“How I long to know how you do it, Weed,” he says, tucking the pages back into his satchel. “To communicate with plants directly! It is unimaginable, yet I have seen the proof of it. What a shame there is no time for us to talk; there are so many questions I want to ask you. Yet there is only one question worth asking now: Do you wish to kill Jessamine? Or save her?”

“You are the one who kills her!” I cry. “I wish to save her—from you.”

“If I intended to kill her she would be dead.” He takes a step toward me. “And what I have done, I have done for good, nay, excellent, reasons. Reasons that a creature—or, let us be frank, a monster—with your powers could never understand.”

“If I am a monster, then you are surely a demon—”

“I am her father, and I have dominion over her!” His eyes burn. “You wish to destroy me, I can see that. But I wonder: Will the brief thrill of vengeance be worth the cost? An hour ago Jessamine was still alive, though barely. If you want her to die, there is no better way to guarantee it than to kill me right now.”

“Killing you kills the man who has poisoned her,” I exclaim. “That you are also her father erases all hope of mercy. Make your peace with whatever God you dare believe in, Luxton. You are a dead man.”

I lunge for his throat, but he evades me.

“But what of you, my self-appointed executioner?” he taunts. “Kill me and you will surely hang on the gallows.”

“Not when I tell them what you have done.”

“Who will believe you? Not anyone whom I ever healed, and that is half the county. Not the duke, or the duke’s followers. Not Jessamine—especially not Jessamine! My darling, innocent girl. She knows little of the evils of this world; I have made sure of that.” Confident, he takes a step closer. “No, Weed. You will die by the noose, and the hatred of the woman you love will bear you to your murderer’s unhallowed grave.”

“Do you think I care what happens to me?” I reply. “I was ready to die for her before, and remain so. Your words do not move me.”

“Then perhaps this will: When you and I are both dead, what becomes of Jessamine? Who will care for her? Put your rage aside and think of her for a change. Her frail heart will shatter. Would you have her blood on your hands, in addition to the friar, and whomever else you have killed in your time?”

“You are wrong about the friar—” I cry, but I stop. Does it even matter? For I have surely killed—what right have I to Jessamine’s love, now?