My mind whirls—there is so much about Weed I do not know. So much I could ask, and should ask—but I am afraid.

Surely it would be better not to know….

But I must be braver than that. “I touched the belladonna plants with a stick,” I say, in a trembling voice. “And then you cried out.”

His eyes widen into two green marbles, swirls of liquid emerald enclosed within perfect spheres. The early morning sun renders their color translucent, like the licorice-scented absinthe Father drips into his water glass, one intoxicating spoonful at a time.

I take Weed’s hand in both of my own. “Can you at least tell me why you collapsed in the apothecary garden?” I plead. “These voices of yours—to whom do they belong?”

The curtains billow inward from the window. The fragrant spring air caresses us both. I lean forward until my face is a handsbreadth from his. I close my eyes and imagine brushing my lips against his, again and again.

“Tell me what you know,” I whisper. “Show me what you see.”

“I wish I could.” He turns his face away. “But I cannot.”

The kiss dies on my lips.

10

15th May

No work is permitted today. It is a holiday! I have declared it to be Weed’s birthday.

He is still puzzled by the notion, so I suppose I will have to explain it to him. In any case, it is a pleasant excuse to skip chores and have a picnic.

WEED IS SEVENTEEN NOW, more or less.

After the incident with the dandelion I know better than to weave daisy chains and drape them around his neck in honor of the day (or the week, or the month—birthday calculations are no more than a guess, in Weed’s case).

I ask him if I may give him a small gift. I do not wish to embarrass him or be intrusive, but I know he is not likely to have received many birthday presents in his life. I would like to remedy that a little, if I could.

“You may, if you like” is his shrugged reply. “If it would make you happy.”

“It would, but it is more important that it make you happy. That is the whole point of a present. Is there something in particular you would enjoy?”

He smiles and says only, “Good soil, sun, and rain. What more does one need in the spring?”

Not willing to take dirt, sun, and rain for an answer, I secretly begin to knit him a scarf, in shades of green and brown, interwoven with flecks of daffodil yellow. Since it will not be finished for a few days yet, I also choose a book I think Weed might find interesting, from among some of Father’s recent purchases in London.