I only wished to live. Not to die. And not to stay—oh, have mercy!—not to be trapped eternally in this poisoned half-life, with you—

You can still change your mind. My lips are sweet as the juice of the belladonna berry; one kiss and you will be in bliss, and stay in bliss, forevermore. As will I. How glorious it would be, if only you would let me relieve your suffering and anoint you with pleasure instead. My poison princess; that is what you could be—

You said you would give Weed the cure for me. Did you?

I said I would, and unlike some people, I never break my promises.

You told him I was dying?

Of course, lovely. I told him everything. He knows what ails you, and how to save you.

Then where is he?

Hmm. I am not sure. Perhaps he had something more important to attend to….

Oh, I cannot bear it, the pain is too much—I am run through with blades still glowing from the forge, truly these are the fires of hell—Weed!

19

PANTING LIKE A DOG, I search the cottage, the gardens, the sheep meadows. Guided by the whispers of the grass, and the pointing branches of the trees, I finally find Luxton in the stone circle that marks the ruins of the ancient hospital. He crouches on the ground, satchel slung across his body, running his fingers through the earth. Despite the warm weather, he wears gloves.

How fitting it is to confront his evil deeds here, in this ancient cesspit of tainted blood and amputated limbs!

At my arrival he stands, his back to me. A tiny seedling dangles from his gloved fingers. “Monkshood,” he murmurs. “A few leaves on the skin cause tingling and numbness. When ingested, a tiny dose lessens pain, a larger dose slows the heartbeat and respiration, slower and slower, until … well, I am sure you already know.” He looks at me with an arched eyebrow. “After all, you know everything. Don’t you, Weed? But only when it is too late, it seems.”

“You are the cause of Jessamine’s illness,” I spit out. “You have been poisoning her.”

Moving slowly and calmly, he tucks the seedling into his satchel and brushes the dirt off his hands. “Who told you that, Weed? The rhododendron? The daffodils?” He waves some sheets of paper. “Yes, I could not resist knowing. I read your garden journal. How foolish of you to confess your secret there, where anyone at all could see. I took the liberty of removing those pages—for your own protection, and, as it turns out, for my own.”

I cannot speak—it is too late to deny the truth—shall I just kill him to silence him? What is one more killing, once the first is done?