But now it is too late. I have no choice but to finish what I have started, for I do not know how to rouse her from this trance. Only the Poisons know. Her life may have been in my hands, once. Now it is in theirs.

Welcome back, Jessamine. It was very quiet and lonely here while you were gone. How do you feel now? Rested?

No. I feel very weak, very tired. Everything is slow and strange. I feel as if I am made of lead.

Poor, afflicted child. You are so pale, and so very close to death—see how the light shines through you? My gossamer girl. It is most becoming.

Oleander, are you poisoning me? Is that why I am so ill?

I rule over the Poisons, lovely. I do not administer them.

But I have been sick before in my life, yet this is the first time illness has brought me to your realm. Might that mean that poison is involved?

Clever! Like father, like daughter. I am impressed.

What is wrong with me, then? You must know!

Oh, I do, lovely. I do.

Then why will you not tell me? Or tell Weed, so that he might save me?

It is not my place to say. If you wish, I will take you somewhere where all your questions may find their own answers.

Where?

Someplace far away. Someplace you have always wanted to visit.

Will I be safe there?

As safe as you are anywhere, my sweet…

Careful, Weed!

Careful!

Beware …

Take care …

The warning whispers of the plants follow me everywhere. The flowers sing high, a wail of terror. The hedgerows bark stern orders: Retreat! The trees of the forest chant in a deep-throated chorus of foreboding: beware … beware … beware …

But I cannot listen. I will not. I slip through the gate of the poison garden—there is no point in keeping it locked anymore, for evil is everywhere now.

“We were not sure you would return,” Dumbcane booms. “We thought that perhaps it had all become too unpleasant. Too compromising.”

“Then you misjudge me.” My voice is flat with rage. “I have no pride or virtue left to protect. I would trade my life for Jessamine’s, if you would accept it. Tell me what I must do to save her, and I will do it.”

“How romantic,” Snakeweed snaps. “You speak so nobly, Master Weed, but there is nothing noble about what you must do to save your beloved.”

“Indeed, the third task is the worst of all,” Moonseed says, in his melodious way. “Can you guess what it is?”

“Yes, guess!” Larkspur cries. “A guessing game; that will be amusing!”