I throw my head back and search the sky. Directly above me the night takes form. It is darkness upon darkness, like ink spilled upon black velvet.
The inky stain is in the shape of outspread wings.
I have waited for you to come back to me, the Prince of Poisons croons. And now you are here.
“Tell me, please,” I gasp. The shadow wings beat once, twice. “Is Weed dead or alive?”
Your beloved Crabgrass is rather unkempt at the moment. In a foul temper, and in urgent need of a bath. But yes; he is alive.
The relief I feel is mixed with the sure, sickening knowledge that my father is no more than a murderous villain.
“I must find him – does my father know where he is?”
If your father knew where to find Weed, he would have had him killed by now. He cannot harness Weed’s gifts for his own purposes, and he will not have him be a potential rival.
“He is a monster! Oleander, can you help me find Weed?”
I can if I choose to. But first you must prove yourself worthy.
“Tell me what to do.”
I want you to avenge your mother’s death. Bring justice to her killer. Then you will have earned my aid.
My heart clenches. “My mother was murdered? By whom?”
Who do you think, lovely?
His laughter falls like a rain of ice. There is no end to the wickedness of humans, is there? It surprises even me, sometimes. When your task is done, then I will help you find what you seek. And you will help me in exchange, when the time comes. For you and I need each other, as you will someday learn…
“What do you mean?” I cry, but the shadow being ascends to the vault of the night, and is gone.
The rain pours down with doubled fury. I slip and stumble along the muddy path, back to the cottage, too shocked to even weep.
My whole life has been based on lies. And the only being that can help me find Weed is an incarnation of evil itself.
Have I made a terrible mistake in rousing the dark prince? It does not matter, for I must find Weed again, whatever the price.
And, this, too I swear: No corrupt magistrate, no dim-witted committee of farmers, will stand in judgment of my mother’s killer.
No. I will deal with him – with Father – myself.
The door to the cottage opens with a push. The fire sputters as the water from my clothes streams across the stone floor and sizzles into the hearth.
“Father?” He is not here. Is he out searching for me in the storm? Has he been crushed by a tree or trapped on the far side of a flooding stream?
I hope not. For I would hate to miss the chance to take my own vengeance.
And yet, there is some small doubt within me. My father is wicked, I know. A liar and a murderer. But I always believed he loved my mother. There was a warmth in his voice, a softness in his eyes, that only ever appeared when he spoke of her.
Surely it would not be wrong to want proof, I think.
I walk toward the study, wet feet slapping against stone. The door is unlocked and swings open as I approach. Every window shutter has blown open. Gusts of wind howl through the room, lifting papers, toppling books. I can scarcely see, but who could light a candle in this maelstrom?
As if in answer, lightning flashes once more, and then again. A volume lies open on Father’s desk. Its pages tremble in the moving air, begging me to read them.
I lay a hand on the open page. As I do, the wind ceases and the night goes silent and still. In this otherworldly calm I can finally light a candle to read by. The page is written in my father’s hand, although his familiar neat script is slanted pell-mell and blotted, as if he wrote in a terrible rush, or as if his thoughts had become tinged with madness…
…my life’s work is lost, utterly lost, or so it seems. I think of all that I sacrificed to gain this knowledge, so painstakingly recorded in my diary. What compelled that misbegotten freak to seize the record of my work and flee? As if he had any need for it! Someday I will pay him back, I swear it – I will find him, wherever he hides, and reclaim what is mine.
So much suffering, for naught! So many lives sacrificed! Even yours, my darling, my Elizabeth… but how was I to know that the child in your womb would weaken you so severely? You were never the same after the birth; it was as if all your strength was used to nourish the child, at your own expense. Poor Jessamine. She scarcely remembers you. She would never suspect how I think of you hourly, write you these letters every night, and above all, continue our work…
She has grown so like you it startles me. Would you be proud to know how well she endured my treatments, Elizabeth? She suffered, yes, but survived greater doses than I ever dared give you.
It occurs to me now: Perhaps her physiology has some special tolerance for the dark substances, since she was first exposed while still in your womb… this may be a topic for further study.
Here is all the proof I need.
My father poisoned my mother. She let him do it, it seems. She was a willing part of his “work,” even as I grew within her belly. Still, he bears full blame for her death.
And my illness was no strong fever, my recovery no miracle cure wrought by the skills of Thomas Luxton. My father poisoned me, and harbours not one speck of remorse for doing so.
And Weed – Weed is alive. Somewhere. And my father will kill him someday, if he can. If I do not stop him first, that is.
Truth, terrible truth! It is like an ancient curse, from which there is no escape. The truth will drive one mad. Yet without it, how can one make sense of life’s madness?
Do you like the task I set you, lovely?
I do. For now I know who I am.
I am Jessamine Luxton. Poison ran in my veins before I was born.
I know how to cure. And I know how to kill.
I have tried for so long to be good, but there is no need to fight my destiny anymore.
I am my father’s daughter, after all.
A STAND OF HEMLOCK water dropwort grows in a sturdy group near the edge of a stream, deep in the old forest of Northumberland. The plants have straight, thick, hollow stems, topped with lacy flowers. One of their fleshy roots would kill me, if I were fool enough to eat it.
“Such delicious roots,” the plant hums. “Sweet and rich and filling, Master Weed. Are you sure you do not want a taste?”
“Have you any shame?” I roll to my side on this soggy bed of moss. “Look at you. Your leaves masquerade as parsley. Your stalks as celery. Your roots as parsnip. How many men have you killed with your trickery?”
“Not just men. Women. Children. Cattle, too.” The lace-caps of blooms flutter, all innocence. “You seem angry, fleshbody. Perhaps living in the forest does not suit you after all.”
I shift my position, trying to find a dry spot. After a night of wild storms, everything is wet: the ground, the trees, the rocks. Mushrooms sprout in every crevice. Some of them, too, are killers, but they know better than to boast about it.
“It is not the forest that irks me. It is your pride in your own wickedness. You gain nothing from killing. You take no nourishment from your prey, as the hawks and foxes do. Yet you do it with enjoyment.”
“We act as it is in our nature to