The cottage is cold and dark when I finally cross its threshold, with only a few glowing remnants of a fire glowing among the ashes in the parlor hearth. If there has been a supper I have missed it, but with no one to cook or call him to the table, Father may well still be working, reading and muttering, oblivious to all that has taken place outside the locked world of his study.

I light a candle and rummage in the pantry until I find a leftover boiled egg and some cold cooked potato. I wrap them in a linen napkin to take upstairs with me. I will eat them in private and then go to sleep, to put the memory of this awful day behind me as quickly as I can.

The house is so quiet; perhaps Father has already retired to bed. Out of habit I pause to check the pail by the back door, the one marked POISON that holds the belladonna seeds. Tonight is their last night soaking in this watery womb. Tomorrow they will be planted, in the garden where I am not permitted to go.

I lift the lid and lower my candle so I can see inside.

The bucket is dry and empty. The belladonna seeds are gone.

My first, horrified thought: Has someone stolen them? Father will be furious!

But then I listen again: The cottage is silent, but there are noises coming from outside. Dull, digging noises. The sound of earth being turned.

Now that I no longer need its light, the moon has risen and bathed the courtyard in its soft glow. But I do not have to see my way. I know exactly where to go. Past the courtyard, past the fishpond, past all the garden beds, up the narrow winding path to the left that leads to the tall, locked gate.

I lay one hand on the rough metal chain; with the other I clasp the lock. I press my forehead against the cold iron bars, and peer through the dark forms and moving shadows of a mysterious world I will never be allowed to enter.

Father is at the north wall, bent over in the moonlight, digging. Whistling softly. Happy.

Silently I return to the cottage. I stand by the back door, my head hanging down in defeat.

Without my bidding, my foot lashes out and kicks over the empty pail.

Will everything I care for be taken away from me?

4

23rd March

A fine, clear day, but a sharp metal smell in the air warns of a coming storm.

I planted more radishes in the morning, also set bulbs of onions and garlic. The bulbs overwintered nicely in the cellar; they were dry and firm, with no sign of mold.

Took out my mending basket to repair torn stockings and found a