I look at his face and will my raw, stinging pupils to focus, so that I may search for the truth in his eyes. unfathomable moss green pools—surely that is love I see shining in their depths? Love, and worry, and nothing else but that?

Or have I been blind all along?

Remember, Jessamine—the tea was already made when you entered the kitchen—

No, no—

Weed would never do something like—like that.

“I’m convinced the brat put something in the tea.” Wasn’t that what Pratt said?

No!

Weed has trusted me with his darkest secret. And I trust him with my life.

But should I?

“Jessamine, my Jessamine,” he whispers desperately, again and again. “Are you all right? Are you all right? Are you all right?”

29th May

My eyes are healing slowly, but they are not yet well enough to sew. I wish they were, for I find it too painful to work in the garden. Every green living thing reminds me of Weed. How I envy the plants! They can whisper to him all day, and shelter him with their shade. But he and I are only permitted to see each other in the evenings, in the parlor, when Father is there.

We speak stiffly of the weather and bid each other good night like strangers.

All day and all night I worry—will Father send Weed away?

It is like waiting for a coming storm, but there are no shutters I can bolt fast against the wind. When the gale comes, I fear it will blow my chance for happiness far, far away, never to be seen or heard from again.

Weed and I are so careful with each other now. We no longer take our walks together, for such luxuries of intimacy are no longer possible. The whole day long we live like brother and sister, chaste and respectful. But at night, I close my eyes and the dream that was no dream comes rushing back, its power undimmed. Then I toss in my bed, restless, exhausted yet unable to sleep.

Sometimes I think we ought to run away and marry. Sometimes I do not know what to think. Especially when I am alone in the kitchen, preparing tea. My hands shake as I pour the water. Now I can see that Tobias Pratt’s accusations are the true poisons, for they have infected my thoughts with mistrust and suspicions that must be scrubbed away, again and again.

2nd June

Father asked me to prepare a special meal for this evening. I inquired whether we were having a guest; he did not answer.

Is Tobias Pratt coming to take Weed away again? It is all I can think of. Oh, I am sick at heart.