SOUTH TAKES on a rhythm of its own.
8
THE NEXT MORNING I awaken early. I have only had…
9
THEY DRAG ME BACK to the King’s Head and sequester…
10
IT HAS TAKEN THE better part of this long sea…
11
THE COURTYARD OF SIGNORA Baglioni’s house is filled with weathered…
12
JESSAMINE LUXTON.
13
SIGNORA BAGLIONI BEGINS EVERY lesson the same way: “What does…
14
BE CHARMING, LOVELY. That was Oleander’s final instruction. These men…
15
THE TREE SIGNORA CALLS the Palm of St. Peter is the…
16
“BELLISSIMO,” SIGNORA BAGLIONI MURMURS, making the final adjustments to my…
17
I AM DYING, DROWNING at the bottom of the Tyne…
18
ARE YOU VERY WEARY, lovely? You must be. Even with…
19
THE PORTS OF PADUA and Venice were closed after word…
Other Books by Maryrose Wood
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
I WAKE, AS I usually do, to the sound of Weed’s voice. It rustles in my ear as I sleep. It skitters through my dreams like autumn leaves along the ground. My skin warms, my breath quickens. The memories come unbidden.
It is early spring, before I became ill. Weed and I are on one of our long rambles through the rolling green fields of Northumberland. He tells me strange fables, one after another, of a world where plants can speak, and all forms of life are of equal worth: humans, animals, and plants, too.
I laugh, because the tales are so marvellous. He turns to me, solemn-faced, and I explain my reaction.
“Marvellous? You may find them so. The trees are quite serious when they tell them.”
“But it is only a tale, a story – even to the trees, is it not? Look, here is a lovely place for our picnic. Shall we stop?”
How foolish I was then. How wrong I was, about so many things.
I thought love was a rare orchid that bloomed only once – but once it bloomed, it bloomed forever.
I thought that with the death of my mother, so many years ago, the worst of my life had already come and gone.
I thought my father would protect me from harm.
Was I wrong about Weed as well? Every time I draw breath I catch the earth scent of him. I lie motionless in my bed, alone in my tower bedchamber. A summer breeze floats through the open shutters, and I feel the tenderness of his kiss.
The last time I saw him I was dying. My mind flew with dark wings, and I looked down on my own pain-wracked body as if it belonged to another. I had nightmare visions of a strange prince who fed me poison, who wooed and tormented me, who showed me bloody scenes and unspeakable evils – evils wrought by my father.
My heart still pounds when I recall those hellish dreams. I thought I would not survive them. There were times I did not wish to.
More memories play on my half-closed eyelids as the morning sun tries to pry them open: Weed sitting at my bedside, spooning medicine to my lips. Wiping my brow. Gazing at me in love and grief, his moss-green eyes bright with tears.
Then he was gone. He lost hope and left. Too faithless to stay by my side until the end, he abandoned me at the worst point of my illness. That is what Father said, after my fever finally broke and I gasped and cried my way back to life, like a second birth.
“He is gone, and good riddance. He is a coward and a trickster. You are not the first maiden to be fooled by such a scoundrel. Bear your shame alone now; marry your work, and forget him, for you will not see him again.” Father said it coldly, and not without satisfaction.
Of course, what Father says cannot always be believed. But Weed is gone; that much is true. There has been no word, and now the summer draws to a close.
I stretch and turn beneath the cool linen sheet. I flex each limb and yawn, like a waking cat. Am I well? It is hard to say. In some ways I am stronger than I was. I am less trusting, less innocent. I have thoughts, sometimes, that I barely recognise as my own. I feel capable of things that I never would have dreamed of before.
I have even taken over my father’s healing practice. I had to; Father is too busy now, or too indifferent, to tend to people’s ills as he used to. With my knowledge of plants, it was not difficult to learn the basic cures, and they are most of what any healer needs. One fever, croup, or childbirth pang is much like another.
Once I walked through Northumberland hooded and silent, too shy to speak, too unimportant to approach. Now I am known and respected, and even a little bit feared. I do not mind that.
But there is an ache within, an empty place. My heart, once lush with joy, now lies fallow. Everything tastes like dust.
Weed, I have whispered a thousand times as I wandered alone through the meadows of Hulne Park. Where are you? Why did you leave? When will you come back to me? But the dull, ocean roar of the grass is the only answer I receive.
Tell him I love him still, I weep into the bark of an ancient pine. Tell him for me, please.
Still, I get no reply.
I long to drift back to sleep and bury myself in the bitter sweet dream of all that I have lost. But I must rise and dress. It is Sunday.
Yes, I go to church on Sundays, now. I go alone, for my father worships no god but knowledge. The tested, proven theories of long-dead men, as recorded in the musty books in the Duke’s library – those are his only sacred texts.
I myself have sometimes wondered what force could have put so many kinds of life on the earth, and made us need each other so, and hurt each other so, but I have not yet conceived of an answer. Still, to church I go, three miles on foot in the hot August haze. It is for my own protection. A woman who knows how to heal will always be suspected of witchcraft in these parts. The witch laws were struck down before I was born, but the people fear what they fear.
This is the north of England, after all; it is beautiful and raw here, and the land, the wind, and the sea have minds of their own. The people do, too. The north is not London, where the latest fashion is always best. In the north, the new is suspect, and the old ways die hard.
Like an apparition I glide silently into the chapel, so that everyone may see I am a virtuous and God-fearing young woman, and that my powers, such as they are, are drawn from nothing more sinister than a sprig of feverfew, a tisane of camomile, or a paste of crushed garlic and cloves.
“Good morning, Miss Luxton,” the people murmur as I pass. “Good day and good health to you.” When they ask about my father, and wonder why he no longer goes out, I say he is busy with his apothecary garden, or studying ancient cures at the Duke’s library at Alnwick Castle. The truth is that since my recovery, his frequent dark moods have knitted themselves into a ceaseless gloom. He works day and night, in his study or in the garden. At mealtimes he is silent; when we pass each other in the hall, he barely looks at me.
I thought I was alone before, before Weed came and I had only Father’s stern presence for company. Now Father is as lost to me as Weed is.
I sit stiff-backed in a pew, not far from the church doors. I stand when the preacher asks us to stand. I kneel when he tells us to kneel. When it is time to sing hymns, I raise my voice with the congregation, not so loudly that I draw attention to myself, but with enough force to be heard.
When the service is over I linger, my head bowed. Those who would beg my help approach me in turn: “Miss Luxton, the baby won’t stop coughing.” “Miss Luxton, a week’s come and gone and the wound won’t heal.” “Miss Luxton, it’s near my time, I need something to ease the birth pangs, will you come right away if I send my girl for you?”
One after another they tell me their aches, their pains, their worries. I nod in sympathy and promise to come when needed. Then I follow my fellow worshippers through the door, stepping from the cool, damp air of the church into the merciless noonday sun.
The preacher speaks to each one of us as we exit, gazing into our eyes, clasping our hands. He tells us to believe, so that we may be saved. “Hellfire is a thousand times hotter than this,” he warns, shaking a finger to the sky. “A thousand times a thousand! But you must believe!”
Outside the church the people gather in small, frightened groups and whisper, “The end of the world is nigh.”
They are righter than they know.
There – it has happened again. The words appear in my mind as if someone spoke them aloud. But there is no one here. It is as if my thoughts are not entirely my own.
And the voice – it chills my blood to admit it – but I have come realise that I know that voice. It is the voice from my nightmares. The voice of the evil prince.
He calls himself Oleander. The Prince of Poisons.
Shaken, I walk home from church, lay down my light summer shawl, eat a simple lunch of bread and cheese, alone. The cottage is quiet. Father must be out wandering the fields, or brooding behind the tall gate of his locked garden.
Once I thought of it as his apothecary garden, but now I know better. Those plants are poison, and the garden is something unnatural – a living weapon. Weed told me as much.
Your father has done me a great service, planting that garden. I hope he is not fool enough to think he is its master.
The words snake through my head, slow and inexorable, like oil spreading over water.
If so, he will pay the price someday, for that garden already has a master. One who will allow no pretenders to the throne.
There is a rap at the door.
I startle. Am I losing my mind? Is the dark prince of my nightmares standing outside my cottage this instant?
A charming thought, lovely. But I have no need of doors. All the locked gates in the world could not contain me. I enter when and where I wish. I hold the key to every poisoned heart.
The rap comes again, insistent. I remember the woman at church, the one who was heavy with child. Perhaps her pains have started. Trying to shake off this strange bout of madness, I grab my shawl and my medical bag and hurry to the door.
“I am ready,” I begin to say, but two men stand before me. Local men, both farmers. I have seen them before, at market day. Their awkward bulk fills the doorframe and blocks the slanted afternoon light.
“Miss Luxton?”
“Yes.”
The taller man glances at the bag in my hands. “Might we come in for a moment and speak with you? It won’t take long.”
I bid them enter and show them to the parlour, but I remain standing. “I would ask you to sit, but as you see I was just on my way out,” I say, gesturing with my bag. “I trust you are not ill? That is the usual reason for strangers to appear at my door.”
The men shake their heads and glance uncomfortably around the room, with its vaulted ceiling and tall, arched windows. Long ago this cottage was a chapel. Now it is our home. Is that why I am being curse with this strange madness? I think. Can the echo of a thousand unanswered prayers ever truly fade? Can a chapel be haunted?
My uneasy visitors wring their hats in their hands. The tall man speaks. “Sorry to detain you, Miss Luxton. We’re from the Association for the Prosecution of Criminal Acts and Undesirables. Me and Horace, here, we’re making enquiries in the neighbourhood, regarding the matter of – well, a missing person, you might say.”
“Dead person, he means.” His companion scowls. “Don’t drag this out, Ned, I’ll be wanting supper soon, and it’s a long way home on foot.”
Missing person – dead person. Surely they cannot mean Weed? I bite my lip hard, and use the pain to steady myself.
The one called Ned swallows and nods. “Miss Luxton, there was a travelling preacher who came and went through these parts. ‘Repent, repent,’ you know the type – anyways, the man hasn’t been seen for some time. A week ago his Bible turns up near the crossroads, buried deep in a hedge of bramble. A farmer from Alnwick found it. One of his lambs got tangled up in the thorns, see, and he had to cut out the branches to free it. It was a bit worse for the rain and sun – the Bible, I mean – but you could still read the name on the flyleaf.”
Ned pauses and wipes his face with a simple cotton square he extracts from a pocket. “Forgive me, miss. There’s more, but it’s not an easy story to tell to a young lady like yourself. Not far from the Bible was… was…”
“A pile of bones,” Horace interrupts. “Human bones. Picked so clean you’d think they’d been boiled for soup.” He cleans his teeth with his own dirty fingernail, as if to demonstrate.
His words bore into me, releasing a gush of dread from some deep reservoir inside. “The ravens of Hulne Park do their work swiftly,” I say, masking my fear. “I hope you will follow their good example, gentlemen. Why are you here?”
“The truth is, miss, we don’t much care what happened to this fellow. Good riddance, one might say. Who wants to hear all that gloom and doom? But as it turns out, the preacher had a wife, and they both were members of our association. Dues paid in full.” Horace shakes his head in disappointment. “Which means that we two are stuck with the job of investigating.”
“Couldn’t happen at a worse time, either,” Ned adds. “Right in the middle of the harvest.”
“Was it murder?” I say the word as if it meant nothing horrible – murder, murder, murder – a word like any other.
Horace snorts, a contemptuous laugh. “A man’s bleached bones don’t just fall out of the sky, do they?”
“God alone knows what happened.” Ned rolls his eyes heavenward. “And God alone metes final justice. But that don’t mean we can shut our eyes to this business. The association must perform its duty, Miss Luxton. That’s why we’re here. Allow me to ask: Do you have any knowledge of this matter? Firsthand, secondhand, or otherwise?”
“I do not.”
“Duly noted. Like we said, we’ve been making enquiries. We were told there was a young man living here. May we speak to him?”
I hesitate. “Why?”
They glance at each other before Horace replies. “The widow’s paid her dues. That means we have to find someone to prosecute. Otherwise the case’ll drag on and on, and we’ll never have a moment’s peace. We could pay her to drop it, but that’d cost us a king’s ransom.”
The two men stand there, fingering their hats, waiting for my answer. Deliberately I remove my shawl and take a seat. I must, for my legs have begun to tremble.
“So you wish to find some poor fool to charge with a crime? Whether or not he is guilty of it?” My voice is cool, my anger palpable – how like my father I sound!
“Guilty, innocent – it don’t have to be so formal as all that!” Horace smiles. “No doubt it was an accident, whatever happened. Words get exchanged. Push comes to shove. The preacher ends up with a bloody nose in the dirt. Your friend goes on his merry way, as any of us would, and that’s the last he thinks of it. How was he to know the preacher could die of such a feeble blow?”
To demonstrate, Ned cuffs Horace on the head. For a moment I wonder if I am about to witness a murder myself, but Horace grits his teeth and continues.
“We take your friend to the magistrate, where he apologises most sincerely and pleads the benefit of clergy. Then he stands there like a good lad while he gets his pardon.”
“A pardon?” I interject. “But a man is dead. Surely his widow will want justice. I would, if I were her.”
“Every man worth his salt loses his temper now and again. That’s how the magistrate’ll see it, you can be sure. It gets the widow off our backs and puts the whole matter to bed. We’ll pay your friend a day’s wages for his trouble, too.”
Ned grins; his teeth are yellow as a mule’s. “But there won’t be no hanging, that we can promise you.”
“Lay off the talk of hanging, you dumb ox, you’re going to frighten the girl.” Horace turns back to me. “Now that we’ve laid your worries to rest – can we speak to the young fellow?”
I stand and move to the window. “The youth you refer to goes by the name of Weed. He stayed here with us for a short while. He was a great help to my father with the work in the gardens. But he no longer lives here, and I have no knowledge of his whereabouts.”
I let my eyes drift downward, shy and maidenly. “I would like to speak to him as well. He left soon after” – I allow my voice to catch with emotion; why not? – “soon after my father suggested that we become engaged.”
My visitors exchange a look. They too were young men, once. And now that they know how I have been shamed and abandoned, perhaps they will leave me be.
“I see.” Horace’s voice is gruff. “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke to your father, then.”
“My father is out.” I wave my hand, as if to indicate the whole north of England and Scotland, too. “If you can find him, by all means, speak to him. Feel free to go outside and look. I will make tea while you do.”
Before they can catch breath enough to answer, I excuse myself and leave. How convenient it is to be a woman, sometimes! One can always use the kitchen as an excuse to escape men’s tedious conversations, their scheming and planning. Father has his work to hide behind, I think, and I have my kettle.
As I light the fire my mind wanders down strange paths. Dread churns within me – dread that, somehow, this preacher’s death has something to do with Weed’s disappearance. But what?
I take my metal canister of tea off the shelf. It is my own mixture of dried lavender blossoms and lemon balm, harvested from my garden and hung in the storeroom to dry. Weed helped me hang these stalks, I think. His hands touched these tender leaves, just as they touched me…
I measure the tea, crumbling the dried leaves through my fingers to release the sweet fragrance. As I do, I think how easy it would be to add a bit of this and that to the kettle – just enough to sicken my guests later on, when they are safe at home in their beds, with only their wives nearby to hear their cries. Or enough to kill them, and silence their annoying questions forever.
I do nothing of the kind, of course. Even after all I have seen, all I have suffered, all I have lost, I still know the difference between right and wrong.
Do you really, lovely? I find the distinction rather blurry, myself.
I am a healer, I think, blocking out the voice of evil. I will not kill.
But it is oddly comforting to know that I can.
2
20th August
This morning I treated a bad case of sunburn, rheumy eyes, and a deep wound made by a rusted nail that a careless farmer stepped upon. The last was the most serious, but if the farmer soaks his foot in a strong brew of sage and yarrow as I instructed, it ought to heal quickly.
In the afternoon I tended my kitchen garden, which shows signs of fatigue from this relentless heat. As do I, it seems. I wait in dread for the voice of Oleander to return. So far it has not.
I hope I am not going mad.
ALL DAY AND LATE into the evening, the fields ring with the sound of reaping. The scythe swings, and like solders grievously overmatched in battle, the grass falls, row after slaughtered row.
I witnessed it myself this morning, as I walked from farm to farm, dispensing cures, advice, and comfort. Now, as I sit here sewing, I try to imagine what Weed might have heard, if he had walked beside me – the cries of protest, perhaps, as the scythe swings once more.
Does the wheat despise us? I find myself wondering. Does it wish we were the ones slain?
My thoughts are scattered by a sharp sound, the pop and hiss of wood catching fire in the parlour hearth. That log, too, was once the living limb of a tree – perhaps one of the ancient ones from the forest, with their noble, spreading branches and strange tales.
“A fire in summer,” I say without looking up from my sewing. “Surely that is a waste of wood.”
Father straightens from the hearth with a grunt. “There is a storm on the way. When the wind howls like this, warmth is required.” He takes his chair and gazes into the flames. “I am worried about your health, Jessamine. Until now I have said nothing, trusting that time would be the best remedy, but my concern bids me speak at last.”
“Speak, then.” Already I am on my guard.
“It has been some time since your illness passed. To outward appearances you seem recovered, and go about your work without complaint.” Thoughtful, he gazes into the fire. “But there are days you lie late in your bed, as if reluctant to wake. Your skin is pale, but now and then your cheeks flush red, perhaps recalling some secret shame. At times you stare blindly into the air, as if conversing with phantoms. The stain of tears is ever present on your face.”
“There is no need to worry.” Anger kindles within me, but I will be cautious: My father must have some reason of his own for speaking this way. “My body is perfectly well.”
“Your body is young and strong, and can survive much. But what of your heart, Jessamine?”
I put down my needle and thread. “My heart will heal when Weed comes back.”
“I think not. I think your heart will only begin to mend when you accept that Weed is gone.” Finally he looks up from the fire and faces me. “Gone, and never to return.”
“I don’t believe you.” If he wishes to provoke me, he is succeeding. “Time and again you have told me that Weed left me – heartlessly ran off as I lay dying. Before I did not have the strength to argue. Now I do.”
“Calm yourself –”
“Weed loves me. If he is keeping away from me, there must be a reason.”
“I have told you the reason. He is a common scoundrel, who despoiled and abandoned you in the most unforgivable manner –”
“You have told me lies. For I know Weed would be at my side even now, unless some force was preventing him.”
“You have not had any word from him at all, then?”
“No. I have not.”
Father looks at me, strangely satisfied, and I realise, This is what he wanted – to know if I have heard from Weed. Why would he wish to know that?
I feel exposed, and look away to hide the tears that spring to my eyes.
Such passion! Such grief! It is most enticing, my lovely. A pity you waste it on that ridiculous boy, that callow, unwanted Weed…
The room sways. I clutch my head.
“What is it, Jessamine? You look unwell. Let me prepare a tonic for you.”
I am faint, but I will not admit that to Father. He pours something for me to drink and brings it to me. The glass hovers in front of me. In its swirl of liquid I see visions: A dying lamb. The madhouses of London. A pair of large, terrifying wings.
I push the glass away. “I had terrible dreams when I was ill, Father,” I say in a low voice. “Some of them were about you. About what you did on your trips to London.”
His eyes glitter in the firelight. “Take a sip, my dear. It will steady you.”
“I dreamed that you went to the madhouse there. That you fed poison to the lunatics, in order to test your formulas.”
He stands so quickly the drink spills. “How strange. The fantasies our minds concoct when we are sick….”
I rise to my feet, clawing at my head as if I could tear that voice out by its roots. “A fantasy? I thought so, too. Now I am not so sure.”
Careful, lovely… your father has a dreadful temper, you know….
I watch the blue vein on his forehead throb. His words are calm, but his voice is a tightened sinew of rage. “Jessamine, it seems your mind is more affected by your illness than I first supposed. I suggest you go to bed. I know some cures that can help you.”
“Your cures!” I practically spit with contempt. “I think your cures are poison, Father. I think everything you have told me is a lie, and that which I believed to be a dream is all too real.”
The images take form again – me, flying high over the fields of Northumberland, born aloft by a pair of dark wings. “And Weed’s love for me, and mine for him, is the realest thing of all,” I gasp. “If you will not tell me where he is, then I will have to look for him myself.”
“Enough.” Three strides, and he is across the room. “I will tell you what you wish to know. But I warn you, you may regret it.” He gestures for me to sit down. “During your illness, Weed became distraught. Because of his extraordinary talent for healing, I believe he felt responsible for curing you, and was driven mad with frustration when he could not. He grew agitated, unreasonable. Finally he left. I could not chase after him, for I did not dare leave your side. You were at death’s very threshold that night.”
The light of the fire glows behind my father, casting lurid shadows along the stone floor. “He abandoned you, Jessamine, and you should despise him for it, not pine for his return. But you are right to call me a liar: He did not simply run off, as I have told you in the past.”
I sit there, unmoving as a statue in church, as Father’s voice drops deep. “You were so weak. I thought it would kill you to know the truth. As time passed and you regained your strength, I dared hope you would make your peace with my story and would never have to know the fate of that coward Weed. I prayed you would forget about him. He fooled us both, for a time. I do not blame you for being deceived by him. I was deceived as well.”
The flames leap, and the shadows do their mocking dance. My father’s words toll like a bell.
“Weed is dead. He hanged himself, in a remote part of the woods of Hulne Park. I found the body myself. The fool!”
Father approaches me and places a hand on my shoulder. I allow myself to soften, to weep. It is not difficult. I shed tears at will these days.
“I thought it would be too cruel to tell you the truth. But it is crueller still to let you go on longing for something that can never be.” He steps back and spreads his arms, as if waiting for me to step into his embrace. “I hope you can forgive me, Jessamine. Oh, the curse of being a parent! The sins we commit to ease our children’s suffering!”
I rise from the chair. Father takes a step toward me. I wheel from his open arms and race outside, into the storm.
“Jessamine –” His voice follows me to the door, but the moment I am outside the shrieking wind drowns out every sound but the pounding of my own heart. Let Father run after me if he dares. I am one with the storm now, wild and furious, a howl of rage.
“Weed!” I hurl my desperate cry to the starless sky. Up the twisting path I climb. The ground is muck beneath my feet. Am I truly mad, then? I must be, to think the poison garden is the only place left for me to turn.
But how else will I finally discover what is real? How else will I know what is true, and what is a lie?
And when the worst has already happened, what is left to fear?
Unless the worst is yet to come. The thought stops me short. I pause for breath. Eyes closed, I feel the earth spin drunkenly beneath my feet, slipped off its axis like a wheel on a broken axle.
Foolish Jessamine… did you really think I was only a dream?
Thunder cracks, loud as a gunshot. I press my hand to my chest. My heart flutters like a trapped bird within the cage of my bones. My hair hangs sodden, like seaweed trailing from the ropes of a sailing ship. My dress is as wet as if I had risen up from the German Ocean and walked ashore.
“Help me,” I cry with all the ragged breath I have left. “If you are here, show yourself, I beg you. For I do not know what to believe anymore.”
I will show you.
Once more, lightning slashes crookedly across the sky, briefly revealing the path before the world plunges into darkness again. The wind howls and blows, not east to west, but in strange circles that seem as if they would pluck the trees straight up from the ground and hurl them down again like broken toys.
The black gate of the poison garden looms before me. I hurl myself at the unyielding bars. The lock taunts me, an iron apple dangling from a lifeless tree. Exhausted, I collapse to the ground.
I assure you, I am no dream, lovely. I have powers you cannot imagine. I can help you find what you seek. All you need do is ask.
Help me, my heart begs, yet I dare not speak the name of the one to whom I plead. The horrors of my nightmares come back to me ten times over: the torment. The lunatic asylum. My father’s wickedness and murderous lies.
Nothing about this world is what I thought it was. I am lost, and have only one refuge.
“Oleander!” I cry, but the wind swallows all sound. I lift myself from the mud and seize the bars of the gate in my two hands. The wet metal is cold and rough against my cheek. “Please! I need you. I need you to show me the truth… as you did once before…”
The sound of the storm changes. To each side of me rain pours, lightning cracks, wind howls. Somehow I am shielded.
I throw my head back and search the sky. Directly above me the night takes form. It is darkness upon darkness, like ink spilled upon black velvet.
The inky stain is in the shape of outspread wings.
I have waited for you to come back to me, the Prince of Poisons croons. And now you are here.
“Tell me, please,” I gasp. The shadow wings beat once, twice. “Is Weed dead or alive?”
Your beloved Crabgrass is rather unkempt at the moment. In a foul temper, and in urgent need of a bath. But yes; he is alive.
The relief I feel is mixed with the sure, sickening knowledge that my father is no more than a murderous villain.
“I must find him – does my father know where he is?”
If your father knew where to find Weed, he would have had him killed by now. He cannot harness Weed’s gifts for his own purposes, and he will not have him be a potential rival.
“He is a monster! Oleander, can you help me find Weed?”
I can if I choose to. But first you must prove yourself worthy.
“Tell me what to do.”
I want you to avenge your mother’s death. Bring justice to her killer. Then you will have earned my aid.
My heart clenches. “My mother was murdered? By whom?”
Who do you think, lovely?
His laughter falls like a rain of ice. There is no end to the wickedness of humans, is there? It surprises even me, sometimes. When your task is done, then I will help you find what you seek. And you will help me in exchange, when the time comes. For you and I need each other, as you will someday learn…
“What do you mean?” I cry, but the shadow being ascends to the vault of the night, and is gone.
The rain pours down with doubled fury. I slip and stumble along the muddy path, back to the cottage, too shocked to even weep.
My whole life has been based on lies. And the only being that can help me find Weed is an incarnation of evil itself.
Have I made a terrible mistake in rousing the dark prince? It does not matter, for I must find Weed again, whatever the price.
And, this, too I swear: No corrupt magistrate, no dim-witted committee of farmers, will stand in judgment of my mother’s killer.
No. I will deal with him – with Father – myself.
The door to the cottage opens with a push. The fire sputters as the water from my clothes streams across the stone floor and sizzles into the hearth.
“Father?” He is not here. Is he out searching for me in the storm? Has he been crushed by a tree or trapped on the far side of a flooding stream?
I hope not. For I would hate to miss the chance to take my own vengeance.
And yet, there is some small doubt within me. My father is wicked, I know. A liar and a murderer. But I always believed he loved my mother. There was a warmth in his voice, a softness in his eyes, that only ever appeared when he spoke of her.
Surely it would not be wrong to want proof, I think.
I walk toward the study, wet feet slapping against stone. The door is unlocked and swings open as I approach. Every window shutter has blown open. Gusts of wind howl through the room, lifting papers, toppling books. I can scarcely see, but who could light a candle in this maelstrom?
As if in answer, lightning flashes once more, and then again. A volume lies open on Father’s desk. Its pages tremble in the moving air, begging me to read them.
I lay a hand on the open page. As I do, the wind ceases and the night goes silent and still. In this otherworldly calm I can finally light a candle to read by. The page is written in my father’s hand, although his familiar neat script is slanted pell-mell and blotted, as if he wrote in a terrible rush, or as if his thoughts had become tinged with madness…
…my life’s work is lost, utterly lost, or so it seems. I think of all that I sacrificed to gain this knowledge, so painstakingly recorded in my diary. What compelled that misbegotten freak to seize the record of my work and flee? As if he had any need for it! Someday I will pay him back, I swear it – I will find him, wherever he hides, and reclaim what is mine.
So much suffering, for naught! So many lives sacrificed! Even yours, my darling, my Elizabeth… but how was I to know that the child in your womb would weaken you so severely? You were never the same after the birth; it was as if all your strength was used to nourish the child, at your own expense. Poor Jessamine. She scarcely remembers you. She would never suspect how I think of you hourly, write you these letters every night, and above all, continue our work…
She has grown so like you it startles me. Would you be proud to know how well she endured my treatments, Elizabeth? She suffered, yes, but survived greater doses than I ever dared give you.
It occurs to me now: Perhaps her physiology has some special tolerance for the dark substances, since she was first exposed while still in your womb… this may be a topic for further study.
Here is all the proof I need.
My father poisoned my mother. She let him do it, it seems. She was a willing part of his “work,” even as I grew within her belly. Still, he bears full blame for her death.
And my illness was no strong fever, my recovery no miracle cure wrought by the skills of Thomas Luxton. My father poisoned me, and harbours not one speck of remorse for doing so.
And Weed – Weed is alive. Somewhere. And my father will kill him someday, if he can. If I do not stop him first, that is.
Truth, terrible truth! It is like an ancient curse, from which there is no escape. The truth will drive one mad. Yet without it, how can one make sense of life’s madness?
Do you like the task I set you, lovely?
I do. For now I know who I am.
I am Jessamine Luxton. Poison ran in my veins before I was born.
I know how to cure. And I know how to kill.
I have tried for so long to be good, but there is no need to fight my destiny anymore.
I am my father’s daughter, after all.
3
A STAND OF HEMLOCK water dropwort grows in a sturdy group near the edge of a stream, deep in the old forest of Northumberland. The plants have straight, thick, hollow stems, topped with lacy flowers. One of their fleshy roots would kill me, if I were fool enough to eat it.
“Such delicious roots,” the plant hums. “Sweet and rich and filling, Master Weed. Are you sure you do not want a taste?”
“Have you any shame?” I roll to my side on this soggy bed of moss. “Look at you. Your leaves masquerade as parsley. Your stalks as celery. Your roots as parsnip. How many men have you killed with your trickery?”
“Not just men. Women. Children. Cattle, too.” The lace-caps of blooms flutter, all innocence. “You seem angry, fleshbody. Perhaps living in the forest does not suit you after all.”
I shift my position, trying to find a dry spot. After a night of wild storms, everything is wet: the ground, the trees, the rocks. Mushrooms sprout in every crevice. Some of them, too, are killers, but they know better than to boast about it.
“It is not the forest that irks me. It is your pride in your own wickedness. You gain nothing from killing. You take no nourishment from your prey, as the hawks and foxes do. Yet you do it with enjoyment.”
“We act as it is in our nature to act. Just as you do, Human Who Hears.”
This is what they call me in the forest. The fleshbody. The Human Who Hears. Even here I am made to feel like a freak.
“After all, you too, have killed,” the dropwort adds. “And there was no nourishment involved. Was there?”
I do not answer. For yes, I have killed. Shamefully I have taken innocent life. And I would kill again, right now, if I had the means.
My victims would be two in number: Thomas Luxton, father of my beloved Jessamine. And Oleander, the Prince of Poisons.
It is for Jessamine’s sake alone that I stay away.
Of its own will, my hand strays to the book of evil I carry with me day and night. Thomas Luxton’s book of poisons. It is wrapped safe and dry in a square of oilcloth I stole from a farm wife’s washing line.
Every day I swear I will burn it. It is like that wicked garden of his: something unnatural that should never have been created. But I cannot bring myself to do it. It is the one link I have to the past – to all that was stolen from me. To happiness. To Jessamine.
“Answer, fleshbody. Do not ignore, like an ordinary half-sensed human. We know you can hear us.”
“Yes, I can.” I rake pebbles into my hand with my fingers and toss them one by one against a large out-cropping of rock. They bounce off the stone, narrowly missing my delicate, deadly accuser. “Alone among my kind, I can hear you. But that does not mean I am interested in what you have to say.”
The notched leaves flare in outrage. I feel pleasure at their hurt. This is the sort of creature I have become. Bitter. Angry. With too little respect for others, and far too much pity for myself.
I rise to leave. It makes the plants angry that I can do that. Walk away.
“Listen to the fleshbody,” the dropwort retorts. “A mere seventeen turns of the seasons on this ancient earth of ours, and yet he dismisses us. What is your answer, coward? Have you killed, or have you not killed?”
Through a canopy of alder leaves I glance up at the sky. It is grey, and thick with clouds. I half expect to see a shadow in the shape of wings, blotting out what little light is left. A gash of nothingness inked across the heavens.
“Yes. I have,” I snarl. “We are killers both. Do not make me prove it.”
With the poison diary under my arm, I turn and run.
“What do you hope to find in the forest, fleshbody? She is not here, you know!”
I plug my ears and run faster, deeper into the woods.
Jessamine once told me that humans go for walks in the forest to be alone and “collect their thoughts.” At the time I did not understand what she meant. Why would human thoughts be scattered among the trees?
For me, being in the forest is like going to market day at Alnwick, but instead of people’s elbows jostling me, it is the low branches whipping across my face, leaves sticking to my hair, roots rising up to trip me.
There is no place to hide from the trees. They know everything I do – every grouse I kill to eat, every sip I take from the stream, every shelter I build for myself of leaves and moss. I cannot move behind a laurel to make water but they are there.
Most often they speak according to their kind – the deep rumble of oak, the whisper of the birch, or the singsong chant of the alder. The evergreen stands of pine have voices sharp as needles.
But the forest can speak as one, when it must. When the trees so choose, they think with one mind. When there is danger, especially, they speak in one voice of a thousand echoes.
I hate it when they do this. For the forest mind is always right, and will hear no argument.
I climb uphill, following the path of a stream. Its trickle soothes me. When I am thirsty, I stop and kneel to drink.
You have spent half a season with us, Weed. And you are still unhappy. Filled with rage. We do not know how to help you.
“You cannot help me.” I splash water on my face, again and again, but I cannot cool off. “My love has been taken from me. I have promised to stay away, and I can never be happy again.”
Seasons change, Weed, the forest says. Seasons change.
I find my way to where the stream opens up to a quiet pool. Stripping myself of my stolen clothes, I gulp a breath and dive in. It feels good to use my muscles and to feel the cool water against my skin, but even that does little to soothe my temper.
I have the body of a man now, but of what use is my strength? I have already failed at being human. That I go on, hiding in this deep forest like an outcast, belonging nowhere, banished and alone, is a mystery even to me.
After I climb out I sit on the bank and stare at my reflection. It is the only human face I have looked at since fleeing to the forest. My hair is long and tangled, and my cheeks are covered with a rough growth of beard. My skin is brown from the sun and the dirt. In my eyes there is loneliness and a cold glint of fury.
I toss in a stone, and the image shatters. When I was a child, taunted for my oddness and scorned by other people, I often thought that if I could only live among the plants, I would be happy. Now I am here, and all I feel is rage.
Do not deceive yourself, Weed. Your anger is not for us. It lives within you.
Enough. I shake the water drops from my wild hair like a dog, and head for the clearing at the highest point of the woods. At least there I can see the sky and get away from this chattering canopy of leaves. But the lecture follows me as I stumble and climb.
Your ears have the power to hear us, but your heart is bitter as a rhubarb leaf. This bitterness makes you deaf to the truth…
“Leave me be,” I growl, kicking at a root.
You have erred, Weed. That is why you suffer. You chose one being and elevated her above the others, as if all life did not have the same worth. You did terrible things for her sake – for the sake of the human girl, the one with the golden hair, yellow as a flower –
Jessamine. The leaves flutter her name. The air shimmers with the sound. It pierces me like a thorn.
Remember, Weed: The good of one tree is not important. The good of the forest is what matters.
“Enough!” I press my hands to my ears; will they ever let me be? “Humans do not think as you think. They – we – do not feel the way you feel.”
We know.
“And not all plants are so selfless and noble as you describe. There is evil in the human world, and evil in the plant world, too.”
Throughout the forest, the leaves go perfectly still. It is a silence that is most unnatural.
We know, says the mind of the forest. All too well, we know.
On bruised hands and raw knees I continue my climb, to the flattened ridge that rises past the edge of the wood. The clearing on the hilltop is small, compared to the rolling meadows of Hulne Park. It is an open field of high moorland, with clumps of rough grass surrounding a low growth of heath and a blanket bog of peat.
The grey clouds hang heavy and low. Still, it is a relief to be at least a little distance from the trees, and to see the open sky.
The cloudberries are ripe. The crowberries are, too. I help myself to the amber and purple fruits. The plants do not mind that I harvest from them, for it is how they spread their seed. They hum with pride when I choose the plumpest berries from each and praise their sweetness.
I follow the stream as it cuts through the centre of the clearing. Soon I hear a familiar chant.
Touch me, touch me not. Touch me, touch me not.
If I were not in such a bad temper, the tune would make me smile. At the damp edge of the far side of the clearing, near where the stream disappears back into the forest, grow those whom I call, for lack of a better word, my friends. These simple flowers are my only pleasant companions. Their talk has the power to soothe my unhappiness, the same way the sap from their stems soothes the itch from a nettle scratch.
They grow in a tidy cluster, with upright stems. Even now, in late summer, when darkness falls earlier every night, the touch-me-nots are covered with blooms. The bell-shaped orange-yellow blossoms droop under the broad leaves, like ladies shading themselves beneath green parasols.
On calmer days, the reddish spots on their petals have made me think of the golden freckles that would bloom on Jessamine’s skin after a walk in the sun. Right now they remind me of other things: scarlet pinpricks left by a hungry bite. A spatter of fresh blood on dry earth. The mottled flush of a killing fever, dappled across a pale, beloved cheek.
I step around the prickly heath and stretch out on the soft peat. I watch the speckled blossoms bob and dance, and feel my clenched fists loosen.
“The forest is angry with me,” I say. “Everywhere I go, I am scolded.”
The touch-me-nots murmur sympathy, then fall silent. They were made to offer balm. It is why I seek them out.
“Tell me,” I say after a while. “Tell me what is happening at Hulne Abbey.” Not often, but sometimes, the touch-me-nots have news for me. From Jessamine’s kitchen garden at the cottage, the potted lilies on the altar at her church, the sheep meadows that cover the slopes of Hulne Park where she walks, the morning glories that twine around the shutters of her bedchamber window – now and then they send word, whispered from one plant to another, until it arrives at my ear.
Each time the news has been the same. She is well. There is a changed hue to her eyes – they were once a soft, trusting blue, but now they are the colour of ice. There is something unyielding in the carriage of her spine. But she is alive, and strong.
If she were not, Thomas Luxton would be a dead man. But as long as she thrives, I will accept my fate. I will obey Oleander’s command and stay away. I will live like an animal, or a beggar. I will spend my life among the plants, or alone. It does not matter. As long as she is safe.
“Any news at all?” I ask again. With less murder in my voice, this time.
The touch-me-nots do not answer.
“How is Jessamine?” I demand to know. “Where is she?”
“If you wish to know, why not go and see for yourself?” They say it without ire. I shake my head.
“I cannot go back among the humans again.”
“Because of the girl?”
“I am ruined by what I did for her sake. I killed a man, a foolish man who wished me no harm, and the change of seasons will not bring him back. The humans will never forgive me for that.”
“Death is final among them.” They say it as if understanding, but they cannot understand, really.
“It has not been easy for you, living in the forest,” they add, after a while.
“No.”
“It is not easy for the forest, either.”
“I ask nothing of the forest, except to be left alone.”
The light is fading. A scatter of leaves blows across the moor, red and yellow and brown.
“It is time for you to go back, Weed.”
I do not wish to hear this.
“The forest marches slowly, in step with the seasons. All is rhythm, patience, stillness…”
Their true meaning remains unspoken. But I hear it, plain as the chilling wind that even now rushes across this hilltop moor: It is better to be like the plants than like me. For I am rootless. Angry. Abrupt. Alone.
“You are a disturbance to the world of the forest,” they say, in that gentle, tinkling voice. “You are unsettled, and filled with passions we do not understand. You must return to your own kind. Go back to the humans. Settle your affairs with them, in whatever way they do. Pay the price for your deeds.”
“I came to you for comfort. Instead – more banishment.” I stand, but where can I run to this time? From this high outlook I can see across the forest canopy to the turrets of Alnwick Castle in the distance, perched on the embankment, overlooking the twisting river Aln. The stone battlements blend into the grey sky. Torches burn in the watchtowers, glowing like red-hot coals.
“I cannot go back,” I say, my voice cracking. “Oleander made me swear I would not go back. On Jessamine’s life, I swore.”
“Oleander!” The touch-me-nots tremble in rage. “The human apothecary has done this! He brought the wicked plants together. He gave them a home where they should not have a home. He let them twine together in a way nature would never have permitted. Oleander was one of us, once. Now he is a great danger to you. To you. To all of us.”
A gust of wind whirls across the flattened hill, making all the plants quake. After it passes, the touch-me-nots continue to shiver – now, it seems, in fear. “You must go back. Go back to the place you call Hulne Abbey. To that doomed place, where the dreadful garden grows.”
“Is it Jessamine? Has she been harmed?”
The flowers sound panicked. “Go. Go see for yourself.”
4
30th August
I have made an early start today. I have already packed a satchel with lunch and water, for I am off to go collecting, in the distant fields and along the woodland edges. I expect I will find everything I need there.
It seems odd that I must walk for miles in search of the specimens I need, when so many of their kind grow in abundance close by. But to take what I need from Father’s garden is too dangerous; he keeps the key on his belt, and the theft would never go unnoticed. I will not risk detection now.
I am not afraid. I am, to be honest, excited. Tonight at supper, I will do what I have sworn to do.
Then my mother’s death will be avenged. And – if Oleander keeps his word – my own life can truly begin.
IT IS LATE AFTERNOON when I return, though the sky is so grey with clouds it seems more like dusk. I bathe the filth of the day from me, for I am as covered in earth as a grave-digger, and change into a fresh gown. Everything I do is ordinary, yet extraordinary at the same time. Never have I gone about these everyday tasks knowing what I now know, or planning what I now plan.
Once dressed, I prepare to do the most ordinary task of all, one I have done all my life: make dinner for my father.
I take my time, for it is a special pleasure to cook during the harvest season, when every ingredient is at its peak. I prepare small game hens, poached in a seasoned consommé of my own devising. Herbed new potatoes, creamed spinach, and a clove-scented pudding. I set the table as if for an honoured guest.
When everything is ready, I cover the food and retreat to my kitchen garden to pray. I know there is no god who would condone what I am about to do. But the spirits of the dead might feel otherwise.
“Was it for love of him that you did it, Mother?” I murmur into my folded hands. “Did it blind you to the truth, and make you willing to endanger yourself, and your unborn child, just to please him?”
The breeze blows but bears no answer. None is needed. I already know how passion can drive one to do the unthinkable. I myself am proof enough of that.
“Forgive me,” I whisper. “I know vengeance cannot bring back the dead. If you loved him, you must despise me for what I now do. But the living need justice, too.”
I brush the dirt from my knees and return inside. There is a man in the parlour.
“Miss Luxton, is it? I remember you. My, you’ve grown up a bit over the summer, haven’t you?”
He turns, and my heart freezes. I could never forget that face. It is Tobias Pratt, proprietor of a nearby asylum. The horrible man who first delivered Weed to our door, as if he were nothing more than a bundle of rags.
“My father is not at home,” I say quickly. “I cannot receive you, Mr. Pratt. Come back another day.”
“Not so fast, miss. I’m here for my payment. If my sources tell me right, your father owes me a bit of money.” He laughs. “A fair bit, I’d say.”
Could this idiot have come at a worse possible time? “Money?” I say, feigning casualness. “As payment for what?”
“For that green-eyed wretch Weed, of course! Didn’t the brat turn out to be useful? Him and his strange witch-boy ways, always talking to himself and creating strange concoctions. When I left him here I told your father I’d be back, and then he could decide what the lad was worth to him and pay up accordingly.” Pratt pulls a chair from the table and sits down. “That’s how honourable men do business, see? No need for a contract, a simple handshake will do.”
He belches and licks his fingers. “Pardon me. I confess, Miss Luxton, this dinner you had set out on the table smelled so good, I took a fork and plate from the kitchen and helped myself to a taste while I was waiting. It’s a long, hungry ride from the asylum, and a man has to keep up his strength. Don’t worry, there’s still plenty left for you and your pa.” He pats his belly contentedly. “I could surely go for a pint of ale, though.”
I lift the lid of the chafing dish. One drumstick, three potatoes, and a generous spoonful of creamed spinach, gone.
“You’re a fine cook, miss. You’ll make a good wife some day for some lucky chap. In fact, I might point out that I’m a bachelor myself, and a prosperous business owner, too… a girl could do far worse…”
I will myself not to scream. I must make him leave, and quickly, before the poison takes effect. “As I said, my father is not here, Mr. Pratt. It is not a convenient time to pay a call, negotiate payment, or conduct any other business. Please go away and return tomorrow.”
“Now, Jessamine – that is not a very hospitable way to speak to our guest.”
To my horror, Father strides into the room. He extends his hand to Pratt, who has jumped to his feet. “Tobias Pratt. I heard a man’s voice as I was cleaning my boots at the door. I thought it might be yours; I am sorry to discover I am right. I cannot say I am glad to see you, but I concur with what I heard you tell my daughter. We do have unfinished business between us.”
He turns to me. “Jessamine, set another place at the table. Mr. Pratt will join us for dinner.”
Pratt removes his hat and grins. “Much obliged for the invitation, sir. A true gentleman, you are. In spite of all they say about you!” He guffaws, and my father half smiles.
Ice in my veins, I do as I am told.
I had planned to feign a headache at dinner and drink only tea, but it requires no subterfuge for me to avoid eating with Pratt here. He runs out of ale quickly. He drops his knife and demands a fresh one. He requires second helpings of meat, third helpings of potatoes, followed by more ale.
I fetch and deliver, pour and serve. My own food sits untouched, as it must if I hope to live until morning. But it is torture to keep leaving the table. More than anything I wish to watch my father eat, to let my eyes follow his fork from plate to lips, again and again, as he places bite after bite of my carefully prepared meal in his mouth.
Pratt belches again and loosens his belt. “Don’t think this home-cooked dinner will lower my price, Luxton. I know that boy Weed taught you a thing or two. It’s time I was compensated, and you know it. Here’s what I propose – it’s only what’s fair. I think you’ll agree.”
He takes a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and passes it to my father. As he stretches across the table he flinches, as if there were a twinge in his side.
Father makes no move toward the paper. “Now don’t be alarmed at the sum.” Pratt goes on, a hand to his ribs. “Multiply it by what you’ll earn with the potions you learned from the monster, and I think you’ll agree…” He flinches again. I count the seconds: one – two – three, until the twinge passes and he exhales.
“Are you all right, Mr. Pratt?” My father speaks calmly, but his eyes follow Pratt’s contortions. Lift the fork to your lips, very good, Father – now one more bite, just one more –
“Sure, sure. Nothing another swig of ale won’t fix. Now, about my money…” Pratt turns pale and groans, clutching his belly. My father puts down his fork. I rise and express concern, and offer to make my special peppermint-ginger tea to settle his digestion.
Take another bite, Father, I think as I fuss over Pratt. I must keep up this pretence long enough for one – more – bite –
“Don’t trouble yourself, miss,” Pratt grunts, doubling over. “My stomach’s tougher than a cast-iron kettle. I’m just having a touch of – ow – wind.”
As Pratt writhes in pain, my father looks down at his own half-empty plate. At my uneaten food. The blue vein in his forehead goes taut, and he rises to his feet.
“Lord help me!” Pratt yelps, and slips to the floor with a crash. Ignoring him, my father steps toward me.
“Jessamine. What have you done?” Father and I stand frozen, eyes locked, while our dinner guest moans and retches on the stone floor.
“Perhaps… the potatoes were too green.” I am in my apron, the scent of cooking still upon me.
Pratt makes a terrible gurgling sound. Father lunges at me with a roar, murder in his eyes. I seize the carving knife from the table and point it at his chest. Remorse is nowhere within me. Instead I feel free, exhilarated at my own daring.
“You wretch! Evil child! After all I have done –”
He grabs at me across the table, but I dodge him easily. Pratt rolls on the floor like a loose barrel on the deck of a ship, nearly knocking Father down.
We circle each other around the table, the deadly feast laid out between us. I glance down at the plate by Father’s chair. He has not eaten nearly as much as Pratt, but he has eaten enough. The full effect will simply take more time. I am glad. It means his suffering will last that much longer.
“Murderess! These poisons were meant for me,” he rages.
“As yours were meant for me, Father. And for my mother.” I hurl the knife at him and bolt for the door, but Pratt’s hulking, unmoored form knocks me to the ground.
The blade has struck Father’s arm, cutting a long, shallow gash. He looks down at the wound, his expression one of surprise. Reflexively, he grabs a linen napkin from the table and tries to stanch the flow of blood running down his arm. I laugh. How can I not? He will be dead long before the bleeding has time to weaken him.
He seems to realise it, too. He drops the napkin and wheels toward me. I cringe as he looms above, now holding the knife. In the instant that he raises it to strike, I see it – the change in his colour as the first pain hits.
“No!” he cries, doubling over. The knife clatters to the floor. “No! I – will – not – succumb –”
I snatch the ring of keys from his belt and regain my feet. “Follow me, Father,” I taunt from the doorway, in a little girl’s voice. “Follow me to the ’pothecary garden, and I will show you which of your beloved plants I used to make your dinner.”
“Fiend!” He staggers toward the door. “You do not know – the danger – within –”
“I know more than you could imagine.” I race out of the cottage, then turn with deliberate cruelty up the hill. For years Father locked me out of his precious garden, but the poisons are my allies now, not his. The closer I get, the more clearly I hear Oleander’s merry, mocking laughter ringing in my ears.
I open the lock and the gate swings open, welcoming. The plants quiver in anticipation at my approach.
By the time he reaches the crest of the hill my father is baying in agony, clutching his belly, gagging on his own bile. Still he follows me through the gate. Once inside, he crumples to the ground. I watch as he drags himself toward me.
“Jessamine, it is not too late… if you tell me what poison you used… I might know a cure…”
“Look it up in your poison diary, Father. Or have you misplaced it? It would certainly be a pity if your precious book were lost.”
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