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“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…”
