Weed devours his food; I am pleased. We converse as we usually do during dinner, but after the meal is done our conversation lapses. It is different with just the two of us here. He feels it too, I can tell. It is delicious, this privacy: Which of us will be the first to mention it?

I sip my tea, and Weed sips his. All my senses begin to feel heightened. The candlelight twists and leaps. The linen napkin in my lap is pleasantly smooth to the touch. From outside I hear the anxious whir of crickets, and the soft flep-flep-flep of bats whizzing back and forth by the window.

I notice that the bucket I once used to soak the belladonna seeds is now set in a corner, partially filled with smooth pebbles. Father must be gathering them to rake into a path.

“I wonder why they call it belladonna?” I ask, breaking the silence. “‘Lovely lady.’ It is a strange name for a plant.”

“They say it can be used to make a woman more beautiful.”

I snort. “How? That is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps, but that is what some believe.”

I stir my cup, now nearly empty. “Have you ever seen it used? Does it work?”

“I have not seen it myself, but I am told that it has—a strong effect,” Weed answers carefully.

“Then I must try it.” I feel suddenly bold, silly, reckless.

“But you could not be made more beautiful,” he says with a smile. “It would be impossible.”

“I am sure the belladonna would disagree.” I stand. “Come, Weed! You must show me how to do it.” Laughing flirtatiously, I grab his hand. Where does this dizzy abandon come from? I scarcely feel the floor beneath my feet, as I half drag, half dance Weed to Father’s study.

“There it is,” I say, pointing to the high shelf. I could drag a chair over and stretch up for it, but there is no need—my mood has infected Weed, and he reaches the forbidden bottle easily.

“How does it work?” I ask as I twirl in front of the desk.

“A drop in each eye; that is all you need.” Weed opens the jar and removes one of its precious dark pearls. It rolls lazily in his palm. “It will make your pupils widen, your eyes flash with fire—they say no man can resist its gaze.”

“Do it,” I plead, in a voice that sounds utterly unlike my own. “Make me beautiful, Weed. I wish to look at you with these flashing eyes you speak of.”

With a gentle hand beneath my chin, he tilts my head back.

“Open your eyes wide, and look up,” he instructs.