Ten will kill a live person. They can do no harm to a dead one.

And what of a person who is someplace in between?

That is hard to say. Perhaps they will make you well. Perhaps they will make you worse. There is only one way to find out. Here.

They look so tempting, it is hard to resist.

No need to resist, allow me—

But—oh! So sweet! I thought it would be tart.

I am glad you like them, lovely. Careful, you would not want to drip the juice on that exquisite garment. Why, you look as if you are dressed to be married, Jessamine! Surely you are too young to do something so permanent?

I am recently betrothed to a boy named Weed.

How unfortunate. The name, I mean. Straggling, intrusive Weed: He loves you, I suppose? And you love him, too?

I do, but I am also disappointed in Weed right now, for he made me a solemn promise, and I fear he is breaking it even as we speak.

What promise was that?

That he would never go into Father’s locked apothcary garden again. It is an awful place, do you know it?

I know it very well, in fact. My colleagues are there, my companions. My subjects, if you will.

I am sorry! I did not mean to offend.

Only a fool takes offense at the truth, Jessamine. They are awful, of that there is no question. But they are also very charming. Purveyors of unspeakable suffering and indescribable delights. Performers of murders and miracles! You might grow to like them, if you got to know them as I do. But why has your beloved Crabgrass ventured into this garden of horrors, I wonder?

He thinks he can cure me, if the plants there will tell him how.

Clever Weed! He is right.

Will they tell him?

My subjects will do as I wish, of course.

And what will you bid them do?

Hmm. I am not sure yet, actually.

What—would you let me die? Oleander, you are frightening me! Are you killing me? Am I already dead? Hush now. Don’t be afraid, my lovely. We are friends. Here, have another belladonna berry. It will soothe your nerves.

No, please, I do not want to—

But you must. And they truly are delicious, have another, good girl. Poor thing, look at you, you are all atremble now—see how your petals flutter in the wind? It suits you. I would always have you thus, trembling like this, with that enchanting, irresistible gaze … how fragile and lovely you are, my lovely, lovely lady …

16

MOONSEED GUIDES ME through cascading fountains of silver mist. When my vision clears, I see we have arrived at a familiar sheep meadow, not far from Hulne Abbey.

“You can leave the poison garden,” I say, the torn leaf clutched in my hand.