I do, and am forced to stare at the murals on Father’s ceiling that are left over from the chapel days. I see Adam and Eve, alone in the garden, the tree of knowledge behind them, a serpent coiled around the overhanging branch from which dangles the delicious, forbidden fruit—

“Hold still, now—”

One—two—the drops burn like acid, and I cry out.

“It only stings for a moment,” Weed soothes. “Now close your eyes—and when you are ready, open them.”

You have both gone mad, some sane ghost of my former self scolds me—

Silence, I bid the ghost, and open my eyes. As soon as I do I know the drops have worked. I feel their powerful heat throughout my being. The belladonna drops have made me ravishing, sloe-eyed, worldly, irresistible—at least I imagine they have. The world is a blur. Each object melts into the next in a syrupy swirl of color.

“Weed, I cannot see,” I complain.

“You do not need to,” he replies. “You are to be admired.”

“But I wish to know what you see when you look at me.” I flail my arms about. “Where is the mirror?”

“Very well.” Weed leads me to the glass. “Come, look. Admire yourself.”

We stand together before the mirror. I can make out only shapes: a dab of yellow where my hair ought to be, floating above a long smudge that is more or less the color of the dress I dimly recall putting on this morning. The image swims before my eyes, turns liquid. Then, like parchment that gets too near a flame, the edges begin to go dark.

“Do you see?” Weed asks, from someplace far away. “Can you see how beautiful you are?”

I cannot. I cannot see anything now. The soft veil of darkness wraps around me. Weed’s voice is my world, now. It caresses me like a breeze. Warms me like the sun.

I love him.

I turn and reach out until I find him. My blindness makes me bold. In this dim, private world, anything that might happen is merely a dream, a wisp, a fantasy. Nothing is forbidden.

I am blind, and I have never felt so free.

I cling to Weed’s body, a landmark in the dark. Unseeing, I run my hands up his chest and twine them around his neck. I throw my head back, so that he may gaze into my charmed, useless eyes and be captivated by their spell.

“Lovely lady.” His whisper coils around me like smoke. “Belladonna. My lovely, lovely Jessamine—”

I love you, Weed.

In the darkness I let myself melt, so he has no choice but to catch me and lift me, cradling my body against his. His mouth finds mine. After the first kiss I arch so his lips brush the tender skin of my throat instead.