I give Luxton a violent push. Even as he coughs and gags, he climbs to his feet. His eyes fly up in terror, but he cannot see Oleander. Where the Prince of Poisons was, there is only an absence, a place with neither light nor shadow. It is a kind of emptiness that has not existed since before the world began.

With scarcely a backward glance, Luxton makes his way to the path and half stumbles, half runs back to the ancient ruins of his home. The antidote is still clutched tightly in his hands. I watch until he disappears over the crest of the hill.

Live, Jessamine. I will it, with every drop of strength I possess. Live, and remember me. I will never be far, and my friends—the flowers, the trees, the tender vine that curls around your window and guards you while you sleep—they will always be watching. And so will I.

As I stand, awash in rage and despair, a low, sad rumble from the distant forest offers me a refuge. I will go, for I too must live. My life’s purpose now is to watch, and protect. And, if need be, to avenge.

I step onto the path and turn my back to Hulne Park, to the cottage, to Jessamine—to the only happiness I have ever known.

Luxton’s satchel lies in the dirt before me. I lift it. I can tell by the weight and shape of it what it contains: his book of cures. Thomas Luxton’s poison diary. Filled with the information I gave him, purchased nearly at the price of his daughter’s life.

It was his most precious possession.

Now it is mine.