“Tear off one of my stalks, then, and I will tell you what to do. Choose the one with the prettiest flowers, please! I do so love to be admired….”

I do as the plant tells me, and follow its singsong instructions to walk through the shrouded air. Finally I burst through the silver fog into blinding sunlight. I stand on the footpath that leads to the crossroads, the one that winds like a ribbon through the fields and hills of Hulne Park.

“You have memories of this place, don’t you?” Larkspur asks.

I nod. “In happier times, Jessamine and I walked here every day.”

“But did you not once see a killing here?” The childlike voice is suddenly harsh. “Did you not once stand by and do nothing? ‘The stoat should say grace.’ I believe that was all the noble Master Weed had to say on the subject.”

I startle at the accusation, but then my cheeks burn with shame. “A stoat killed a rabbit here,” I admit. “I remember. At the time I thought only plants could suffer so keenly. Not animals. Not humans. Now I know differently.”

“Really? How?”

“Because of the suffering I have seen. And because I am human,” I answer in a choked voice. “Because I, too, suffer—when I watch Jessamine in pain—I suffer keenly, too.”

“How interesting!” Larkspur’s high laugh fills my ear. “I wonder: If such a thing happened again, how would you behave now?”

As if commanded by the tall wand of blue blossoms, a stoat emerges from beneath the hedge. Sniffing and jumpy, it is on the hunt. It skitters and zigzags along the edge of the path in search of its prey.

I see the rabbit before the stoat does. Fat and oblivious, it chews a patch of clover and hunkers low to the ground. The stoat is instantly alert. It crouches, preparing to leap at the back of the rabbit’s neck.

It is exactly as it happened before—except this time I am ready. A broken branch I snatch from the ground waits in my hand. Before the stoat can pounce, I strike it hard, once to the back of the head. A single shudder runs through its long body, and then it lies still.

Whether or not the rabbit is grateful I cannot say. It looks at me blinkingly for a moment, then hops away to safety.

“That was heroic, indeed!” Larkspur exclaims. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I did not. But the rabbit lives. Are you satisfied?” Disgusted, I let the bloodied stick drop to the dirt.

“Too bad. I thought you might have enjoyed it, a little. But you must walk a little farther now, ten paces up the path. I have something else to show you, something very dear, and now very sad, too.”