Buck shook his head as if trying to wake from a nap. “What—what’s happening?”

Hazel picked up the knife, watching him, and touched the blade. Sharp, indeed. She placed it on a shelf.

Maeve nodded. “All right.” Turning to Ruby, she said, “Let’s go to the harbor and see if we can spot some seals on the rocks.” She grasped the girl’s hand and led her out of the kitchen.

When they were alone, Hazel sat in the chair across from Buck. His pupils were huge and black, his shirt soaked through with perspiration. She reached for the earthenware bowl on the sideboard behind her. Inside it were some sprigs of mint and three long, pale pink flowers with pointed tips, elegant as bells. She set the bowl on the table.

“There’s a saying among healers and midwives, Mr. Buck. ‘Hot as a hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, mad as a hatter.’ Have ye heard it?”

He shook his head uncertainly.

“Well, it describes a set of symptoms. Starting with ‘hot as a hare.’ You’re feeling quite warm right now, aren’t ye?”

“It’s broilin’ in here.”

“No it isn’t. Your body temperature is rising. Next is ‘blind as a bat.’” She pointed at her own eyes. “Your pupils are dilated. Things are getting blurry, yes?”

He rubbed his eyes.

“Dry as a bone.” She touched her own throat. “You’re parched.”

He swallowed.

“You’re not quite as red as a beet, but your skin is awfully flushed. And ‘mad as a hatter,’ well . . .”

It seemed to require a great effort to dredge himself out of his stupor. “What’re . . . ye . . . talking about?”

She tipped the bowl so he could see. “These pretty blossoms are called angel’s trumpet—though some call them breath of the devil, and for good reason. We have a plant just outside the front door. I’m sure you’ve seen it before; it’s fairly common. There’s a bush in the neighbor’s garden across the street. Even a few at the governor’s house.” She set the bowl back on the sideboard. “If you’re lucky—and I think there’s enough poison in your bloodstream that ye are—you’ll become delirious before the convulsions start. You’ll probably end up in a coma before ye die. So that’s a mercy.”

“Ye—ye nasty bunter!” he gasped.

“Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as drowning. From what I hear. Though maybe it is.” She shrugged. “Do ye feel spoony? Short of breath?”

He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“It shouldn’t take long. By morning . . .” Her voice trailed off. She held up her palms as if in apology. “There’s really nothing anyone can do.”

He lurched forward, struggling to pull himself to his feet. Sagging against the table, he knocked the empty teacup onto the floor, where it shattered. He collapsed in a heap beside it. “You’ll pay,” he groaned.

Looking down at him, she said, “I don’t think so, Mr. Buck. Ye came in to the practice complaining of stomach pains. Turned out you’d eaten a poisonous flower, probably to feel its effects. I didn’t judge ye for it. Only God can do that. Sadly, there’s no antidote. All we could do was try to make ye comfortable.”