The Poison Diaries: Nightshade (4 page)

“Is it Jessamine? Has she been harmed?”

The flowers sound panicked. “Go. Go see for yourself.”

30th August

I
T 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.”

He looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Have mercy,” he gasps. “I am your father.”

I gesture around at the inhabitants of his garden of death. “These are your true children. Not me.”

He moans, whether in response to my harsh words or to the deadly mixture coursing through him, I cannot say.

“It is not an easy death, is it?” I crouch low, next to him. “I came very close to discovering that myself, thanks to you. Just as my mother did.”

“Your mother – did what she did –
willingly
–”

“Then you should be as willing. I know how poison fascinates you. Surely dying from it will fascinate you,
too.” Leaning closer, I hiss, “It is a pity you cannot take notes.”

With that, I leave my father in the dirt to die.

The deadly plants nod and flutter their approval as I pass. Their seductive voices remain out of my hearing, for I do not have Weed's gift. But in my heart I know that they – and their master – are proud of me for what I have done.

I lift my head to the sky, hoping and fearing to catch a glimpse of Oleander's presence.

“I did what you bid me do,” I whisper. “Are you pleased?”

A darkness drifts across the sky, and a cool, gentle rain begins to fall on my upturned face.

I lock the gate behind me on my way out.

 

My work is not yet finished. First I must return to that nightmare parlour to dispose of the poisoned food, for I would not wish a bird or mouse to nibble on it. I step around Pratt's body to do so. He is already dead, purple swollen tongue protruding from his mouth, wild
eyes staring into the void.

For a moment, a sick feeling sweeps through me. Even a cretin like Pratt is one of God's creatures, is he not? I did not intend to cause his death; it was an accident born of his own gluttony, but still, his blood is on my hands.

Then I remember how he mistreated Weed, and a great peace fills me. Perhaps this, too, is a kind of justice.

Next I prepare my disguise. I mix fine powders of Punjabi henna and Arabian katam that I find on the shelves in the storeroom, and darken it with indigo from the woad in my dye garden. I prepare a skin cream of crushed walnut shells and oil, and a lip tint of beeswax, dandelion root, and beet juice.

While these cosmetics do their work on my hair and skin, I fill my purse with money. I have plenty, earned by my skill as a healer. I pack what few clothes and other items I imagine I will need. And I decide to bring some powerful herbs from the locked case in Father's study, in case I must defend myself.

I do not bother to search for the right key on his ring. Instead I shatter the glass with a paperweight and take what I please: belladonna, monkshood, snakeweed, moonseed, and more. I wrap each one in parchment and tie it with string.

A raven comes and perches on the windowsill as I make my preparations.

Thank you for your bounty, Oleander, Prince of Poisons,
I think.
Thank you for all that Mr. Pratt has already received, and all that my father is receiving still, as the poison twists like bramble in his gut, burns within his brain, presses like a boulder upon his heart.