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
