“I see.” He frowns. “I am surprised, yet I ought not be. If I have never imagined you growing up, falling in love, perhaps marrying and moving away—that is a failure of imagination on my part. Perhaps I never thought of it because I have lived so long as a bachelor, since your mother died … yet how could I forget what it was like? To be young, and in love.”

He shakes off his reverie and resumes his usual authoritative tone. “Remember: This is my home, and Weed is our guest. In my absence you are his host. You may act toward him as such. As for love—be virtuous and use the judgment God gave you, Jessamine. You are still scarcely more than a—”

“Father, enough.” I wheel from the sink. Soapy water drips from my hands onto the floor. “I will heed your words. But I am far from a child.”

I expect he will be furious at my insolence, but I no longer care. Perhaps he senses this.

“My apologies, Jessamine,” he says, inclining his head. “You are quite right. I may not think of you as full grown, but you are certainly not a child anymore.”

He reaches toward me and lifts my hair away from my face. “In fact,” he adds softly, “in this light, you look a great deal like your mother. May your virtue be rewarded with a longer, healthier life than hers.”

In the afternoon I work in the herb bed, thinning out the weak seedlings and pinching back the rest, then laying down a fresh layer of rotted hay as mulch. Afterward Weed and I walk. He fills my head with tales from the ancient forests, tales so old that the trees themselves call them legends. It is as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes, and the world I have lived in all my sixteen years is revealed to be something else entirely, something so marvelous I could never have imagined it.

When we return to the cottage Father is gone: boots, coat, medical bag, and all. He must have received the summons to London he was expecting.

Father is entitled to his secrets, too, I tell myself, still giddy from the walk. That is only fair, considering.

Weed and I are alone. We have been alone together many times, of course, but now that Father has left, perhaps for days, our shared solitude is altered. It feels heightened, expectant, almost celebratory. It is like playing house, I think. Imagine if this cottage were ours, just mine and Weed’s—

I prepare a fine dinner for the two of us, a spring stew of lamb, potatoes, and fresh greens. When the food is ready I set the table and light candles. I find tea already made in the kitchen; I warm it and pour it into cups that I choose only after careful inspection.