Is Father going to relent? My fear is just as quickly replaced by hope. Is he going to invite us into the apothecary garden at last?

Weed gazes steadily at Father, his green eyes murky as a stagnant pool. “It is locked,” he says, in an echo of Father’s words, “and for good reason.”

The vein on Father’s forehead throbs onc–twice—then brusquely he stands and pushes his chair away from the table.

“This was a fine dinner, Jessamine. Thank you for preparing it. Now I must get back to my work, as I know you must get back to yours.” His voice is controlled, but the fingers of his right hand twitch as he speaks. “I bid you both good night.”

Without waiting for a reply, Father exits the room. The meal he has just praised lies half eaten on his plate.

“Father never lingers at the table; that is his way,” I explain to Weed, to hide my embarrassment at Father’s abrupt exit. “But you may stay and eat as much as you like.”

Weed nods. He has already devoured every scrap of his own food, but he reaches his hand across the table until it floats above Father’s plate. It hovers there briefly, then delicately drops and seizes a lamb chop by the bone.

“A fine dinner, Jessamine.” Once more he echoes Father’s words. “This was a fine dinner. Thank you.”

He eats the remains of Father’s meal. I watch, filled with an unfamiliar feeling of contentment and think: Jessamine, Jessamine, Jessamine.

It is the first time he has spoken my name.

7

22nd April

So much to do, there is scarcely time to write anything down. The garden grows as never before, and I must work my hardest to keep up.

I am glad Weed is here to help.

APRIL IS A MIRACLE, every year—between morning and evening I notice the garden change, as buds burst open, petals unfurl, and last year’s woody brown stalks grow tall with new green shoots. But in all of Northumberland, nothing grows as tall and handsome as Weed.

In scarcely more than a month, he has gained four inches. Now he stands taller than I do, and looks to be getting taller still. When he wears Father’s trousers he no longer has to roll them up at the bottom. His limbs are slim and strong, like the branches of a willow.

His black hair is still wild, for that is the way it naturally grows. His dark eyebrows curve in two brooding crescents above his shockingly green eyes.

His mouth is changeable—sometimes wide and grinning, sometimes soft and full.

His teeth are white as snowdrops. His complexion, once so pale, is now tinged golden from the sun.