It seems I am still alive—or dead—or in between.

I think Oleander is gone. He has fallen silent, at least. But I am not alone. I am flying again, borne on the wings of a great black bird. Its feathers are odd, though: long, dark, and narrow, like leathery, pointed leaves.

I look down as we fly—below us is Hulne Park. I see the cottage, the courtyard, the footpath, the sheep meadows, the forest. They look miniature, like child’s toys. How marvelous to see everything that is familiar to me from such a strange, impossible vantage.

We arc and rise over the sheep meadows. Now I can see a person also, with a familiar shape and posture,wearing Father’s old coat. It is Weed.

Weed!

I call, but he does not look up. Can he even see me, I wonder? He stands at the edge of a field, facing a copse of hackberry trees. There is a sheep, a ewe, alone in the shade of the branches. She lies on the ground, struggling to rise, but cannot. I wonder if she is injured?

As if reading my mind, my black-feathered steed flies closer, dipping down to get a better view. No, I can see everything now: She is lambing, and not easily, judging from her cries. The babe dangles from its mother, half born, still in the glistening wet sac. Something else is there too, something that also glistens, black and bloodred—

No!

Oh, if I were there, I would fight the wicked bird! I would kill it myself!

Weed! Can you hear me?

Why do you not save the lamb?

In terrible silence I trudge through the silver mist. Moonseed’s voice guides me, and soon I am back in the poison garden. Moonseed, Dumbcane, Snakeweed, and Larkspur quiver expectantly in the garden beds.

I do not wait to be addressed, for I am sick at heart at what I have been forced to watch, and wish this to be over with quickly. “I have completed the task you sent me to do,” I say flatly, throwing Moonseed’s torn leaf on the ground.

“Poor Weed,” Snakeweed purrs. “You must feel so guilty.”

“I did not kill the lamb. The raven did.”

“But you did nothing to help.”

“No.”

“You watched without flinching. You did not turn away, and you did not intervene.” Dumbcane guffaws. “So there is no difference between you and the raven—except the raven got to eat, ha ha!”

“Truly, you are cold and heartless, just as your beloved Jessamine said!” Larkspur sings out. “A freak with no pity for any life that is not green!”

“I did as you instructed.” I struggle to contain my anger. “Now give me a cure for Jessamine.”