If he is mad, I think, at least it is a harmless kind of madness, to sit and talk to plants, as if they could hear one’s words, and comprehend one’s meaning, isn’t it?

The sun is low in the sky. Weed has not returned to the house, nor is he in the garden. I suppose he may have taken a walk by himself. The thought brings tears to my eyes, and I am instantly ashamed—foolish, spoiled Jessamine! Surely I can keep myself occupied for an afternoon without weeping like a baby.

In any case, I have had all day to think about what happened yesterday. I do not know how Weed knows the things he knows, or why he was so disturbed when I picked the dandelion, or what he was doing in the garden last night. And I can well imagine how infuriating it is to Father that Weed refuses to reveal the source of his knowledge.

But one thing is clear: Father and Weed must become friends, for I cannot bear another incident of being torn between them like this. They are both too dear to me.

And too alike, I think, with their mysterious moods and closely guarded secrets.

They both are also very good at leaving me alone, it seems.

It is after dark when Father returns. His mood is calm, even serene. But it has always been thus with Father; his moods pass like little storms: a brief, violent bluster followed by tranquil skies.

“Did you save the man’s foot?” Quickly I heat up some dinner in a skillet. I know Father must be hungry after his journey.

He nods. “They think I am a miracle worker, though you and I know who truly deserves the credit. Where is Weed, Jessamine? I wish to speak to him. No doubt he is afraid to face me now, but he need not be. Can you persuade him to come see me?”

“I will try.”

I was too proud and fearful to search for Weed earlier, but now that Father wants to reconcile I am prepared to wander all over the county in search of him. There is no need: Before I reach the footpath I find him lying on the ground, hidden among the plants of the dye garden. His hand rests lightly upon the bloodroot, almost as if he had been petting it.

Where have you been? Why have you not confided in me? How could you leave me alone all day with no companion but my own fears and unanswered questions? My thoughts are as tangled and thorny as a hedge of brambles, and I force them down, deep inside, so that I may speak calmly.

“Come inside, Weed,” I say. “Father has returned; he wishes to speak to you.”

Weed scowls and turns away.

“He saved the man’s foot because of your advice. Don’t you wish to know what happened?”