If I thought for a heartbeat that, even deep within the private corners of his own mind, Weed dissected and scrutinized me in just this way, piece by piece—eye, lip, nose, cheek—I would be mortified beyond all hope of recovery. But I mean no disrespect by it. It is because I am so used to observing and recording everything I see: the weather, the plants, the changes in the garden. Depicting that which interests me has become second nature, and nothing is as interesting to me as the time I spend with Weed. Thus I cannot help but try (and fail miserably, I fear!) to describe him in detail—as if he were some unusual plant Father might have brought home in his satchel.

I write about him by candlelight, while I am upstairs in my bedchamber and he lies sleeping in the storeroom below. The more I struggle to describe this unique being, the more it feels as if he were right here, next to me—is it foolish to be lonely for him when I know I will see him in the morning?

Sometimes it feels as if morning will never come.

Weed and I take long walks together nearly every day, once all our chores are done. He seems to know everything about how to make the garden thrive, though sometimes I find his advice curious. This morning he suggested that the rue plants would grow better if they were moved as far as possible from the lavender. When I asked why, he just laughed and said, “I do not know; perhaps they have had an argument.” But I have learned to trust his advice, and the work is quick and enjoyable because of him.

When we walk he leads us far from the cottage. We wander until he announces, for no particular reason that I can see, that it is time to stop. Then he lies on his back on the ground and listens—to the birds, I suppose, or to the sound of the wind whistling through the leaves. Whole afternoons pass in this way.

Today is no different. We lie here, near to each other but not touching, and somehow my heart manages to feel full to bursting and light as air, all at the same time.

“You must think I am mad,” he says, rolling on his side to look at me.

“Why would I think that?”

He does not answer right away, but the notion of madness causes my mind to recollect the strange accusations made by that awful Mr. Pratt on the day Weed first came to live with us. “I did not believe a word of Pratt’s story, Weed,” I say to reassure him. “I hope you have no fear on that account. I do not know what happened at the madhouse, but even a blind person could see that Tobias Pratt is not an honorable man.”