17th March

Warmer today, but a steady wind blows from the east, smelling faintly of the sea. The sun peeked through the clouds briefly after lunch. Then gray skies once more.

Made breakfast for Father, who ate little and said less. After the meal he went straight to his study and locked the door. I am alone again.

Changed the soaking water for the belladonna seeds—only one more day beforethey are ready for planting!

Father still has not told me where he was.

I TRY TO BUSY MYSELF with chores. I practice sketching, though I can find nothing of interest to sketch: a kettle, a chair, a ball of yarn.

After lunch I can stand it no longer. The fire is still in embers, so I am quickly able to rekindle it and put on a kettle of water for tea. As soon as the tea is ready, I set it on a tray and proceed to Father’s study.

Before I knock, I peer through the keyhole. What I see only fills me with more questions. Father paces around the room and mutters like a wild thing, grabbing volumes from the shelves and throwing them down again. His heavy leather-bound book of formulas, the one he keeps locked in a drawer, lies open on his desk. Now and then he comes back to the book and leafs through the pages, looking for something that he clearly cannot find.

I take a deep breath to calm myself and knock on the great wooden door.

“Father? I brought you some tea.”

Silence. Then:

“I did not ask for tea, Jessamine.”

“I want to speak to you.”

A thud, as of a large book slammed shut. The bang of a drawer closing, the click of a lock. Father opens the door, the small gold key still in his hand.

“Speak, then. I am busy; I am sure you can deduce that from the state of my desk.” He looks down at the tray. “What type of tea is it?”

“Lemon balm. Made with leaves that I saved from last summer and dried in the storeroom.” I lift the tray higher, so he can catch the scent. “It is very soothing.”

“Lemon balm tea,” he echoes as I make my way past him and place the tray on his desk. The dark wood is pocked and crisscrossed with grooves from a few centuries’ worth of scribbling pens. “Such a simple, harmless drink. Made by your own sweet hands, I presume?”

“Of course.” I hand him the cup. Lemon-scented steam rises between us. As he sips I gather my courage to ask, “where were you, Father?”

“In my study, obviously. I have been in here all day.”

“I mean yesterday. And the day before, and the day before that.”

He turns away. “I was where my services were required; that is all you need to know.”