“I can’t breathe,” I heaved. My heart felt like it was beating too fast. Lights danced around my vision. “I can’t. I can’t carry it.”

Mrs. Redmond plunged the knife into my mom’s arm. She screamed as Mrs. Redmond twisted the handle.

“Stop!” I pleaded.

She pulled the knife out and my mom swayed on her feet, but Mrs. Redmond held her tight. “Back to the house. Let’s go.”

We left the garden with Mrs. Redmond prodding my mom along behind me. Vines slithered around my ankles; groans and rustling surrounded us on all sides as we staggered down the path.

“If a single thing comes toward me, I’ll slit her throat,” Mrs. Redmond said.

I moved forward as quickly as I could, but the Heart’s poison had spread into every joint of my body. Every step was excruciating, like my bones were grinding together.

When we finally emerged onto the rear lawn, my arms and legs were heavy, my vision blurry through my glasses. Mrs. Redmond shoved my mom toward the house, and she groaned. She hadn’t said a word since she’d regained consciousness, and she still had a dazed look on her face.

When we got inside, I attempted to set the plant down again, but Mrs. Redmond shook her head. “To the apothecary.”

She marched us back and sat my mom in a chair, keeping the knife trained on her.

“Go get something to tie her with,” she ordered.

I put the Heart on the counter and tried to steady myself. Was this really what being immune to the Absyrtus Heart felt like? There was no way anyone else could have come in contact with this plant without dropping dead.

I found a roll of duct tape in the hall closet and took it back to Mrs. Redmond.

“Lie down on the floor,” she said, shoving me in the chest. “Face down, with your hands behind your head, and don’t even think about moving.”

I didn’t hesitate. Mom was still bleeding from the wound in her arm, and a trail of dried blood traced down her forehead where Mrs. Redmond had struck her. I lay still and Mrs. Redmond secured my mom to the chair with the tape, then stood behind her with the blade at her throat.

“Get up,” she said to me. “Get the oleander.” She motioned toward the ladder.

I clung to the rungs, barely able to coordinate my arms and legs enough to climb up and grab the jar. When I finally managed to retrieve it and set it on the counter, I felt like I’d run a marathon. My bones ached. My muscles spasmed. My hand throbbed. The gash in my palm looked like a bloody, toothless mouth. Mrs. Redmond took out her phone and made a call.

“Come to the apothecary,” she said.