I find it no quieter than any other pile of rocks in a field, but if the particular silence of this place pleases Weed, then I am pleased as well.

“We can go back now,” he says, turning around. “I have walked enough for one day.”

I do not want our excursion to end, not yet. When we nearly reach the cottage I point straight ahead. “There is another garden that way. We cannot go in it, but I can show you where it is.”

“All right,” he says with a touch of wariness.

I lead him down the path that curves off to the left of the cottage, sloping briefly downhill and then climbing up the northernmost slope of the old monastery lands.

I look over my shoulder. Weed is lagging behind.

“Shall we turn back?”

There is a strange, haunted expression on his face. “We are almost there,” he murmurs. It is not a question.

“Yes,” I agree. “This is the apothecary garden. It is Father’s special garden.”

I gesture ahead as we come around the crest of the path. There is the tall black gate, the heavy chain, the iron lock. Behind the gate, the forbidden plants sway in the breeze, as if beckoning us inside—slip through the gate, you can do it—come inside now—

Weed looks stricken. He clasps both hands to his head, covering his ears.

“What is wrong?” I cry. “What do you hear?”

He shakes his head and lets out a sharp cry of pain. I am afraid; what on earth is happening to him?

“Enough; we will go home,” I say, pulling him away from the gate. “You must be exhausted; it is too much for your first day out. Can you make it to the cottage?”

He nods and lets me wrap a supportive arm around his back as he rests his arm upon my shoulder. In this way we make slow progress. With each step we take away from the gate he regains strength.

I am distraught to see him suffer, but there is something thrilling about the way he leans upon me as we make our way home. Even after we enter the cottage and he is nearly himself again, the weight and warmth of Weed’s touch seems to linger on my skin.

I bring Weed some fresh water to drink, which revives him fully. Then I quickly prepare the evening meal.

When the food is ready, I call Father from his study. I am excited, for this will be the first time the three of us will share a dinner together.

“It is good to see you out and about, Weed,” Father says as I finish lighting the candles and take my seat.

“My time beneath the ground is over,” Weed replies simply. “I have come up now.”

Father nods in approval. “There is room in the storeroom to make a bed for you; that is where you must sleep from now on.”