“Thank you for all we are about to receive,” says Weed, raising his glass to his lips.

I do the same. The licorice perfume, the burn of alcohol, the sweetness of the sugar give way to a bitter, metallic taste that coats my tongue. The complex flavor makes me want to take another sip, and then another.

“Delicious, isn’t it?” Father remarks. “Notice how the mixture turns cloudy after a moment. Truly, it is a most unusual and botanical beverage; you can see why I prefer it to all others….”

Fascinated, I stare into the absinthe. Sparkling multicolor gems float and bob on the surface of the creamy green sea, like survivors of a shipwreck. A kaleidoscope of light dances within the confines of my glass.

My eyes are still behaving strangely, I think.

“Now I hope neither of you will make a habit of taking strong drink,” Father says jovially. “But on a special occasion—such as an engagement!—a proper toast is certainly called for.”

An engagement… Dear Weed—he will be my husband, and with Father’s blessing! It does feel like a dream, but I could never dream Father in such a celebratory mood.

Suddenly I long for Weed to know the joy I feel, but I cannot speak words of love in front of Father. Yet surely someone who can hear the whispered secrets of a dandelion can easily discern my all-too-human heart’s promises of devotion, and see the adoration shining in my eyes?

I search Weed’s face, seeking some answering vow of love in the arrangement of his features. If only we were alone, and could speak freely—the occasion overwhelms me, and I begin to feel unsteady—

“What do you think of the absinthe, Jessamine?” Father asks. “I hope it is not too potent for you. Perhaps it is a trick of the light, but it looks as though you are turning nearly the same green color yourself.”

“I think—I think I feel sick,” I say, and then I do not know what comes next, for I faint to the floor so quickly that not even Weed can catch me.

14

“JESSAMINE? JESSAMINE?”

Weed stands over me, swaying back and forth. That is not right—Weed is still; it is the room that sways. I clutch at the blankets—there are blankets upon me, I am likely in my own bedchamber, then—and try to sit up. Instead I nearly slip sideways off the bed.

“Not yet, dear Jessamine,” Weed says tenderly. “Lie still.”

I obey, for I can do nothing else. “What happened?”

“You drank a toast, and then took a sip, and then a swallow, and finished the rest of the glass, every drop, before we could prevent you.”

My eyes flutter closed; I am too weary to keep them open. “I am not fit to drink real liquor, it seems.”

He squeezes my hand. “Rainwater is best.”