I bake a tray of small seedcakes with a honey glaze. I wrap them in linen napkins and place them in a basket to take with us on our afternoon ramble, along with a bottle of cider, the book I plan to give as a gift, and some paper and charcoal pencils for sketching in case the mood strikes us.

Father is gone for the day on some explorations of his own. I am glad of his absence, to be truthful—he watches Weed too carefully now, ever since our trip to the walled garden and Weed’s subsequent brief illness. He hovers too close, asks too many questions. Certainly that is no way to spend a birthday!

Weed waits, somewhat bemused, as I prepare the basket. Finally we head off. Together we walk a long way, until we find a pleasant grassy knoll where we can sit and unpack our lunch. The air is sweet and buzzes with the hum of insect wings.

“Don’t you envy the bees—the way they can crawl right inside the flower?” I say, swatting some of the eager intruders away from the sticky glaze on the cakes. “It must be so soft and sweet smelling in there among the petals. I wonder if it tickles?”

“I have reason to think it does,” Weed replies contentedly, gazing up at the sky. “The bees have a very close knowledge of the blossom.”

“More so than even the greatest botanists.” I pour two small glasses of cider and hand one to Weed, who murmurs his customary words of grace. “I used to think I would like to be a botanist someday, but Father forbids me to study. Luckily he always leaves stacks of books by his chair in the parlor. I often sneak one or two when he is not looking.”

“That is dishonest,” Weed says, not sounding particularly disturbed.

I take a nibble of seedcake, still warm from the hearth. “I have no choice. Father says, ‘Anyone who thinks botany is a fit profession for a lady does not know much about plants.’”

Weed rolls on his side and smiles. “It sounds as if he believes there is something sinful about horticulture.”

“Oh, but there is!” I remove the book from the bottom of the basket and open it. “This volume describes the classification system of the Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus, whom Father mentioned when we walked together in the apothecary garden. If it pleases you, you may have it as a birthday present.”

“Thank you,” Weed says. “I may not understand it, but thank you.”

I cannot help but laugh. “I hope you will understand it! Linnaeus says the plants get married and make new plant families, and then those families intermarry and create the species, and then the species intermarry and produce the varieties. You can see why Father would object.”