Grudgingly I walk ten stride lengths up the path, to a dense growth of forsythia. Beneath the shrub, nestled among leaves of ivy, a litter of newborn stoat kittens lies cuddled in a pulsing, ivory-colored heap.

“Poor mama stoat,” Larkspur remarks. “With no mother to nurse them they cannot survive, of course. It will be a slow, pitiful, mewling death, of cold, and hunger, and thirst.”

I tremble with fury and frustration. “But was that not the task you set me? To defend the helpless against the strong?”

“Indeed it was, Master Weed. But who is to say who is helpless, and who is strong?” The strength of the evil child’s voice is fading now. “If you seek the power to alter fate, you must also bear responsibility for the consequences. For you cannot change the fate of only one being; all fates are intertwined.”

“I performed the task,” I protest. “I did what you bid me do.”

“You defended the weak from the strong.” Larkspur speaks as if from far away. “But who will defend these poor weak infants against you?”

When I return, the Poisons are waiting for me.

“That didn’t take long. But I wish to ask you, Master Weed: Why did you not kill the stoat kittens as well?” Snakeweed’s voice cuts like a blade. “It would have been a more merciful death than leaving them to starve by the road.”

“Heartless Snakeweed! You think killing is the solution to everything. And since when have you cared about being merciful?” Dumbcane’s bass voice rumbles the earth beneath my feet. “Well done, lamb-killer Weed. Mighty stoat-killer Weed! Your second task is complete, and your reward awaits. Or, in the heat of all your killing, have you forgotten about saving the life of your sweet Jessamine? She is weak, so weak, poor girl. Not long for your world, I’m afraid.”

“Give me the cure.” How I wish I could pull them all up by the roots and tear them to shreds, I think, and then, No—that is what they want—to make me think as they do, with no reverence for life, no pity, no mercy—

Moonseed uncurls a large flat leaf, and presents another bundle of herbs and leaves.

“Will this cure her?” I ask.

“No. Not yet.”

“Will it rouse her again, even for a short time?”

“On the contrary—it will plunge her into a deep sleep, almost unto death,” Moonseed explains. “Her heart will scarcely beat. No power on earth will be able to wake her. But you must give her this mixture nevertheless, if she is to have any chance of surviving.”

The thought of giving Jessamine a medicine that will bring her one step closer to death fills me with dread. “Why must I?” I demand.

“She nears the end of her strength. This will conserve what life is left in her. It will give you more time.”