We have arrived. Listen carefully, my lovely: Can you hear?

Shrieking. Moaning. All I hear is suffering. What is this place? It is like a museum of death!

Not a museum. Think of it as a laboratory.

Is it yours?

No. Only a person who thirsted to know—who insisted on knowing, no matter the cost—would create a place such as this.

You mean, a person like my father?

There’s an interesting notion. Your father knows a great deal about plants. So does your beloved Crabgrass, come to think of it. Why, if I were you I would be very suspicious of both of them! People like that are prone to do anything to get the knowledge they crave.

I don’t understand—

Look around you. If one wished to determine, for example, how much strychnine it would take to kill a grown man—or how many hours a generous dose of hemlock would take to paralyze, but not kill, the victim—there really is only one way to find out.

Where are we, Oleander? Who are these people?

You need not concern yourself with who they are; no one else does. A madhouse is a very convenient place to find people whom no one will miss. And the madhouses in London are overflowing! The city alone is enough to drive a man out of his wits.

Then—we are in London?

Why the stricken face, Jessamine? You always wanted to visit London, did you not?

I thought Father might take me someday—he goes there—often, he goes there—he does not tell me what he does there, though. Oh, I do not like this! Is this what you wish me to think? That my father experiments on madmen to learn about the poisons he grows?

He is a clever man. And that would be a clever plan.

It would be murder!

Life and death, death and life, is that all you flesh bodies can think of? Look at the plants: We die back to the ground every winter. We wither and fade; our leaves turn to ash and blow away. And yet you do not hear us complain. Happily we return to the earth and die our little, temporary death, for we know we will come back, one way or another.

That is because you do not die like we do. For you death is not even real.

Death is real, make no mistake. But it is also an illusion. An interesting paradox, is it not? Why do you weep, my lovely?

My father—a murderer, a poisoner!—surely it cannot be true—

If you did not think it were true, you would not be weeping. Another interesting paradox! But cry, cry as much as you like—we have to fly again, back the way we came, but we will travel faster now, for time is running out—and there is one more thing you must see—

Here we are. Unfortunate creature. Open your eyes now, Jessamine: do you see? The resemblance is striking; she looks just like you. Poor girl, she must be in agony. See how she screams and screams, and begs for her suffering to be over—have all your questions been answered yet?

Oleander, tell me the truth—who is she?

The truth? I fear that is unwise, but if you insist: She is you, my dear. You seem to have taken a turn for the worse. That dimwitted fiancé of yours is certainly in no rush to cure you of whatever it is that ails you.

Stop this! I cannot bear it anymore, please—

You see why it is better to leave the frail flesh body behind? Imagine being trapped inside all of—that. The mess, the noise. The pain! Truly, you are much better off here, with me. Stay with me, Jessamine. Stay … no answer? You are considering my offer, though, I can see how it tempts you—I hear it in the terrified flutter of your heart, fast as a bird’s—

From the look of it I will soon be dead. You will have to find another companion.

Perhaps I will, or perhaps you will change your mind—oh, dear; it appears your incompetent caretakers have found some new, vile potion to force down your throat. Come away now, this is not something you ought to watch … it is much, much too upsetting….