“Why, Jessamine?” He leans close to me. “What if I had not come back when I did? A broken carriage wheel postponed the coach to London until morning—” His voice catches. “If not for this random circumstance that interrupted my journey, where would you be right now?”

Father straightens. Now I can see Weed, slumped at the far end of the table. His face is a wary mask. I open my mouth to speak his name, but I stop. The truth is I cannot fully remember all that happened between us. Memories, sensations, all are shrouded in fog—surely it was only a dream?

“I was young once, too,” Father says. “I suppose it was inevitable that you would someday disobey me. I hope that this bout of painful blindness will teach you a lesson, Jessamine. One that could save your life—though I fear it is too late to salvage your virtue,” he adds pointedly.

Weed shakes his head vehemently, and my heart swells with relief. I pray that he will deny that anything untoward happened, for even if I did lose my mind temporarily, I must believe that Weed would only protect me, and not take advantage—

“It was not the belladonna,” is all he says.

“Is that so?” Father moves toward Weed so forcefully he knocks a chair to the ground. “Or is it possible that you do not know everything after all, Master Weed? It blinded her, though it seems she will recover, thank God. And, judging from what I witnessed when I walked into my study, it also seems to have removed some—inhibitions.” He turns away from me; his voice is suddenly cold. “I must confess: I did not know that belladonna could have that particular effect. I will have to make a notation about it in my book.”

Father addresses Weed. “Can you two be trusted alone together? Or would it be wise to tie you to a chair as well, Master Weed?”

Weed clenches his jaw and turns away. Satisfied, Father leaves the parlor.

I am too mortified to speak. Weed cannot bring himself to look at me. The air between us is thick with shame.

It was not the belladonna…. I remember, now—yes, there was some strange abandon, a fever of recklessness that began to sweep over me, well before those cursed drops ever went in my eyes—before we had even entered the study. Weed and I were sitting at the table, sipping from those carefully chosen cups—

Put it this way, Luxton: The boy seems to know a thing or two about brewing a pot of tea….

“No!” The cry rips itself from my throat. Weed is at my side in an instant.

“Are you all right?” He kneels next to me. His hands hover around me, longing to comfort me but afraid to touch. His whole being seems to throb with concern and devotion.