“Bells,” he breathes.

His voice is so soft it is not even a whisper. More like the rustle of a leaf.

“Yes,” I say encouragingly, in case I heard right. “Centuries ago, in this very place, there were church bells ringing, and Mass bells, and the call to vespers. When the monastery was here there must have been bells ringing all the time.”

“Bells.”

I am nearly sure that is what he said, but it was so soft, a mere flutter of air. “Bells?” I repeat gently. “Do you mean Canterbury bells? They are such pretty flowers, I grow them in my cutting garden.”

Weed’s whole face brightens. “Garden?” he asks, quite clearly.

His green eyes pierce me like emerald daggers. “Do you like gardens? We have many,” I say in a rush.

“In the kitchen gardens I grow all our vegetables and herbs for the table, and there is a small orchard for fruit, and a bee garden so the bees will make delicious honey, and a dye garden so I can make dyes to color the wool. And Father has his apothecary garden of plants that he uses to make medicines and cures—but we may not enter there, for Father’s work is secret, and many of those plants are poison—”

“Jessamine!” Father stands silhouetted at the top of the cellar stairs. “What on earth are you telling that boy?”

“Nothing—”

“Do not lie, Jessamine. I heard you speaking. A person cannot speak nothing.”

“I am sorry, Father. I should have said, ‘Nothing of importance,’” I reply with false cheer, to cover the shame I feel at being scolded in front of Weed. “I was telling Weed about us, and our home, and about the gardens—he ought to know where he is, and in whose care, oughtn’t he?”

Father ignores my reply. “since he is ready to speak, bring the boy upstairs to my study. At once, please.” Then he leaves, letting the door close behind him. The shaft of daylight coming down the stairwell is snuffed out.

I take a deep breath to compose myself and give my eyes time to adjust to the sudden darkness. Then I make myself smile reassuringly at Weed. “Father can be stern, but you mustn’t be frightened of him. Will you come upstairs?”

I extend my hand. Weed takes it and rises gracefully to his feet, unfolding his long legs in a single fluid motion. The dim light gives his pale face an unearthly beauty that takes my breath away—the dark, unkempt hair, his wide, impossibly green eyes, his weightless form as willowy as a sapling.

“Come,” I say, steadying my voice. “Perhaps he will let you see the belladonna berries; they are quite lovely. He keeps some in a jar on the shelf.”

“Belladonna,” Weed says, looking at me so intensely his green eyes nearly light up the dark. “A beautiful lady.”