“Friar Bartholomew kept no books,” Weed says firmly. “Just beer.”

That silences Father, but not for long. He strides across the room and back again, pauses, and then pulls up a chair very close to where Weed sits. He slips into the chair and regards Weed with a friendly, open expression.

“Weed, Mr. Pratt says you know how to prepare certain types of medicines. He claims you made a special tea, one that has the power to calm a sick mind.”

Weed shakes his head, no no no no.

“It is all right,” Father says quickly. “It is not wrong to know how to do these things. Forget how Pratt scolded you; he is a brute and a fool, a condition for which I fear there will never be a cure.” He gestures around his study. “I prepare many types of medicines myself, Weed. I would not punish you for doing the same. Now tell me,” Father presses on.

“What did you put in that tea? How did you know which plants to use, and in what quantities? And if you did not gain this knowledge from books, or from your beer-soaked friar, then from where?”

“I made the tea, yes,” Weed replies carefully.

“How, Weed? Who told you how to cure the inmates?”

I can hear how hard Father is trying to mask his impatience, but the vein on his forehead is beginning to throb. Inwardly I will him to be gentle.

Weed presses his lips together and says no more. Father leans closer. His voice grows more urgent. “Who taught you how to poison the well water?”

Weed leaps to his feet; he looks ready to bolt. “No! I did not poison anyone—”

“Father.” I step forward and lay a hand on his arm. “I’m sure he will tell us everything in time. First we must earn his trust.”

Father looks at Weed, then back at me. The blue vein in his forehead goes taut momentarily but quickly fades.

“You are perfectly correct, Jessamine.” He stands. “For now our only purpose should be to make certain Weed is happy here. He must be well fed, well cared for, and safe. He needs time—time to become part of the family. After all,” he adds, to Weed, “families have no need to keep secrets from one another, do they, Weed?”

Weed stares at his feet. “I would not know, sir.”

It has been nearly a week since Weed came to live here.

I have spent hours with him every day, in speech and in silence—every hour I can spare from my work in the gardens and the cottage. He no longer turns away when he sees me, and (I hope I am not imagining it!) he even seems to like it when I come. He always answers me when I talk to him, though his answers sometimes sound more like riddles.