“Wait!” I run to Father’s study and stretch high on tiptoe to grab the glass jar of belladonna berries from the shelf. Cradling the jar like a baby, I race back to the parlor, breathless.

“Here, Father—the belladonna—”

His temper explodes. “Jessamine! Have you lost your mind?”

“Take some with you, Father. In case the man needs them. Weed said two—two berries only—”

I struggle to get the lid off the jar. In doing so, I lose my grip—it starts to slip from my hand—

“No!” Father catches the jar before it falls and shatters. I snatch the jar from Father, pour two berries into my handkerchief, and tie them in a secure bundle.

“Take these, too, please, Father,” I beg. “Do as Weed says. I know you will not regret it.”

Cursing under his breath, Father takes the berries from me. He shoves them and the torn leaves roughly into his satchel and storms out of the cottage.

After Father goes, I find Weed in the herb garden, sitting very still among the plants. I bring him some water. He takes it with a look of gratitude but says nothing, and I have no choice but to leave him be. An hour goes by, then another. At times I swear I can hear him speaking quietly—but with whom?

Late this evening I walk through the house, candle in hand, to extinguish all the lamps. It only then that I notice the belladonna is still sitting out in the parlor. Carefully I secure the lid and return the jar to Father’s study.

Before I put the jar back on the shelf, I hold my candle next to it so that I may admire the black orbs within. The soft light flickers across their glossy skin, making the berries look strangely alive. They are dark, spherical, shining, deadly. Beautiful.

Like staring into the pupils of a murderess, I think.

8

23rd April

No word from Father.

Weed is not speaking to me, either.

What has happened to my family, my new and only friend? I am bereft.

WEED HAS BEEN OUTSIDE in the garden all night, and now it is morning. For the most part I have left him alone, though every now and then I look out my window to see if he is all right.

I may be mistaken, but it seems that he pays special attention to the plants from which he tore leaves yesterday to give to Father: the rue, tansy, poppy, chamomile, and lavender. He sits quietly by each one in turn. His lips scarcely move, but his expression is that of a person in deep conversation.

Seeing him out there fills me with dread. I am filled with questions that I am too afraid to ask.