The Poison Diaries (11 page)

“Maybe,” he says, though he sounds unsure. “I have not met their like before; that is all. It disturbs me.” He gestures around. “And not only me. The forests, the fields, the moss that grows on the rocks—none of them are happy about that garden. Nature would have kept
those plants safely apart, scattered over the continents, separated by oceans. But your father has summoned them from the corners of the earth and locked them together, side by side, hidden behind walls, where they can grow in secret. It is wrong, Jessamine—I fear it is dangerous—”

“Promise me, then,” I interrupt, for he is growing agitated. “Promise that you will never go in that awful place again. If it disturbs you so, then no good can come of it.”

“I promise.”

We fall silent. The morning has arrived in earnest now. One can almost hear the hiss of steam rising from the grass as the dew vanishes into the air.

I look around. Meadow, trees, hedgerows, patches of wildflowers here and there. I close my eyes and listen. Leaves rustling in the breeze. Birds singing. My own breath, rising and falling. Nothing else.

“You are right, Jessamine,” Weed exclaims with sudden bitterness. “I am a freak.”

“No!” I reach for him. “Forgive me, Weed, I
never should have spoken those words. I was angry because I did not know the truth. You have a gift. A precious gift.”

“You are the first person to think so.” There is both sadness and anger in his voice.

“Who else have you told?” I ask, suddenly fearful.

“I told Friar Bartholomew; I was only a child and knew no better. He did not believe me. He pitied me, I think, as a half-wit, and now he is dead in any case.”

“But you did give something to Pratt’s patients, did you not?” I press. “And what about the villagers?”

“I was foolish to try to help.” His fingers play lightly in the grass. “But I hated Pratt, and wanted to teach him a lesson. And the plants asked me to do it. They want to make use of their talents—as we do.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know now it was wrong to put anything in the well. But at the time, the villagers were not as real to me as—all this.” His gaze encompasses the green growing things that surround us. “You have already taught me so much, Jessamine. Your grief yesterday at the castle, the grief of the others,
of that poor mother—it was something I did not know before.” He takes my hands. “I too would weep for the child now. I promise you, I would.”

A soft smile lights up his face. “Before I met you, Jessamine, I never thought any human soul could understand. If you truly believe me, and are not afraid—
that
is the true gift, Jessamine.
You
are a gift.”

“Weed, I will keep your secret as if my very life depends on it.” My heart flails wildly in my chest, and I reach for him to steady myself. He takes my hands in his own, lifts them to his lips, and kisses them.

“I trust that you will.” Still holding my hands to his lips, he murmurs, “I know your father already suspects something.”

The heat of his breath burns my skin.
Here is where the road divides,
I think. Where does my loyalty lie? It does not take me even a single heartbeat to decide.

“I will not tell Father. I promise.”

Right away I wish to explain myself, to justify my decision to lie:
Father is a good man, but knowing of
your gift would drive him mad with envy. It would be too much for him to bear.

Weed requires no explanation. He releases my hands and draws me close to him. Now there is no turning back. The architect of my future has been switched, from father to lover. But is this not precisely what nature intends? There is a time for growth, and a time for blossoming. Father, of all people, should understand that. I fear he will not, though.

I skim my fingertips around Weed’s face as if I were blind. I trace the curved dark eyebrows, the firm cheekbone underneath the petal-soft skin. My lips move toward his as a bee to a flower, eager to taste.

We kiss, and kiss again. Dizzy, I lean against the earth, yet I fly.

I
T IS STRANGE,
keeping a secret from Father.

But it is wonderful, too, for with every passing day that I resist telling Father what I know, Weed’s secret becomes my secret, and his truth is my truth as well. I—only I!—know what magic he possesses, and the mere act of knowing has transformed me from the commonplace creature I was, to the singular, extraordinary creature I am now.

I am the girl who knows. The only person Weed trusts.

I am the one he loves.

Father does suspect something, as Weed observed, but even his wildest imaginings could not approach the truth of Weed’s gift. And that is not all that he suspects. This morning, as I stand in the kitchen washing up, Father comes in and announces: “Jessamine, there is a good chance I will have to return to London.”

“When?”

“Soon. I may be gone a few days. I cannot say more about my business there, but as I may have to leave abruptly, I did not want you to worry.”

“Oh, it is all right, Father,” I say, perhaps a bit too quickly. “If I know that you are all right, I will manage.”

“I expect you will.” He clears his throat. “I do not want to leave you in a compromising position. I hope it is not imprudent for me to leave you and Weed here alone. You are both young, and—well, you seem to like each other a great deal.”

I wring out my dish towel with undue concentration, as if it were the most interesting task imaginable.

“Do you love him?”

My blush provides all the answer Father needs.

“I see.” He frowns. “I am surprised, yet I ought not be. If I have never imagined you growing up, falling in love, perhaps marrying and moving away—that is a failure of imagination on my part. Perhaps I never thought of it because I have lived so long as a bachelor, since your mother died … yet how could I forget what it was like? To be young, and in love.”

He shakes off his reverie and resumes his usual authoritative tone. “Remember: This is my home, and Weed is our guest. In my absence you are his host. You may act toward him as such. As for love—be virtuous and use the judgment God gave you, Jessamine. You are still scarcely more than a—”

“Father, enough.” I wheel from the sink. Soapy water drips from my hands onto the floor. “I will heed your words. But I am far from a child.”

I expect he will be furious at my insolence, but I no longer care. Perhaps he senses this.

“My apologies, Jessamine,” he says, inclining his head. “You are quite right. I may not think of you as full grown, but you are certainly not a child anymore.”

He reaches toward me and lifts my hair away from my face. “In fact,” he adds softly, “in this light, you look a great deal like your mother. May your virtue be rewarded with a longer, healthier life than hers.”

In the afternoon I work in the herb bed, thinning out the weak seedlings and pinching back the rest,
then laying down a fresh layer of rotted hay as mulch. Afterward Weed and I walk. He 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 marvelous I could never have imagined it.

When we return to the cottage Father is gone: boots, coat, medical bag, and all. He must have received the summons to London he was expecting.

Father is entitled to his secrets, too,
I tell myself, still giddy from the walk.
That is only fair, considering.

Weed and I are alone. We have been alone together many times, of course, but now that Father has left, perhaps for days, our shared solitude is altered. It feels heightened, expectant, almost celebratory.
It is like playing house,
I think.
Imagine if this cottage were ours, just mine and Weed’s—

I prepare a fine dinner for the two of us, a spring stew of lamb, potatoes, and fresh greens. When the
food is ready I set the table and light candles. I find tea already made in the kitchen; I warm it and pour it into cups that I choose only after careful inspection.

Weed devours his food; I am pleased. We converse as we usually do during dinner, but after the meal is done our conversation lapses. It is different with just the two of us here. He feels it too, I can tell. It is delicious, this privacy: Which of us will be the first to mention it?

I sip my tea, and Weed sips his. All my senses begin to feel heightened. The candlelight twists and leaps. The linen napkin in my lap is pleasantly smooth to the touch. From outside I hear the anxious whir of crickets, and the soft
flep-flep-flep
of bats whizzing back and forth by the window.

I notice that the bucket I once used to soak the belladonna seeds is now set in a corner, partially filled with smooth pebbles. Father must be gathering them to rake into a path.

“I wonder why they call it belladonna?” I ask, breaking the silence. “‘Lovely lady.’ It is a strange name for a plant.”

“They say it can be used to make a woman more beautiful.”

I snort. “How? That is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps, but that is what some believe.”

I stir my cup, now nearly empty. “Have you ever seen it used? Does it work?”

“I have not seen it myself, but I am told that it has—a strong effect,” Weed answers carefully.

“Then I must try it.” I feel suddenly bold, silly, reckless.

“But you could not be made more beautiful,” he says with a smile. “It would be impossible.”

“I am sure the belladonna would disagree.” I stand. “Come, Weed! You must show me how to do it.” Laughing flirtatiously, I grab his hand. Where does this dizzy abandon come from? I scarcely feel the floor beneath my feet, as I half drag, half dance Weed to Father’s study.

“There it is,” I say, pointing to the high shelf. I could drag a chair over and stretch up for it, but there is no need—my mood has infected Weed, and he
reaches the forbidden bottle easily.

“How does it work?” I ask as I twirl in front of the desk.

“A drop in each eye; that is all you need.” Weed opens the jar and removes one of its precious dark pearls. It rolls lazily in his palm. “It will make your pupils widen, your eyes flash with fire—they say no man can resist its gaze.”

“Do it,” I plead, in a voice that sounds utterly unlike my own. “Make me beautiful, Weed. I wish to look at you with these flashing eyes you speak of.”

With a gentle hand beneath my chin, he tilts my head back.

“Open your eyes wide, and look up,” he instructs.

I do, and am forced to stare at the murals on Father’s ceiling that are left over from the chapel days. I see Adam and Eve, alone in the garden, the tree of knowledge behind them, a serpent coiled around the overhanging branch from which dangles the delicious, forbidden fruit—

“Hold still, now—”

One—two—the drops burn like acid, and I cry out.

“It only stings for a moment,” Weed soothes. “Now close your eyes—and when you are ready, open them.”

You have both gone mad,
some sane ghost of my former self scolds me—

Silence,
I bid the ghost, and open my eyes. As soon as I do I know the drops have worked. I feel their powerful heat throughout my being. The belladonna drops have made me ravishing, sloe-eyed, worldly, irresistible—at least I imagine they have. The world is a blur. Each object melts into the next in a syrupy swirl of color.

“Weed, I cannot see,” I complain.

“You do not need to,” he replies. “You are to be admired.”

“But I wish to know what
you
see when you look at me.” I flail my arms about. “Where is the mirror?”

“Very well.” Weed leads me to the glass. “Come, look. Admire yourself.”

We stand together before the mirror. I can make out only shapes: a dab of yellow where my hair ought to be, floating above a long smudge that is more or less
the color of the dress I dimly recall putting on this morning. The image swims before my eyes, turns liquid. Then, like parchment that gets too near a flame, the edges begin to go dark.

“Do you see?” Weed asks, from someplace far away. “Can you see how beautiful you are?”

I cannot. I cannot see anything now. The soft veil of darkness wraps around me. Weed’s voice is my world, now. It caresses me like a breeze. Warms me like the sun.

I love him.

I turn and reach out until I find him. My blindness makes me bold. In this dim, private world, anything that might happen is merely a dream, a wisp, a fantasy. Nothing is forbidden.

I am blind, and I have never felt so free.

I cling to Weed’s body, a landmark in the dark. Unseeing, I run my hands up his chest and twine them around his neck. I throw my head back, so that he may gaze into my charmed, useless eyes and be captivated by their spell.

“Lovely lady.” His whisper coils around me like smoke.
“Belladonna.
My lovely, lovely Jessamine—”

I love you, Weed.

In the darkness I let myself melt, so he has no choice but to catch me and lift me, cradling my body against his. His mouth finds mine. After the first kiss I arch so his lips brush the tender skin of my throat instead.

Their warm, velvet touch sears me with pleasure. I would writhe in these flames forever, if it would keep his burning mouth pressed against me like this. I would stay eternally blind, if it meant my skin would always be this alive, every nerve on fire—