Nonsense; you are the embodiment of grace and charm, and as full of beauty as a rosebud at dawn.

That is a pretty compliment, thank you. Forgive my ignorance: What realm do you have dominion over, Your Majesty?

You have visited there yourself, Jessamine, though you did not stay long. Do you not recognize me?

I am sorry, I do not. But I am not myself at the moment. I feel as if I have forgotten many things, important things—and how did you know my name?

There is no need to apologize. We have all the time in the world to get to know each other. I am Oleander, the Prince of Poisons.

The gate to the poison garden closes behind me with a loud clang, as final as death.

The last time I set foot here, I clenched my mind against the voices. On that day Jessamine walked next to me and served as my anchor, my guide, my light.

Now I do more than surrender—willfully I lose myself in the dark realm of the Poisons. I let the mist swirl around me until all trace of human existence is gone. It feels like I am falling, and I do not know how or if I will ever find my way back.

I look around at the poison garden, so familiar, yet so changed. Everything I see appears as if through a fine silver curtain. The plants are sharp and bare as skeletons.

“He has come!” a child’s voice trills. “We called him and called him, and now he is here.”

I remember the cacophony of voices from my earlier visit here, and wonder if I have heard that piping squeal before. I sink to one knee so I may better address its source. “Who are you?” I ask the tall stalks with their delicate blue flowers.

“I am Larkspur, Master Weed. I have tried to speak to you many times, but you have been terribly rude. Always ignoring me. I know it is because I am poisonous. If I were dull and harmless and empty-headed as a daisy you would like me better, probably. I find it very unfair! For I cannot help being what I am.”

“Just as you cannot help being what you are, Master Weed.” The voice booms like thunder.

I rise and seek the source of this new presence, but the voice addresses the other plant. “Don’t mope, Larkspur. It’s no day for throwing tantrums. We have a visitor, after all, and when was the last time that happened? Four years past? Or was it forty?”

“Are you thinking of the old healer woman, Dumbcane?” It is a third voice, smooth and melodious, and comes from a woody vine with large flat leaves and tiny, grapelike fruits. “I remember her. She came here once, full of clever questions, and we never saw her again.”