“And there is a window there, too,” I interject. “Every morning you will awaken to the sun.”

Weed looks at me with gratitude. “Thank you for what I am about to receive,” he says in a loud, strong voice. Father raises an eyebrow but does not comment, and I ladle the food onto each plate.

We eat. Father and I often share dinner in silence, but with Weed at the table the lack of conversation seems awkward. Father seems to feel so, too.

“Well,” he remarks. “How did you two spend this lovely day?”

Weed’s mouth is already full of food. “We took a walk, Father,” I answer for us both. “To the stone circle and back.”

“I imagine Jessamine explained the significance of the stone circle?”

Weed nods.

“We saw a stoat killing a rabbit,” I interject. “It was quite vicious. And the rabbit made the most horrible sound—”

Father seems to not hear me; all his attention is fixed on Weed. “It must have been pleasant for you to be outdoors, after all those days in the cellar. Did you see any plants of interest?”

“They are all of interest,” Weed says politely.

Father smiles. “Indeed. And what did you think of our gardens?”

Weed scarcely pauses before answering. “The gardens are very well tended. The soil is black and loamy and full of worms. The radishes were planted at just the right time; they will grow well. There is a clump of bee balm that will fare better if it is cut back and divided into two—no, three plants, that will give the most blooms, I think. And the marigold wants more sun and should be moved.”

I can hardly swallow for surprise; it is uncanny how Weed noticed every detail during our walk.

Father pushes his food around his plate with the fork. “It seems Mr. Pratt was right about one thing; you do know a great deal about plants,” he says finally. “Did you happen to pass by the apothecary garden?”

“The one that infests the northern slope?” Weed says calmly, shoving a chunk of lamb chop into his mouth. “The one that stinks of death?”

I nearly gasp—I know Father will be furious at this rude reply. Ought I to say something about the sudden illness that afflicted Weed when we approached the locked gate? Will Weed mention it?

But Father merely stares at Weed. If he is angry, he hides it well. He nods in the affirmative.

“That garden is locked, sir.” Weed’s voice is mild, but there is a trace of iron beneath.

“Yes, it is locked,” Father says after a long pause, “and for good reason. Though I confess, I would be curious to know if you are familiar with the plants that grow within its walls. Over the years I have collected a great many unusual specimens.”