Weed and I stand behind him. The morning air promises a warm day, but Weed seems frozen. I imagine he has steeled himself against whatever ill effects he fears the garden may have on him by cultivating a cold, blank exterior. How odd it is to stand so close to him and see no flicker of affection, no sign of our closeness of yesterday!

Soon, I think. Soon we will be alone again, and the truth can finally be spoken.

Father slips the key in the keyhole and turns it, until the lock falls open with a soft click. He shakes loose the heavy chain and lets it slip to the ground. In answer to a gentle push, the tall black gate swings open on smooth, silent hinges.

At last! I long to whoop in celebration, but I dare not. Something more somber and dangerous is at stake. Weed stands near me, his face impassive.

“Come inside; don’t be afraid.” Father gestures for us to follow.

My high spirits give me the courage to tease Father. “All right, but aren’t you going to tell us not to touch anything?”

He smiles faintly. “I assumed you knew that by now.”

As we step inside, the temperature of the air itself seems to change, as if a great cloud suddenly blotted out the sun. Weed shudders, but he does not hang back, and together we proceed.

Excitement courses through my every nerve. Is it because Weed is near me, or is it because, finally, after years of waiting, I stand inside the forbidden garden? Is the thrill of one any different than the thrill of the other? I cannot tell. He is with me, the garden is before me; my heart quickens with the rightness of it all.

And yet, as I look about, I am forced to admit: On its surface, the apothecary garden is not so very different from any other garden. There is the smell of rich earth, the green plants growing quietly in their beds, the soft hum of bees making their rounds.

Father walks ahead of us. He too seems charged with excitement; there is a spring in his step I do not often see. “My aim is to keep the plant families together as best I can, based on scientific principles,” he explains. “Weed, are you familiar with the work of Carl Linnaeus? His Systema Naturae describes a classification system for all growing things.”

Weed’s eyes dart everywhere, probing every corner. “Unless he visited the madhouse, I never met him,” he replies.