Father lets Weed slide off his shoulder and onto the bed, then walks around the room and opens all the windows fully. “If he did not ingest any of the leaves, the fresh air will revive him soon enough. And if he did, he is worse than a fool, for he must have known exactly what would happen.”

He turns and looks down at his patient. Weed’s breaths come evenly, and his eyes flutter back and forth beneath closed lids.

“He dreams. That is a good sign.” Father takes a light blanket and places it over Weed’s frame. “If only I could look through some enchanted lens that would let me observe those dreams,” he murmurs. “They might reveal much.”

I too long for such an enchanted lens. Do you dream of me, Weed? I wonder. Do you dream of our kiss, as I do? Or was it only a moment’s fancy, already forgotten?

Father’s penetrating gaze finds me and pins me to the spot. “I am more sure of it than ever, Jessamine. Somehow this silent, unschooled boy knows more than I do about the very plants I have made my life’s work. But how? Has he revealed anything to you? You must not keep it from me if so.”

“I do not know what Weed knows, or how,” I say earnestly. “I wish I did.”

Father stares at me until I have to look away.

I do not think he believes me.

I spend the night dozing in a chair I drag up to my bedchamber from the parlor. My sleep is so light and broken that I dream all night long. They are strange dreams of icy water, swirling about my ears—

I am a mere speck tossed about in a turbulent sea, while a smiling giantess empties and refills the ocean beds with rushing, foam-flecked tides, again and again and again—

It is nearly dawn before Weed begins to stir. At once I am at his bedside. His eyes do not open, but he breathes a single word:

“Jessamine.”

My heart swells until it hurts. What is this feeling, this deep ache that contains both pain and joy? Is it some leftover poison from that strange nettle? Is it love?

“I am here, Weed.” I lift his hair back off his forehead. “I was so frightened! What happened to you in the garden? Was it anything to do with that leaf you picked?”

He shakes his head. “The voices are strong there. So strong, so cruel. So beautiful. They want me to stay.”

“What voices? Who wants you to stay?”

He looks at me with those fathomless green eyes. “Jessamine,” he whispers, so softly his words seem to enter my ears like the sound of a breeze in the meadow. “I am not like other people. I ought not to speak of these things.”