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.”
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
