Pratt glances at me again, then turns back to Father and speaks in a low voice. “I know a bit about you, Luxton. People in my line of work, we talk to one another. I’ve heard about what your interests are, the research you do, your potions, your ‘experiments’—”
“Enough!” Father snaps. “I will not listen to this gibberish. Go, and take your miserable stray with you.”
Pratt rises and slaps his hat on his head. “The boy seems to know a thing or two about brewing a pot of tea. From what people say about you, I thought that might be reason enough to pique your interest.” He turns as he reaches the door. “Tell you what: you take him in and find out for yourself if he’s any worth to you. Then we’ll talk price. Once you’ve satisfied your curiosity, I don’t care what you do with him. Nor will anyone else; he’s a weed to be sure. Dispose of him as you wish.”
“A strange gift, indeed,” Father says, stroking his chin. “Very well. Only time will tell whether thanks – or payment – are in order, so you will excuse me for not offering either just yet.”
“You’ll take him, then?” Pratt seems both relieved and incredulous.
“For a while at least.”
“You’re not afraid?”
Father smiles. “From what you say, Pratt, he’s only a youth, and a dimwitted one at that. The deeds you accuse him of would require knowledge that few people possess, not to mention a deceitful and murderous spirit. The poor wretch hardly sounds capable.”
Pratt shakes his head. “For your sake, Luxton, I hope you’re right. But if you want my advice – keep him out of the kitchen.”
With that, Pratt strides to the door. Father and I follow him outside. The huddled figure still teeters and sways on the back of Pratt’s horse. Without offering so much as a word, Pratt unties the bundle from the saddle, lifts it off the horse, and heaves it to the ground.
As he does I catch a glimpse – a tangled mess of black hair above a pale, high forehead.
Pratt untethers his horse and swings himself up and astride. He looks down at Father and me, and then at the piteous figure in the dirt. For a moment it seems as if he might say some words of farewell.
“Hey-ah!” he grunts, then kicks his horse hard, and they are off.
Father and I stand wordlessly as the hoofbeats fade into the distance. A passing cloud covers the sun and sends a sudden chill across the courtyard.
“It is a shame your former master left in such a hurry,” Father remarks to the mysterious figure on the ground. “It seems he was eager to be rid of you. Yet with a few minutes of friendly conversation we might have persuaded you to tell him exactly what it was that you dumped in the village well.”
There is movement, wriggling. The mummylike wrapping loosens. First the dark, tousled hair emerges, followed by the high, pale forehead. Then two wide emerald green eyes appear.
My breath catches in my chest at the sight. I have never seen such beautiful eyes – like twin jewels. No monster could possess features of such beauty. All my fear of this new arrival dissolves in an instant.
Those hypnotic green eyes stare at Father, expressionless as glass.
“Was it monkshood, perhaps? Or angel’s trumpet? No matter; someone will figure it out eventually, though a few delirious villagers may leap to their deaths in the meantime. And you are called Weed, eh?” Father opens the door of the cottage and gestures for Weed to enter. “The perfect name for an unwanted sprout like you. Now unswaddle yourself from those rags, and come inside. I wish to discover exactly what sort of a gift you are.”
25th March
THE WEATHER HAS SHIFTED. THE BREEZE IS WARM AND full of promise. No time to write more. I have to tend to Weed.
Today is the first day of a new season.
It is the season of Weed.
He is not much company yet. All day and all night he hides in the coal bin, hunched and silent. Father says it must be because that is what he was accustomed to at the madhouse, but I think Father may have frightened him with his wild talk of throwing poison into wells; it is no wonder he does not wish to speak to us. So far he has refused to eat most of the food I bring, though he will drink as much water as he is offered.
I will be patient. Any wild creature can be tamed, if you are willing to wait and be still. I have learned this from the feral cats that lurk around the courtyard. They stare like yellow-eyed demons; they bolt and hide if you approach, but sooner or later, when they are hungry enough, they come and take the food from your hand.
So it will be with Weed – but not yet. In the meantime I have decided that I will introduce myself to him, to get him accustomed to my presence. He may not answer me at first, but that is no matter. I have someone to talk to, at last! My words will be like sunshine and air. My voice will rain down on him, and then we shall see what glorious orchid may blossom from this shy, unwanted Weed.
I race through my chores in half the usual time so that I may spend the rest of the day taming my new friend. Since he will not leave the coal bin, I carry my small stool down to the cellar and sit as close as I dare.
“My name is Jessamine Luxton,” I say, as a way to begin. “I am sixteen years of age. My father is Thomas Luxton, the apothecary. You have met him already; he was the one that picked you up off the ground and brought you inside the cottage, after that dreadful man on horseback left you lying in the dirt like rubbish.”
While I speak he stays facing away from me, his body curved around his knees as if he were encased in the hard husk of a seed.
“So,” I say, nudging my stool an inch closer, “now you have met Father and me. That means you have met my whole family, for my mother is dead, and I am an only child. My father and I live here on our own.”
I see a finger twitch, flex.
“This place we live in, this house, which I call our cottage – it is very old. Some would say it is a sacred place. The Catholic monks used to live and worship here.”
He turns, and his mouth moves as if he would speak.
“Bells,” he breathes.
His voice is so soft it is not even a whisper. More like the rustle of a leaf.
“Yes,” I say encouragingly, in case I heard right. “Centuries ago, in this very place, there were church bells ringing, and Mass bells, and the call to vespers. When the monastery was here there must have been bells ringing all the time.”
“Bells.”
I am nearly sure that is what he said, but it was so soft, a mere flutter of air. “Bells?” I repeat gently. “Do you mean Canterbury bells? They are such pretty flowers, I grow them in my cutting garden.”
Weed’s whole face brightens. “Garden?” he asks, quite clearly.
His green eyes pierce me like emerald daggers. “Do you like gardens? We have many,” I say in a rush. “In the kitchen gardens I grow all our vegetables and herbs for the table, and there is a small orchard for fruit, and a bee garden so the bees will make delicious honey, and a dye garden so I can make dyes to colour the wool. And Father has his apothecary garden of plants that he uses to make medicines and cures – but we may not enter there, for Father’s work is secret, and many of those plants are poison—”
“Jessamine!” Father stands silhouetted at the top of the cellar stairs. “What on earth are you telling that boy?”
“Nothing—”
“Do not lie,