I know he does not mean me, but I blush anyway, and go first up the stairs so he cannot see my scarlet face.

Father sits behind his desk, scribbling in one of his notebooks, but when I bring Weed into the study he slams the book shut and springs to his feet.

“Sit down, boy,” he says, not unkindly. He pulls an armchair next to the desk and gestures for Weed to take it. I perch in the window seat. “If you are to live under my roof, I must know some things about you. Will you do your best to answer my questions?”

Weed glances at me, then at Father, and gives a slight nod.

“You go by the name of Weed. Do you have any other name?”

Weed shakes his head no.

“Any family? Parents, brothers, sisters?”

No.

“And what about that Tobias Pratt? He was kind to you? He was like a father to you, perhaps? You must have grown very attached to him.”

Weed lifts his eyes and gazes steadily at Father.

“No,” he says. “He is an awful man.”

Father nods. “Excellent. Telling the truth will serve you well, with me, and elsewhere, too. Now I wish to ask you about the friar you once lived with. Do you know who I mean?”

“Yes,” Weed’s voice slowly gains confidence. “Friar Bartholomew.”

“You did like him, I can see it on your face.”

Weed nods. “He cared for me.”

“How long did you live with him?”

“For as many seasons as I can remember.” Weed glances at me before adding, “He found me in a basket.”

Father nods. “It was once the custom to leave foundling children on the doorstep of the monasteries. Perhaps someone thought a friar would do just as well in a pinch. Now I must ask you, Weed: This Friar Bartholomew—was he a secret Catholic? You can tell me the truth; the man is already dead, so no further harm can come to him.”

I realize what Father is thinking: If this friar posed as an Anglican but secretly practiced the old faith, he might have been a repository for the ancient wisdom of the monks. Perhaps the friar was a hidden link in a long, secret chain, preserving the knowledge that was thought to have been lost centuries ago—the knowledge Father has sought all his life.

Weed shrugs.

“Does that mean yes, or no?” Impatience creeps into Father’s voice.

“I don’t know,” Weed says flatly. “I don’t know if he had a secret.”

Father walks back and forth, caged by his own frustration. “Did this Bartholomew have any books, Weed? Old, musty books, perhaps? Books having to do with plants?”

“No.”

Father stops pacing and fixes Weed with a look. “This is important, Weed. This knowledge is priceless. If you knew of the existence of such books, it would not be right to keep it to yourself.”

“No books.”

“Are you sure?”