Weed requires no explanation. He releases my hands and draws me close to him. Now there is no turning back. The architect of my future has been switched, from father to lover. But is this not precisely what nature intends? There is a time for growth, and a time for blossoming. Father, of all people, should understand that. I fear he will not, though.

I skim my fingertips around Weed’s face as if I were blind. I trace the curved dark eyebrows, the firm cheekbone underneath the petal-soft skin. My lips move toward his as a bee to a flower, eager to taste.

We kiss, and kiss again. Dizzy, I lean against the earth, yet I fly.

12

22nd May

The air is perfumed with spring. The sun warms the skin and melts the heart, and everything grows with abandon. Roots stretch deep in the earth to satisfy their thirst. Stalks race upward, propelled by joy. Leaves flutter and dance, buds swell, and shameless blossoms unfurl and offer themselves freely to the sky.

I can scarcely sleep at night; I am too restless with excitement. In the long green history of the world, there has never been a season such as this.

If this is what love does to the world, how could anyone plant a garden without it?

IT IS STRANGE, keeping a secret from Father.

But it is wonderful, too, for with every passing day that I resist telling Father what I know, Weed’s secret becomes my secret, and his truth is my truth as well. I—only I!—know what magic he possesses, and the mere act of knowing has transformed me from the commonplace creature I was, to the singular, extraordinary creature I am now.

I am the girl who knows. The only person Weed trusts.

I am the one he loves.

Father does suspect something, as Weed observed, but even his wildest imaginings could not approach the truth of Weed’s gift. And that is not all that he suspects. This morning, as I stand in the kitchen washing up, Father comes in and announces: “Jessamine, there is a good chance I will have to return to London.”

“When?”

“Soon. I may be gone a few days. I cannot say more about my business there, but as I may have to leave abruptly, I did not want you to worry.”

“Oh, it is all right, Father,” I say, perhaps a bit too quickly. “If I know that you are all right, I will manage.”

“I expect you will.” He clears his throat. “I do not want to leave you in a compromising position. I hope it is not imprudent for me to leave you and Weed here alone. You are both young, and—well, you seem to like each other a great deal.”

I wring out my dish towel with undue concentration, as if it were the most interesting task imaginable.

“Do you love him?”

My blush provides all the answer Father needs.