I wish only for Weed, to see Weed again, to touch him, and I will, the moment I pass through the door of the cottage—

Weed stands in the parlor, shoulders hunched, staring down at the table, upon which Father’s handkerchief lies. Father sits in his chair at the head of the table. Neither of them looks at me or says hello.

Father flips open the white linen, revealing the belladonna berries.

“As it turned out, I did not need the belladonna this time, Weed. Thanks to your poultice, the man’s wounds started to heal cleanly, with no gangrene or fever.”

Father covers the berries again and slips the handkerchief into his pocket.

“You have knowledge that can help people, Weed. That much is obvious. I wish to know where you acquired this knowledge, so that I may follow in your footsteps. But if you will not or cannot tell me, then at least teach me some of what you know.”

Weed’s eyes stay fixed on the table. “I have nothing to teach,” he says in a low voice.

“Your humility is admirable, but of no use to anyone.” Father rises from his chair and sits on the edge of the table, nearer to Weed. “It is time to be frank with each other. I value your knowledge, Weed. I admire it. I admit, I envy it. Think of it: belladonna, hemlock, black henbane—the lost formula for a twilight sleep! A sleep so profound a man would not feel his own limb being cut off.”

He looks at Weed as if expecting some reaction, but there is none. Father seems to interpret this as interest, or at least a willingness to hear more, for he goes on.

“Behind the walls of my apothecary garden are other rare and even more dangerous plants. Many I acquired without fully understanding their uses—perhaps I found a name mentioned in some obscure, ancient medical text, or came upon an old cure related by a beggar who claimed to have heard it from an ancient witch woman he met once. Based upon such vague hints and clues, and often following nothing more than my own blind instincts, I have bought and traded plants from all over the world. The most powerful ones live behind that locked gate.”

Weed’s face is impassive; his attention seems to have turned inward. Undaunted, Father continues.

“I have gone to great pains to try to learn the uses and properties of these plants. I have spent countless hours in pursuit of this knowledge. You could save me a great deal of time and effort, if you would only speak….” Father stops himself. He stands, and spreads his hands before Weed in a gesture of supplication. “Weed. I wish to take you into the apothecary garden. I want you to look at the plants that grow there and tell me what you know of them.”