Their warm, velvet touch sears me with pleasure. I would writhe in these flames forever, if it would keep his burning mouth pressed against me like this. I would stay eternally blind, if it meant my skin would always be this alive, every nerve on fire—

This is wrong, I think, but I have no wish to stop.

I love you, Weed; how I love you—

And are we not wed, bound by the secret only we two can share?

Together we sink to the floor. Weed whispers my name against my flesh. I feel his breath come faster. I want him to kiss me again, and say so. This fierce longing flies beyond the wildest notion of what is proper, yet we are swept into each other by a relentless current—the rush to fertility triumphs over all—

I hear a distant thud, like a heavy door closing.

Stop, I whisper, but no sound comes out.

Weed freezes in my arms. He hears it too: the sound of a man’s boots walking deliberately across ancient wooden floors. The footsteps get louder as they approach.

I hear Weed scramble to his feet. I reach down and try to smooth my skirt by touch alone. I can feel that one of my shoes is gone, but how will I ever find it without the use of my eyes?

A familiar creak; it is the door to Father’s study opening.

There is a sharp intake of breath—an anguished cry—

“Father?” I stretch my arms forward, clawing at the dark fog that surrounds me. “Father, is that you?”

13

IT IS HOURS—DAYS, WEEKS? I have no way of knowing—before the darkness begins to lift.

My head aches. So do my wrists. I am slumped in a chair, but I cannot tell where I am. I seem to be restrained, somehow.

“Forgive me,” Father’s voice murmurs. “You have been wild, running blindly, crashing into walls, tripping over furniture. I feared you would do yourself harm.”

I blink, and blink again. The pitch-black night of my blindness has thinned to a pale gray fog that strips all color from the world. Through its mist I can begin to make out shapes.

There is the dining table, and the light slanting through tall, arched chapel windows. I am in the parlor, in Father’s big chair that is usually pulled near the hearth. I try to move, but my arms are fixed tightly to my body.

Father looms before me.

“Now you have experienced, firsthand, the dubious charms of belladonna,” he says flatly as he frees my bound limbs. “My countless warnings, ignored. And these are the consequences.”

“I am so sorry, Father.” I begin to weep.